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“Twenty.”

“Deal.”

Claire leaned against his shoulder. Biscuit shifted until his head rested across both their legs.

They stayed for forty-five.

By the time they walked home and carried the side table upstairs, Claire’s schedule had slipped beyond repair.

She had stopped checking.

Mostly.

They had stayed at the park long enough that Claire needed to begin dinner as soon as they returned. Her cooking attempts usually required at least twice the expected time.

“You know I can help,” Noah said from the other side of the counter.

Claire pointed the wooden spoon at him. “No.”

“I wasn’t criticizing.”

“You were hovering.”

“I live here.”

“Not relevant.”

Noah leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “What are you making?”

“Dinner.”

“That clears everything up.”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

He glanced at the chicken, potatoes, heavy cream, and herbs scattered across the counter. “I have several guesses.”

Biscuit sat directly behind her, waiting to contribute to dinner.

“You are creating a workplace hazard,” Claire told him.

His tail thumped against the cabinet.

“He usually gets paid in cheese,” Noah said.

“He has done nothing.”

The potatoes were still hard in the middle when the chicken was done. The garlic cream sauce separated. She burned the bread because she was trying to fix the sauce.

The food was technically edible, but Claire knew it wasn’t good. She stared at Noah as he took the first bite.

He chewed. And chewed.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s hot.”

“Noah.”