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“What’s your favorite food?”

“Muffaletta.”

“Is that some kind of lady muffin?”

Soft laughter. “It’s a sandwich.”

“So it’s a euphemism.”

“Oh my God.”

“What’s your favorite, uh…emoji?”

“Do you even know what an emoji is?”

“Why would I ask the ques—”

“Kissy face.”

Wrong question. I cleared my throat.

“Uh… What do you like to sing at karaoke?”

“My heart will go on.”

“Really?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s ambitious.”

“What’s yours?”

“Do I look like I do karaoke?”

She laughed again at that. I wanted her to keep laughing, but I was only ever accidentally funny. My mom always used to tell me we needed the serious, thoughtful people in life to make great things happen. I’d leaned on that when things I wished I could take less seriously happened.

“You don’t seem funny, but you are, Griffin Kelly,” Sasha said sleepily.

For the first time in my life, I wished I had Jude’s easy affability. Then I thought about what a pain in the ass I’d be and unwished it quick. Luckily I managed to keep her awake long enough to stay on the bike.

My sturdy log cabin isn’t messy—it’s spartan clean. I don’t keep a lot of stuff, unless you count tools and a small selection of outdoor gear, which are all neatly organized in my shop.

But as I lead her in now and see her look around the space, I wish it were a little more homey for her.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more out of place. I help her out of my coat, and she kicks off the rain boots. With her pink-toed bare feet, expensive-looking linen pantsuit, and diamond earrings, she fits in a log cabin about as well as a porcelain doll in a…well, in a log cabin.

“Probably a little basic for your taste,” I say.

I’ve owned this place for twenty years, ever since I moved back to Quince Valley after college and a few stints overseas, and I’ve never once considered how my house looks. Maybe I need more blankets or pictures on the wall. A cat? How do you make shit soft?

“I like it,” she says, drawing her fingers along the back of my big, worn-in couch as she walks by. “It’s rustic.” She makes her way through the living room, inspecting everything in the place like she’s walking through a museum, suddenly wide awake again. “Were you ever in the army?”

I frown. “No.” I did every kind of martial art under the sun—still do. I’ve done weapons training. I’ve extracted people from war zones. But I don’t think that’s why she’s asking. “Why?”

“There’s just a…precision about this place.” She glances over at me. “That’s complimentary. You should see my place. I like to try to make stuff, but I’m not very good at it. It’s kind of a graveyard of failed DIY I don’t have the heart to throw out. My mother’s always offering to ‘redo the entirety of the space.’” She says that in a slightly snobby-sounding accent. With just enough of a note of hurt I feel like I can see their whole relationship.

“Do you and your mother get along?”