“Are you sure? The guests will be all over you.”

“I’ll manage.” She straightened her posture. “I’ve had enough of hiding out. Your husband is going to have to deal with me one way or the other.”

“Good for you.”

By the time Molly reached the sitting room with a plate of cookies and another teapot, Lilly was chatting graciously with the guests who’d surrounded her. She had her heart in her eyes whenever she looked at Kevin, but he avoided looking back. It was almost as if he believed that any sign of affection toward her would somehow trap him.

Molly’s childhood had taught her to beware of people who weren’t emotionally open, and his guardedness depressed her. If she were smart, she’d rent a car and drive back to Chicago this very night.

An elderly woman from Ann Arbor who’d checked in earlier that day appeared at her elbow. “I’ve heard you write children’s books.”

“Not so much anymore,” she replied glumly, thinking about the revisions she still hadn’t done and the August mortgage check she wouldn’t be able to write.

“My sister and I have always wanted to write a children’s book, but we’ve been so busy traveling that we never can seem to find the time.”

“There’s more to writing a children’s book than just finding the time,” Kevin said from behind her. “It’s not as easy as people seem to think.”

Molly was so startled she nearly dropped the cookie plate.

“Kids want a good story,” he said. “They want to laugh or get scared or learn something without having it shoved down their throats. That’s what Molly does in her books. For example, in Daphne Gets Lost …” Off he went, describing with uncanny accuracy the techniques Molly used to reach her readers.

Later, when he appeared in the kitchen, she smiled at him. “Thanks for defending my profession. I appreciate it.”

“People are idiots.” He nodded toward the baking supplies she was setting out for breakfast the next morning. “You don’t need to cook so much. I keep telling you I can order from the bakery in town.”

“I know. I enjoy it.”

His gaze drifted over her bare shoulders and lacy camisole top. He lingered there for so long she felt as if he were running his fingers over her skin. A silly fantasy, she realized, as he made a grab for the biscuit tin where she’d just deposited the leftover cookies. “You seem to enjoy everything about this place. What happened to all those bad memories of summer camp?”

“This is how I always wanted a summer camp to be.”

“Boring and lots of old people?” He bit into a cookie. “You’ve got strange taste.”