He opened her freezer, then quickly snapped it back shut, turning wide eyes toward her. “Do you realize you have a microwavable Salisbury steak in there?”

“No.” Who knew what was in there? Some kind of steak seemed a likely option, though.

“Stacia made rack of lamb last night.” He crossed his arms. “With plum sauce. From scratch. Pretty sure that means you ain’t got any excuse to be choking down microwave dinners.”

Andra frowned. “Eating at the main house is like having lunch in a junior high cafeteria. I can barely hear myself think.”

He snickered.

“What?” She half smiled, even though she wasn’t sure what they were laughing at. It was just nice he was teasing her instead of getting all awkward and stiff, the way most people did when they found out about the attack.

“The cafeteria comparison is kind of fair considering there was a food fight last night. One that ended with a tater tot in your daddy’s hair and a scowl on his face that I think rated at least a six on the Richter scale.”

“Tater tots with a rack of lamb and plum sauce?” She wrinkled her nose. “Really?”

“I thought it was weird, too. That’s not a Montana thing?”

She laughed. “Maybe more like a Stacia thing. She always traded for everybody’s tater tots back when we were in school.”

“That explains it. Turns out tots aren’t half-bad in plum sauce, if you go for the crispy ones.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”

Four

“Uh, you do?” Andra frowned. “You have to do what exactly?”

He opened the fridge and dropped to a knee in front of it, holding up his phone to click a picture before he swiveled and took a shot of the door, too.

Her eyes widened, then she jumped forward to swipe a moldy, half-used cube of butter out of the door rack. She threw it in the trash with enough force to make the can rattle.

“My mama’s not going to believe this is the fridge of a grown-ass woman.” He stood up, already texting away.

“You cannot text your mother pictures of my refrigerator!” Andra made a grab for the phone, and he shot it high over his head where she couldn’t reach, clicking once with his thumb.

“Too late, already done.” He stuffed the phone into his pocket, went back to the table, and cut a huge wedge of cake without bothering to divide up the rest.

“Isn’t there some kind of release form you have to sign to take pictures of someone’s private business?”

He licked frosting off the knife blade, eyes dancing. “Maybe business a little privater than half of a pack of American cheese.”

She gaped at him.

“I know, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “More private, not privater.”