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"Yeah, but I'm just saying…it was his idea, not mine." Again, she turned away, this time to open the fridge. She stared into it for a long moment as if hoping a premade sandwich would magically appear.

It wouldn't.

I knew this because I'd opened that same fridge an hour ago and had found nothing interesting. Even that bottle of Moscato – the one I'd replaced on my way home from work – was hidden away in a cupboard for safekeeping.

When Maisie closed the fridge, I asked, "But why? I mean…nobody works for sandwiches."

"Don't forget the bike," she said. "That totally counts."

"But not for keeps," I reminded her. "So, no. It doesn't."

Her mouth tightened. "Look, I appreciate your concern. I really do, but I can't afford to be picky, okay?" She gave me a pleading look. "I was drowning. You know that. So excuse me if I grab the first decent lifeline that comes along."

"Well, excusemeif I'm concerned." The words came out sharper than I meant, and my hands flew to my mouth. "Oh, my God."

Startled, she glanced around. "What?"

Through my splayed fingers, I said with a little groan, "I sound just like my mom."

Maisie's mouth opened, but nothing came out before she clamped it shut and silently stared.

And now I felt like a nag, butting in where I didn't belong. I dropped my hands and said, "I'm really sorry. I know it's none of my business."

I waited for Maisie to object, to say that it was fine, that we were friends, and that she knew my heart was in the right place.

But she said nothing.

I cleared my throat.Right.

Message received.

Stiffly, I added, "So, just forget I said anything, okay?"

But then, Maisie surprised me by shaking her head. "No,I'msorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. You're being…weirdly nice, and I guess I panicked."

My mouth twitched, unsure if I should feel flattered or offended. "Weirdlynice?"

Color rose in her cheeks. "Sorry, I meant really nice."

I couldn't help it. I snickered. "No, you didn't."

She gave me a sheepish smile. "Can I blame the hangover?"

I studied her face. "You're still hungover?"

She laughed. "No, but I still want to blame it."

It felt like an olive branch, and I leapt to take it. "Deal." I smiled. "But only if you tell me more."

"About what?" she asked, trying too hard to sound casual.

"Youknowwhat. Or rather, you know who."

She hesitated for barely a beat before saying, "Deal. But in return, you've got to tell me what Franny said. And…" She winced. "Do you care if I bake some bread while we talk?"

"Now?" I eyed her with concern. "But you've been on your feet all day."

"Yeah, but I've got a bread machine, so it won't bethathard." She gave me a weary smile. "So, is it a deal?"