“I think I’m going to go in and take a shower. It’s been a long day.” As if to demonstrate, she yawned, wanting to appear as tired as possible to avoid a repeat of last night.

She noticed some cigar ashes scattered under the table, and looked around for the broom, but he’d put it in the…

He ran ahead of her and blocked the door just as she got to the shed. “You should sit down. You’ve had a long day.”

She frowned. “I can spend a few minutes helping clean up. It’s no problem. Really.” She moved to enter the shed, but again he blocked her entrance.

“I’ll get the broom. Because, um, there are tons of spiders in there. Nests of them. Why don’t you go look for Cosette?”

“She’s right there.” Tessa hitched her thumb over her shoulder. A huge meow confirmed that Cosette had hopped out of the garden and was headed over. Leo was acting so strangely. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Great.” He rubbed his neck, a sure tell that he was nervous and something was up. “Thanks for all you did. The food was terrific.”

“I’m glad everyone liked it.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, as if he were trying to steer her around. “So now I think you should go in and take your shower and let me clean up. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said reluctantly.

She turned to go into the house but spun back at the last second, catching him trying to wedge himself sideways through the shed door.

“Leo. What the hell are you doing?”

“Uh, getting the broom.” He smiled a strange, uncomfortable smile.

Just then, the cat zipped past them and into the shed. Tessa used that as an opportunity to run after her, pushing the door open wider and flicking on the light.

Awash under the long fluorescent bulbs was a project…taking up nearly the whole length of the shed. A sanded door on sawhorses. Tessa gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

“It—it’s not a big deal,” he said hurriedly from behind her. “It’s just a little project I’m working on, okay?”

That’s when it dawned on her exactly what she was looking at. “That’s the door from the bakery.”

“Yes.” He walked up to the door and ran his hand over something near the top. “Come see. It’s the year your family’s shop opened.”

“1922,” she said, running her hand along the engraved numbers. Somehow, that made her eyes water. “What’s this for?”

He heaved a sigh, like he had no choice but to tell her the truth. “It’s an island—or, it’s going to be. For the kitchen.”

“For the kitchen?” He’d made them an island? From her family bakery’s original doors?

“Yeah. I was thinking now you can bake here instead of by yourself downtown.”