The steady flow of heat moving through her since she stepped inside his house shut off. That fast, the mental vault inside her slammed shut. “I live here.”

“Huh.”

She hated that sound. “What?”

“I think we just traveled in a tidy conversation circle that made sure I didn’t learn a single thing about you.” He dropped his arms to his sides and stood up straight. No more leaning. “That’s an interesting skill you have.”

“Ben told me you’re not pressing charges. So . . .” She waved her hand at the box on the counter. “Hence the pie.”

“I guess we’re done talking about ourselves.”

Good, he got it. She almost sighed in relief. “Yes.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the box, then back to her. “And you brought this dessert because you’re sorry.”

She slipped her keys out of her pocket and passed them from one hand to the other. “I am.”

The jingling sound echoed through the cabin and bounced off the high ceiling.

He looked at her hands before settling his gaze on her face again. “Do you want a slice?”

“I don’t like pumpkin.”

He smiled but quickly swallowed it. “But you made it for me?”

“You look like a pumpkin guy.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

That made two of them.

The truth was the cookbook she’d found in her rental had the recipe and the market had the ingredients. So she made it. She really thought this was more about the gesture than the taste. And since she’d never made a pie—any pie—before, she hoped he didn’t base his willingness to forgive on how edible it was.

Time. To. Go. She stood up. “I should get home.”

“Dinner.”

“Huh?” The keys fell out of her hand. She ducked down and grabbed them. Stood up so fast again that the room spun on her.

“It’s the meal most people eat in the evening.”

She regained her balance and wrapped her fingers around the keys, refusing to let them go. “No.”

His eyebrow lifted. “No, you don’t eat it, or no, you don’t want to have it with me?”

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

He didn’t try to hide his smile this time. “Wow.”

Okay, that reaction, the aren’t-you-impressed-with-yourself tone—all of it was unnecessary. “What?”

“I wasn’t offering to be your prom date.”

“I . . .” Her mind blanked out. She tried to rewind and replay their conversation. “But you said . . .”

“Dinner.” He took a couple steps across the room. Got within about five feet from her, then stopped. “Look, I barely know anyone on the island. You don’t get out much. We seem like a good match.”

Don’t get out much? It was true, but would a bit of tact kill the guy? “Who told you that?”

“The loner thing? Call it an educated guess.”