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The question landed with more weight than her tone suggested.

I stepped closer while she fastened her coat.

“I don’t care who knows I kissed you.”

Her fingers paused on the last button.

“That wasn’t exactly what I asked.”

“I know.”

Something warm moved through her expression before she pulled her scarf into place. The kiss wasn’t a secret, but whatever came next still belonged to us. That seemed like enough for one morning.

***

Whispering Pines had fully woken by the time we drove into town.

The wet streets reflected the amber lights still glowing in shop windows beneath a heavy gray sky. Pumpkins crowded storefront displays beside rust-colored mums and bundles of corn stalks, and black paper bats fluttered against the windows of a bakery when the wind hit them. Leaves stuck darkly to the sidewalks after the overnight rain while brighter ones blew loose from the gutters and chased each other across the road.

Georgia watched the town through the passenger window with one hand wrapped around the travel mug she had brought from the office.

“Everybody went bigger this year,” she said as we passed a row of carved jack-o’-lanterns outside a hardware store.

“It’s Halloween in two days.”

“That has never stopped half the town from waiting until the thirtieth to realize decorations require effort. I managed restaurants; last-minute enthusiasm is expensive.”

I smiled as I turned toward the Lantern House.

The building sat near the older part of downtown, where storefronts were packed close together and service alleys ran behind them. The restaurant’s front windows glowed against the cloudy morning, framed by autumn garlands and small lanterns. A chalkboard near the entrance advertised the annual Halloween bash in looping orange lettering. The ownership had changed since Brad Noland died in the service alley behind the building seven years ago, but the Halloween bash had survived.

The moment we stepped inside, warmth rolled over us.

The Lantern House smelled like hot cider, bar citrus, browned onions, roasted meat, and old wood warmed by years of kitchen heat. Dark beams crossed the ceiling over a dining room lined with deep booths and heavy tables. Orange string lights wound along the shelves behind the bar, subtle enough that they looked like part of the amber glow instead of a carnival. Black-and-gold paper decorations hung among branches of red and gold leaves, and carved pumpkins waited along the front windows for candles.

The room had charm, but it also had traffic problems.

A temporary service table had been shoved too close to the kitchen pass. Extra high-tops narrowed the path between the dining room and bar, while boxes of Halloween supplies occupied part of the route toward the back hall. Even before Georgia said anything, I could see two places where servers carrying trays would end up trying to use the same three feet of floor.

Georgia took three steps inside and stopped. Her gaze moved over the room in a slow sweep. Then a tall blond man came toward us from behind the bar.

He was about my height minus a few inches, lean and athletic in a way that looked natural rather than gym-built. His dirty-blond hair had lighter streaks through it and enough deliberate texture to make mine look exactly as practical as it was. He wore fitted dark trousers, boots, several rings, and a patterned shirt in burnt gold and deep green.

His eyes landed on Georgia.

“Thank God you came.”

He crossed the distance between them and wrapped her in a hard hug. Georgia laughed into his shoulder and hugged him back. Then he drew away, kissed her cheek, and held her at arm’s length.

“You wore the green sweater. Excellent. Crisis already improving.”

I stood beside the host stand and watched the ease between them. Case Wilkins was very good-looking, and Georgia had told me only that he was her best friend. That wasn’t enough information to know whether “best friend” covered their entire history.

Case’s hands were still resting lightly at her upper arms, and I disliked them there.

At forty-six, I should have had enough perspective not to feel jealous over a twenty-eight-year-old woman who had worked for me for one day. The thought was reasonable; my reaction wasn’t.

He looked over Georgia’s shoulder at me. Those green eyes were sharper than his theatrical greeting suggested, taking in my size, my expression, and probably the fact that I had watched him kiss Georgia with more attention than the situation required. His eyebrows lifted slightly.