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“And this morning.” Evie brushed chili seasoning off the thigh of her yoga pants. “I feel like the walking dead.”

“Well, you don’t look it.”

Evie smirked. “Yet.”

Sunita parked her shopping on the floor with a thump. “Hey, did you hear Mrs. Robson from the post office died? I saw a notice on the ferry.”

“Yeah. Hers was the funeral we catered.”

“Aww, she was lovely. I still have the Lord of the Rings stamps she gave me.”

“You got commemorative stamps.” Bending over, Evie rifled through the groceries. “I got embarrassing questions.”

Sunita chuckled. “Gotta love old people.”

“And I love you”—holding up a frozen butternut squash lasagne, Evie smiled—“for saving my ass. I’ll pay you back ASAP.”

“No rush. I bought ten of ’em just in case.” Sunita pointed to the bags. “Oh, and there’s fresh parsley in there, too. Sprinkle some on top and bam—homemade lasagne. The vegetarians will be none the wiser.”

“Fingers crossed.” Evie wedged the boxes of lasagne into the small freezer, a complicated game of frozen food Tetris if there ever was one. “I’m so mad at myself for screwing up.”

“Eves, you’re not the first person to botch a recipe, especially one for over thirty people.”

“I know, but I pray they don’t question why they’re getting veggie lasagne instead of the scheduled veggie chili.”

“So Gemma’s definitely out of commission, then?” Sunita reached past the steamed-up slow cookers and stole a carrot stick.

“For at least a month. She’s on bedrest. Not for the broken arm or concussion but for brain bruising.”

Sunita grimaced as she munched.

“It could bleed so—best to be cautious.” Evie scooped up the empty bags and stood, leaving the fresh parsley on the counter. “I told her not to worry about work or anything else, but like she’ll listen…”

“What about the shop? How long will you be shut?”

“A few days. The builders are doing their best, but even if they finish tomorrow, we’d still be unable to reopen till next week. With shorter hours, too.”

Sunita nodded. “I was gonna say. All your staff are either here or in sick bay.”

“Fi said she’ll cover. Poppy’s chicken pox should be gone by then.”

“Did she know Nick was coming?”

“I didn’t ask,” said Evie. “We didn’t talk long last night. She was in the middle of making dinner for the kids.”

“And he still hasn’t spoken to you this morning?”

“Which is how I like it.” Evie began folding the bags. “So! Gimme the goss! How’s London, how’s work? Are you sick of Hook-up Holiday yet?” She giggled. “I counted all the articles you’ve written this season—one hundred and sixty-nine.”

“Rather fitting…”

Evie laughed again. “I read every single one. I’m so proud of you, Sun!”

“Thanks.” Sunita looked out the truck’s concession window. “I’m glad it’s over. I loathe the damn thing. Made it hard to be impartial.”

“Well, I thought you were. That’s the sign of a true journalist.” Evie grinned. “And how’s Micah?”

“He’s good. Busy. Lots of tourists.” Sunita’s gaze swung back. “You know what it’s like, owning a shop—”