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The room went still.

Devney inhaled through her nose. Gabriel’s hand paused over the Danish tray. Ronan, who had been studying the lemon bar like a new asset class, looked up.

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “Acceptable?”

“The glaze is balanced. The crust holds. The lemon is present without elbowing.” Knox set the remaining half of the bar on his napkin and aligned it with the edge. “Acceptable.”

“My lemon bars were third on The New York Times list of best bakery items in Brooklyn,” Lucy said. Her voice hadn’t risen, but something underneath it had sharpened. “Several food bloggers called them ‘transcendent.’ A woman from Cobble Hill drives forty minutes every Saturday specifically for them.”

“That’s impressive. I’m saying they’re acceptable.”

“You’re saying they’re acceptable because you’re constitutionally incapable of giving a compliment.”

“I’m saying they’re acceptable because that is my honest assessment of a well-executed pastry.”

“Your honest assessment,” Lucy repeated. “From someone whose palate has been curated by catered boardroom lunches and whatever Sal’s Deli puts on rye bread.”

“Turkey. No mustard.”

“Of course no mustard. Mustard would be too much flavor for you.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Maybe we should discuss the budget.”

Neither of them looked at him.

“Your lemon bars are well-made,” Knox said. “The technique is solid. The presentation is clean. I have no complaints.”

“‘No complaints’ is not a compliment. ‘No complaints’ is what you say about a dentist appointment that didn’t require anesthesia.”

“I don’t understand the expectation here. Would you prefer I compose a sonnet? Should I weep? The bar is good. I ate half of it. That’s endorsement enough.”

Annoyance and a laugh she was refusing to release crossed Lucy’s face. She turned to Tessa. “Your best man has the emotional range of a parking meter.”

“He grows on you,” Tessa offered.

“So does a fungus.”

Gabriel coughed into his fist. Devney pressed her lips together so hard her chin trembled. Ronan was writing something in his notebook, and Knox leaned over far enough to read it. In neat block letters, Ronan had written, FEELING: SECONDHAND DISCOMFORT. POSSIBLE SUBCATEGORY: AMUSEMENT.

Knox leaned back. “Chapter five is really paying off for you.”

“Devney will be thrilled,” Ronan said, without looking up. Beside him, Devney already was, hiding it badly.

Lucy picked up a Danish and placed it on Knox’s napkin. “Try that. Tell me it’s ‘acceptable’ and I’ll use the rolling pin.”

He tried it, almond paste and frangipane under a lattice of sliced apricot, and the pastry shattered on his tongue, buttery and layered, each fold distinct. It was exceptional. He chewed and swallowed. He said nothing for four seconds, longer than he typically needed to evaluate anything.

“Well?” Lucy’s arms were crossed. Her weight rested on one hip, posture ready for combat.

“The almond is roasted longer than standard. The frangipane has a depth I wouldn’t expect from a neighborhood bakery.”

“A neighborhood bakery?”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“Everything you say sounds like an insult. You have a gift.”

“I’m saying the technique exceeds the context. That’s a compliment.”