“You’re not a burden,” Huck says. “Maia wants you here and so do I.” He moves an inch closer so that their elbows are kissing, and she doesn’t move away. Huck wonders if he should hug her. He places an oh so tentative hand between her shoulder blades and she snaps to attention, ramrod straight. Huck lets his hand drop.

Okay, he gets it. No touching.

“This isn’t a fairy tale where I’m a damsel in distress and you’re the hero swooping in to save me.”

“I know it’s not, AC,” he says.

“Please,” she says. “Stop calling me that.”

“Okay,” Huck says, and now he’s hurt. AC stands for “Angler Cupcake,” which, she’d told Huck, was what her father used to call her. Huck likes the nickname. It doesn’t exactly suit her—Irene is too sensible and straightforward to be any kind of cupcake—but he likes that he has a nickname for her. It suggests intimacy, friendship, something special between the two of them. But fine; she wants him to stop, he’ll stop.

“I can’t do this,” Irene says. “I told you last night that I need more time.”

But that was before ten FBI agents showed up to seize the villa, Huck thinks. That was before she learned her Iowa home was gone as well. Huck thought maybe that had changed things. But apparently not.

“I promised I’d give you as much time as you need,” he says. “And I meant it.”

“Except now I’m living in your house!” Irene says. “Mooching off you, taking advantage of your kindness! Don’t you understand how…confusing that is?”

“No,” Huck says. “I don’t. We’re friends, Irene. Okay? And coworkers. If you want to keep it just friends and coworkers, I’m good with that. I’m not exactly inviting you to share my bedroom, am I?”

“But you want to, don’t you?” she asks.

“Want to what?”

“Invite me to share your bedroom!”

Huck can’t figure out if his answer should be yes or no. The truth is yes. Should he be truthful? “I want you to sleep where you’re comfortable. You know my feelings for you, AC. Sorry—Irene. But I’m not interested in forcing this along.” He’s so agitated that he lights a cigarette. This is the kind of conversation he likes the least—murky, ambiguous. They’re middle-aged. Why can’t they just say what they mean? “If it moves forward, it will be when you’re ready. I’m a patient man, Irene. I’m a fisherman.”

This gets a smile, though one so fleeting that Huck wonders if he imagined it. “I don’t want to be a charity case. And I don’t want to feel like I owe you something in exchange for…”

Huck exhales a stream of smoke. Now he’s offended. “Please, Irene. Give me some credit.”

“I do, but…”