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“So good,” Ian agreed as he chewed.

“Do you think the pistachios should be more finely chopped?” Cam asked. She couldn’t help herself. Nailing the details of a recipe was always so important, and she would take any chance she had to get feedback, even if it meant interrogating people mid-snack.

“I like the big chunks,” Ian said, examining his cookie. “It’s more—I don’t know the right words for these kinds of things—but kind of more rustic?”

Cam smiled. That was exactly the vibe she had been going for. “Thanks,” she said. “The pistachios stay roughly chopped.”

“Cam is the best cook,” Avery said, her words directed at Ian. “You should get her to make dinner for you sometime.”

Cam felt like throwing a cookie at her cousin. Could she be any more obvious? Avery was trying to push her and Ian together, and while the thought of spending more time with him certainly sounded tempting, it was futile, Cam reminded herself.

“That would be really nice,” Ian said, looking uncomfortable and consulting his phone to check the time. “I better get back to work. Thanks for the coffee, Avery. It was nice to meet you. And thanks for the cookies, Cam.”

“Hang on,” Cam said. “I’ll bag some up for your kids.” His two very needy, very complicated kids. Who lived here in Silver Cove and definitely not in New York, where she lived. While Cam located a large zip-top bag, Avery kept at it.

“So, Ian, what’s your favorite food in the world?” her cousin asked the carpenter, who had put on his coat and was waiting by the door.

Roast chicken, Cam thought without hesitating, the answer popping into her mind despite her annoyance with Avery for clearly trying to cook up some plan for her and Ian. He wasn’t a he-man who lived for porterhouse steaks. No, he seemed like the roast chicken type—honest, simple, and yet so delicious.

“This might sound really boring, but I really like roast chicken,” Ian said. “My mom used to make one for our family every Sunday, and it was a nice tradition. I’ve actually started doing that for my kids now, too—trying to give them memories like I had.”

“That’s sweet,” Cam said, handing him the bag. “Food has a way of doing that. It tells people that you care. Without having to use any words at all.” She met his eyes, and she could read the kindness there. Lucky kids, she thought. Flora’s idea of cooking had meant heating up a Stouffer’s pizza.

“Thanks,” he said. “This is going to earn me big points with the kids—which I could use.” Ian lingered by the door, and he swallowed, toying with the bag in his hands. “I, ah, wondered if maybe you’d like to come over to our place sometime, and I could make you dinner.”

Cam was facing Ian, but behind her, she could hear Avery beating a quick retreat.

“Maybe tomorrow night?” Ian continued. “Davis has a sleepover, and Paige is working on a school project with some classmates. I’m not a gourmet chef like you, but I can put a meal on the table.”

Cam froze. Part of her wanted to say yes, yes, yes. No one ever wanted to cook for her, not that she had many people in her life to offer. And the idea of sitting and sipping a glass of wine while Ian puttered around the kitchen sounded like bliss. The other, far more rational 90 percent of her was shouting NOPE! and waving giant red flags. What was the point of tempting herself with Ian when it couldn’t go anywhere? Wouldn’t go anywhere, she thought sternly.

“That’s really nice of you to offer, but I’m just so busy,” Cam said. “I’ve got the fete coming up in less than a week, and loads of work…”

Ian nodded, but he kept his eyes on hers. “I get it,” he said. “But if you change your mind, or maybe you just get hungry, let me know.”

“Yeah,” Cam said brightly, “I’ll text you if anything changes.”

An eighth of a second after Ian was out the door, Avery hopped back into the room.

“You’ve got a daaaaate!” she sang.

“I do not,” Cam protested.

“I distinctly heard the man offer to make you dinner, which definitely counts as a date!”

“He offered, but then I said I was busy, which I am,” Cam said, fully expecting her cousin to admonish her for not being spontaneous. Instead, Avery just folded her arms and fixed Cam with a gently questioning look.

“So, no date with the smoking-hot carpenter with the OG hottie Paul Newman eyes?” she asked with genuine confusion. “And who makes roast chicken? You’re really sure?” She raised her eyebrows, scanning Cam’s face. “Look, I’m not going to push you here. If you’re turning this down, you must have a pretty damn good reason.”

“I have about twenty of them,” Cam said firmly.

“Ugh, fiiiiine,” Avery said in mock exasperation.

“Let’s go grocery shopping, and I’ll fill you in on everything,” Cam said.

The cousins stocked up on supplies for Cam’s recipe tests at the Pack ’N’ Save while Cam explained everything that had happened with the ghost, including the details about who Ada Poulson—or Ada Merriweather—had been in life. (Of course, she checked first to make sure other shoppers couldn’t overhear her rattling on about a ghost.) They got almost everything on Cam’s list. There were usually a few ingredients she needed that the small market didn’t have, but it was amazing how much you could order online now, and the small year-round farmers market in town had been a trove of excellent local produce. Cam steered Birdie’s Volvo wagon—since she and Avery had both returned their rental cars—over to the cafe, where they unloaded the bags, and Cam showed Avery around the commercial space.

Avery turned to her cousin. “You know what’s weird?” she asked. “This all seems really good for you. I mean, when you first told me about the ghost and the fete and everything, I was worried about you. None of it seemed in character for my perfectly put-together cousin. But I don’t know, maybe all the weirdness is just what you needed all along. You look”—she paused to stroke a lock of Cam’s hair, which hung around her shoulders instead of in its usual topknot—“different here. I mean good different. Like maybe chaos suits you, after all. Who would have thought?”