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Then why do I get the distinct feeling that whatever’s really going on, he’s losing control of it?

When we turn onto my street, I have Manus take the back alley and pull up behind my house. I thank him again, thank Harlan—which earns me a scowl—and open my door.

I’m pretty sure that if I never see Harlan Vance again, it would be a great idea.

Very healthy.

“Well, it’s been really weird knowing you,” I tell him. “Good luck with solving all the problems.”

I scoot out before he can say anything else, planning to hightail it to the house, but then the music hits me. Mom has Loverboy’s “Turn Me Loose” absolutelycrankedin the house. The screen door is shut but the solid inner door is open, so is the kitchen window, and I can already smell the marijuana.

I turn to shut the SUV’s door, but I’m too late. Harlan is getting out, presumably to walk me to the door.

He has to pickright nowto decide to be a gentleman?!

Trying to stuff him back into the vehicle would just be awkward, not to mention futile, so I do the only thing I really can and march onward. I cross the small backyard and climb the old steps to the tiny, rickety porch.

Harlan walks slowly up the steps behind me, probably wondering why I live in a frat house circa 1980.

It’s not a frat house. It’s just an old rental house. Mom and I occupy the main floor, with other renters above and below. But if you could only hear it and smell it… frat house.

Except for when cupcakes are baking in the oven, which they currently are not. Unfortunately.

There’s no way I’m inviting Harlan in, so I turn to face him, blocking the way. “You really didn’t have to walk me to the door. But thank you.”

He frowns as he looks past me through the screen, into the kitchen. I cast a glance over my shoulder.

Yikes.

My cozy but crazy kitchen looks like a tornado whipped through it. And tore the oven out of the wall.

That tornado would be named Lorraine.

I don’t see Mom; she must be in another room. But it appears that she’s been “organizing” again.

“Uh, it’s not usually like that.”Sort of.“The repair guy came today to try to fix the oven. And we’ve been reorganizing. It’s really not as crazy as it looks.”

I look at Harlan in his fine suit, so sharp and precise, and completely out of place on my sagging, plant-covered porch, piled high with mom’s pottery projects of yore.

“I just don’t exactly have a place for everything,” I ramble, “so the kitchen is a bit… overflowing. I bake here sometimes, and Mom bakes amazing cupcakes for our clients here. And I store all my extra baking supplies here…”

I’m immediately flooded with stress at the prospect of having to bakeallmy client cakes here. Which I now will. The number one reason I took the job at Crave,beforeJustin and I started dating, was because he gave me permission to use the ovens for Quinn’s Cakes on the side, after hours.

I don’t want to tell Harlan how much I depended on those damn ovens. Or how much trust I put in Justin, when I shouldn’thave. He doesn’t need to know how many mistakes I’ve already made, how many poor decisions and backwards steps, while struggling to get Quinn’s Cakes off the ground.

It’s embarrassing. He’s the CFO of a multibillionaire dollar company, and I can barely make ends meet.

But like he said, problems are for solving.

The oven issue is my problem, and it’s mine to fix.

Just like all my other problems.

“It’s kind of been a work in progress,” I conclude.For six years.

Maybe I expect criticism. But Harlan looks more bewildered than judgmental.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, “but there’s a system to it.”