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I’d had so much fun at dinner, but I’d caught myself more than once remembering Patty’s presentation. Did Hudson notice my heart rate? Even worse, could he tell I was attracted to him and how my body reacted when we held hands in the park?

He stood behind me in the kitchen, unloading groceries from one of Patty’s reusable bags. I knew this because I could hear the rustle of plastic, the low scrape of jars crossing the counter, and the occasional pause whenever he encountered an ingredient he didn’t recognize.

I also knew because every nerve ending in my body was on fire.

“This says dark cane syrup,” he said. “Is that right?”

I glanced over my shoulder.

Hudson held the bottle near his face, reading the label with more concentration than most people gave legal documents. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and the sight of his hands wrapped around a syrup bottle should not have affected me in the slightest.

It did. Immensely.

“Yes. It’s basically sugar cane juice that’s been reduced through boiling,” I finally said.

Patty materialized suddenly between Hudson and me, cutting off our conversation as she proudly slammed three plastic bags of pecans onto the counter. She held a fourth one pinned firmly against her chest like a prize-winning football.

“I bought plenty of pecans,” she announced, her chest puffing out with a terrifying amount of grocery-store triumph.

I stared at the sheer volume of nuts currently overtaking my small counter space, my internal calculator stalling. “Patty, I explicitly told you to buy one single, standard-sized bag.”

“These were an absolute steal on a buy-one-get-one-free promotional display,” she said, not sliding an inch on her position as she dumped the final bag onto the pile.

“You bought four pounds of pecans,” I pointed out, gesturing to the literal mountain. “We’re making a pie, not prepping a winter bunker for the local rodent population.”

“Grandpa Alfonse deserves abundance on his hundred-and-first birthday, Sloane. It’s a respect thing.”

“He is receiving exactly one pie,” I reasoned, leaning my hands on the edge of the counter. “There is physically only so much surface area inside a standard glass pie dish.”

“He might want seconds,” she countered smoothly.

“Four pounds of seconds? That’ll result in a hostile takeover of his digestive tract.”

She crossed her arms and stared me down.

I let out a slow breath, realizing I was entirely outmatched by her chaotic logic. Seeking a sane ally, I turned my head to look at Hudson, who was leaning against the refrigerator, watching the entire performance unfold.

He shrugged, an unbothered grin spreading across his face as he looked from the mountain of nuts back to me. “She has a point.”

“No, she absolutely does not,” I groaned, tossing measuring spoons into the mixing bowl. “You are officially banned from the executive decision-making process in this kitchen.”

Patty immediately began opening cabinets.

I watched her. “What are you doing?”

“Finding bowls.”

“You’ve never been in my kitchen.”

“Bowls tend to live in predictable places.”

She opened the cabinet above the stove and found plates.

“See?” I said.

“I’m building a mental map.”

Hudson reached past her and opened the cabinet beside the sink. “Bowls.”