Page 11 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Living with someone. I’m out of practice.” His neck reddens again, and not just the back this time. He’s still looking at the glass. Still dragging a thumb through the condensation.

My heart pinches at his obvious discomfort. At the effort he’s making. I’ve felt it all week, actually, in fits and starts. A lingering look when we pass on the stairs or in the kitchen. A pause in the doorway of a room I’m cleaning. A sucked-in breath as though he’s about to say something, even when he says nothing at all. He’s been trying, in his way.

“My brother suggested drinking games,” I tell him.

He lets out a short breath of laughter. “I’m out of practice at those, too.”

“He also suggested truth or dare.”

Another breath of laughter, and he finally looks up to meet my eyes. His hold a surprising hint of warmth in their dark and brooding depths, and as his dense lashes bat once, twice, without him looking away—without him running away—a spark of hope ignites in my chest.

Before I can overthink it, I tear two blank pages from the small notebook I’ve been using to scribble down info about the items I’ve been listing. I write Truth on one page and Dare on the other. I pin them on the fridge using two of the largest magnets: a lighthouse and a lobster. I scan the rest and hand Dylan a third magnet, a bright-yellow smiley face. It’s an ironic choice, since he’s the least smiley person I’ve ever met, but it’s an irony I don’t intend to point out.

“Take your pick,” I say.

He looks at the magnet. He looks at me. He looks at the fridge. When I’m almost certain he’s about to set down the magnet and flee the excruciating torture of get-to-know-you games, he steps up to the fridge and puts the smiley face below Dare.

The spark of hope in my chest fully detonates. Progress! At last! Thank you, Riley!

Dylan refills his glass, busying himself in a way that suggests he needs something to do, something besides waiting for me to suggest a dare that’ll make him uncomfortable. Except, I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. I want to not feel like I’m living with a ghost. Or a ghost frog.

I look around the kitchen, searching for inspiration. My gaze snags on the cookie jar. It’s surprisingly un-kitschy, given the rest of my grandmother’s belongings. Simple clear glass, like an oversize mason jar. I used to collect fireflies in it, until one of them died, I bawled my eyes out, and my grandmother calmly and kindly suggested we collect cookies instead.

“I dare you to eat one of my cookies,” I tell Dylan.

His brows shoot up in surprise. He probably thought I’d dare him to dress up in pirate gear and model with a sword so I could post on social media I don’t actually have.

“I didn’t want to take advantage,” he says.

“I’m literally demanding you do it. That’s hardly taking advantage.”

“Okay. Okay.” He drags a hand down the lower half of his face, shaking his head as if he’s answering a question he doesn’t speak aloud. Then he opens the jar, takes out a chocolate chip cookie, and eats it while leaning a hip against the counter and catching crumbs with his free hand. It’s such an ordinary moment, just a guy eating a cookie, but it doesn’t feel ordinary. It feels like the first few stones of a very tall, very strong fortress tumbling to the ground, letting in a little more light. “It’s good,” he says when he finishes, brushing his hands off in the sink.

“Help yourself to more anytime.”

“Is that another dare?”

“It’s an offer. And I wouldn’t make it if I didn’t mean it.”

He nods, and I can read the thank you in his eyes without him having to say it.

I send him a silent you’re welcome in reply, then return my attention to my laptop, not wanting to push my luck. Behind me, Dylan clears his throat again. I spin around in my chair to find him watching me, brows lightly raised, as he tips his chin at the fridge.

Right. Okay. I guess we’re not done after all.

I get up, debate my options, and put a cartoon chickadee magnet under Truth.

Dylan considers, rubbing his stubbled chin between his thumb and knuckles.

“Have you read them?” he asks. “Your grandmother’s books?”

“Some, but only a few.”

“Not a fan of romance?”

“Not a fan of that kind of romance.”

His brows rise again, and he settles back against the counter, gripping the edge on either side of his hips and crossing his ankles as though he’s prepared to wait.