I tossed my sweatshirt onto one of the cushions and kicked off my shoes, guzzling half the beer. “You have no idea … I didn’t even get to finish the granola bar I’d opened twelve hours ago.”

“Good Lord, you must be starving.”

“I’m beyond that.” I tore off the foil and was greeted by a heaping pile of spaghetti and meatballs with a slice of garlic bread. “I love you again,” I moaned, taking a bite, “and again for never letting me go hungry.”

She unfolded the fuzzy blanket that lived on top of the couch and spread it over her lap. “I was walking home from work and passed our favorite bakery. This cake in the window started speaking to me—you know, whispering naughty things.” She gave me a huge smile. “So, there’s dessert when you’re done.”

“And one more time,” I grumbled, my mouth full of a meatball. “This is really delicious.” I inhaled a corner of the garlic bread. “Mmm, this is too.” I swallowed. “How was your day?”

“Oh, you know, teaching a classroom of thirty kids about the US Constitution—about as dry and painful as it sounds.” She drank her beer. “I caught one student drooling on his desk. Legit puddle and everything.”

I giggled. “I can’t imagine why they would fall asleep; history is such a fun-fest.”

“But I even sang to them.” She used the bottle as a microphone and suddenly started belting out her interpretation of James Madison.

I couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re way cooler than any teacher I ever had.”

“I’m glad someone thinks so.” She tucked her legs beneath her and adjusted the blanket. “You’ve finished a grueling stretch. What are you going to do with your four days off?”

I twirled the pasta around my fork. “Sleep, hopefully see Caleb, and more sleep.”

“Have you heard from him today?”

“Just a few texts this afternoon when he was between meetings.” I took out my phone from the pocket of my scrubs and checked my messages. “Nothing since.”

She was silent, so I glanced at her after another mouthful, seeing that she had pulled the blanket up past her nose, covering almost all of her face. I knew her far too well; she was hiding something.

“Spill it, sister.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Emily Miles, what aren’t you telling me?”

She lifted her face high, showing me a grin that was wickedly devilish. “Go look in your room.”

I tried to think what could be in there. “Why?”

“Stop trying to play detective and just trust me.”

Using the last bit of energy I had left, I pushed myself up from the couch and rushed into my room, flipping on the light as I entered. On my bed was a small card with my name written on the front along with at least two-dozen long-stemmed red roses.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.