I stiffen.
Traitor.
Miss Eunice smiles tightly, standing a few feet back from the table with us. When enough people have passed by, she leans toward me, standing on her tiptoes. I bend down.
“We both know exactly where this recipe came from, don’t we?” she asks quietly.
“We do,” I tell her, holding my breath like we’re defusing a bomb. Topped with pecan streusel.
“And we won’t say a word, will we?”
“No, we won’t,” I confirm.
Miss Eunice holds my eye, like she can’t decide if she has a threat in her, or not. “Good. Well done, Mrs. O’Shannan. Look forward to tasting this again next time.”
Miss Eunice nods curtly before taking a plate and getting a scoop of sweet potato casserole, and Sean laughs in my ear.
I elbow him. “That was a close one,” I mutter.
“I never doubted you for a minute, Mrs. O’Shannan.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carville.”
When we have our plates, we join Fletcher, who’s on his phone.
And … is that a smile?
No, not quite. It’s the ghost of a smirk, but softened at the edges. “Who are you texting?”
He flips his phone face down, ears tinged pink. “One of the guys.”
Sean snorts. “Sure. Because the GM puts that look on your face.”
“It’s not like that.”
“So itissomeone,” I say.
Fletch takes off his hat, scratches the back of his head, and jams it back on. “She’s no one. I don’t even know her name.”
“Blind date?” Sean asks.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” He shifts in his seat. “It’s a forum. We argue. Podcasts, sentencing, justice stuff.”
Sean grins. “Ah yes. The language of love.”
Fletch grunts. “Shut up.”
I study him. His expression has turned unreadable — brows flat, jaw tight. But there’s still something in the way he’s holding himself. Like part of him doesn’t hate talking about her.
“I’m trying to picture you on a message board,” I say. “I bet you’re secretly delightful.”
He huffs a short laugh. “More like openly combative.”
“You were smiling.”
“No, I was smirking. There’s a difference.”
“But you like arguing with her.”
