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“Sorry,” he said, coming back over and sliding onto his stool. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It is, though,” he said, his worried tone causing me to look up from what I was doing. “I forget that you’re like, legitimately famous.”

I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “I’m not.”

He propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin in his upturned palm. “Whatever you say, Hunter Callahan.”

“I mean, yes. My dad is famous. And people know my name. But that doesn’t make me famous.”

He rolled his eyes. “People knowing your name is exactly what makes you famous.”

I hefted the espresso machine in both hands, turned to set it on the back counter, and plugged it in. Then I clicked the water reservoir into place and filled the bean hopper. “You know what I mean,” I said over my shoulder.

“Sure,” he agreed easily, drawing a pattern on the countertop with his index finger.

I turned around to face him, leaning back against the counter. “It’s really not a big deal, Mikey. You didn’t know he was going to be weird.”

“So weird,” he chuckled. “Which reminds me,” he stood, circling the island to crouch down in front of the sink, where he rummaged around in the cabinet for a few seconds, eventually popping back up with a bottle of Febreze. “Who just plops down on someone’s furniture when you’re all sweaty like that?”

“Oh my god,” I laughed. “It took everything in my power not to give away just how much that bothered me.”

“News flash, Cal—your face comes with subtitles. You totally looked like you were going to throw up.” He strode across the room to spray down the couch.

“No I didn’t.”

“You totally did,” he said, when he was done, heading toward the laundry room. “This should probably go in here, right?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

I really didn’t care. I planned to hire a cleaning service who’d bring their own supplies with them.

“What do you want for dinner?” he called out. “I picked up some pasta and chicken.”

“That sounds good,” I answered, checking my watch. “We forgot to get trash bags,” I said, grabbing my keys off the hook in the foyer. “I’m gonna run out and get some. Need anything?”

“Nah,” Mikey called back. “Actually. Wait.” I heard his feet moving over the hardwood floors in a jog. He met me in the foyer. “I need laundry detergent.”

I flattened my Marauders snapback over my messy hair. I really needed to find a salon, and soon. “I have a bottle in my room.”

“Cal.”

“What?” I asked, sliding my feet into my sneakers and bracing a hand against the wall to pull the back of each one up over my heel.

“I’m not using your ninety-dollar detergent.”

“It’s not ninety dollars,” I argued.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s thirty-eight,” I muttered under my breath.

“I’ll take some Tide, please,” he said with a wink.

After dinner, Mikey and I each grabbed a beer and took them up to the deck, switching on the string lights around the perimeter. It was a crisp, clear night, and I wasn’t sure how many more of these we’d have before it turned bitterly cold.

Mikey stretched out along the outdoor couch, resting an arm along its back, while I stood there debating whether to take the other end or risk the back-killing Adirondack chair.