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I smiled at her enthusiasm, leaned back in my chair, and said, “Lay it on me.”

“Wonderful. I’m researching whether alternative grains like sorghum and millet can be used to produce beer with lower glucose compared to traditional barley-based brews, making it safer for individuals managing diabetes.”

“That’s amazing, Sugar. How do you plan on doing that?”

“I will brew small-batch beers using barley, sorghum, and millet under controlled conditions. From there, I’ll use HPLCs to measure residual sugars.”

My brow raised. “What’s an HPLC?”

“I’m sorry; High-Performance Liquid Chromatography.”

That didn’t help. She’d barely started, and I was already lost.

“Do you plan on conducting experiments on folks?”

“I would love to. I would need to obtain ethical approvals and comply with safety protocols first, as per the Institutional Review Board. It’s a lot.”

I nodded.

“Sounds like it, but I have one hundred percent faith you’ll kill it.”

“Thank you, Sweet Hart. This project means a lot to me.”

We kept eating while we discussed our upcoming schedule. I had a game in Phoenix on Friday and wouldn’t be back until 2:00 in the morning.

“I know I won’t be getting in until late, but you need to be at my place on Friday by 5:00.”

She raised a brow curiously.

“Why do I have to be at your place at 5:00 if you won’t be returning until 2:00 in the morning?”

“You’re not the only one who has a surprise planned.”

“Alright, Sweet Hart,” she said with a teasing lilt. “We’ll see whose surprise reigns supreme.”

“We’ll see,” I agreed before polishing off the rest of my sandwich.

***

I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and tossed my keys into the bowl on the foyer table. “Honey, I’m home,” I grumbled, kicking off my tennis shoes after a loss that should’ve been an easy win. But shit went sideways due to miscommunication and egos.

It took me a few seconds to realize the condo was dark.

“Sugar?”

I flipped on the light and froze.

“What the—”

“Surprise!” Vera shouted, squeezing a human-sized plush frog wearing my hockey jersey. I ran a hand through my hair as I approached the living room that was filled with stuffed frogs of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

I reached for the nearest plush: a squat, velvety green frog perched on the coffee table. It had big, round eyes that bulged from its head, and it wore a tiny, crooked golden crown.

I groaned, but it came out more like a laugh.

“You got jokes,” I muttered, squeezing the frog’s squishy middle. It let out a deep croak, and I nearly dropped it. “I’m killing DeAndre, but right after I’m done with you.”

“What’s the matter, Sweet Hart? I heard you loved stuffed frogs and thought you should have Hart’s Babies 2.0.”