Toni’s cheeks pink as he pulls his ink-black hair into a small ponytail. “Well, you had your date and I didn’t want to, uh . . .” He scratches his nose. Telltale signs he’s hiding something.

I gasp. “You’re in on this shit!”

“Okay. Just . . . listen.” He stares at me very seriously. “They made me.”

“They made you.”

“Yes! Last night, Sula and Margo texted that you had a date and it was not to be disturbed. That’s all, I swear. Does that make it any better?”

I glare at him. “It does not.”

“How about”—he bends, then straightens with a plate towered in what I can’t see but know by smell alone are the world’s best lemon cookies—“now?”

“Oh,” I say on a breathy sigh.

He whips away the towel that was covering them. “Made with love. And a little pinch of guilt.”

“Yum.” I pop one in my mouth and chew happily, buttery shortbread and tart lemon filling bursting on my tongue. “That little pinch of guilt really gives it an extra something.”

Toni sets down the plate and takes one himself. “So.” He waves his cookie. “How’d it go?”

I glare at him and shove another cookie in my mouth. I wasn’t expecting to have to lie so quickly. I assumed he’d be out of the loop because he’s the one person in our friend group who didn’t originate with Jules. He socializes with us occasionally, sometimes for movie nights but mostly game nights, since his boyfriend, Hamza, loves to go out and makes lots of plans for them. On top of that, Toni’s still very much involved with the local artists’ circle. That’s how he and I met, though we didn’t really become friends until he got a job here to supplement his income. By the time he was working at the Edgy Envelope, I’d already stepped away from the art scene, thanks in large part to Tod.

The cookie catches in my throat. Just thinking about my asshole ex makes me choke.

Toni whacks me on the back. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” I wheeze, extracting my water bottle from my bag and gulping until the knot in my throat clears.

Toni’s eyes are tight with concern when I set down my water. “You seem upset.”

“You would be, too, if you suddenly found yourself dating Jamie Westenberg.”

“Who?” When I give him a disbelieving look, he says, “I told you, I know almost nothing, just that your date today was do-not-disturb.”

I pull out my phone and hop on the web browser tab that may or may not already have Jamie’s photo in it. What? So I did a little rudimentary internet search of the guy who felt me up and almost kissed me in a broom closet. Never hurts to make sure he’s not an ax murderer.