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“You what ?”

Lark had the audacity to smile like she hadn’t just thrown me under a tank.

“I booked the guest cabin for you,” she said cheerfully, handing me a mason jar full of something suspiciously fruity and full of regret. “It’s peaceful. Quiet. Close to town.”

“ Close to town ?” I narrowed my eyes. “Or close to Frasier?”

She blinked. Innocently. Which, for the record, she was terrible at. “Well, technically, it’s the next property over. But that’s just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence my ass. That’s not a guest cabin. That’s a punishment.”

Lark took a sip of her own drink. “You’re the one who showed up late to your twin sister’s wedding and then fake-choked on a canapé when Frasier walked in.”

“It was a genuine reflex,” I muttered. “My body rejects bad decisions.”

“Well,” she said, handing me the key, “maybe you should talk to him instead of plotting his demise like a Bond villain in yoga pants.”

“I don’t need to talk to him. I need to stay very far away from him. And his face. And those wonderful hands that did so much powerful things to me. And his…I can’t think of that right now. And his dog. Especially his dog. Hank likes me, and I’m not emotionally prepared to lose that right now.”

“Too bad,” she said brightly. “Enjoy your forced emotional growth.”