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“I had twenty-five minutes.”

“And you made chicken.”

“I warmed up leftovers. That’s practically cooking.”

Mark ate the first few bites without saying anything. Then he put his fork down and tore a piece of bread in half.

“Was Heath happy? After the game?” Mark asked.

“He talked about Denise for a minute before he talked about the game. Then he smiled when he told a reporter about planting himself in the crease.”

“Good.”

“Pickle told him they’d come to see him. Not the ice. Him.”

Mark nodded slowly. “I told Pickle I’d make sure Heath knew that. He beat me to it.”

“He was the right one to say it.”

“Yes. By the way, there was a problem with Pickle’s credential.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“It was printed exactly as he filled in the form. So it said PICKLE, in capital letters, under the team logo. And security wanted to match it against his ID, which says—“

I kissed him.

I hadn’t planned to. He had turned toward me with the bread in one hand, looking pleased with himself, and I leaned in.

When I let him go, he looked at me.

“I was telling you something.”

“You were.”

“It had a very good ending.”

“Finish your dinner,” I said. “Then you can tell me.”

He finished his dinner. We put the plates in the sink, and I wrapped what was left of the bread. When I left the kitchen, he was already on the couch, at the lamp end. He’d stretched his legs out under the coffee table and was looking at the clearance between his shins and the edge.

“It’s fine here,” he said. “The table. It can stay.”

“I’m so glad you approve of the arrangement of my furniture.”

“I’m only saying.”

Mark pushed his head back against the cushion, grinning at the ceiling, and I sat down next to him. Peaches watched us from the window bed with her chin on the edge.

“So,” I said. “Pickle’s ID.”

“Says Noah Piatkowski.”

“And the credential says—“

He kissed me this time. He put one hand on my jaw and pressed me back into the cushion with his body weight.

“Bed,” he said against my mouth.