“Yes. But I was going to say it’s more . . . equitable since you’re doing the work.”

“Nobody did any work last night when we all went out to dinner and you picked up the check.”

“That was just . . .What’s the problem? Somebody else will get it next time.”

“Do you think I care about your money? Do you think I’m with you because you can pick up dinner checks and have a place like this?”

He lowered the bottle. “Jesus, Laurel, where did that come from?”

“I don’t want to be paid back. I don’t want to be taken care of, and you can screw

equitable because that’s never going to happen. But I can pay my own way, and I can buy my own damn supplies when I want to make some pies.”

“Okay. I’m a little puzzled why offering to pay you back for a bunch of lemons pisses you off, but since it does, offer rescinded.”

“You don’t get it,” she muttered as Linda’s jeering hired help echoed in her mind. “Why would you?”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to bake. Baking makes me happy.” She reached for the remote, turned on music at random. “So, go work out.”

“That’s the plan.” But he set down the bottle to take her face in his hands, study it. “Be happy,” he said. Kissed her, grabbed the bottle again, and left.

“I was,” she murmured. “Will be again.” Determined, she began arranging her supplies and ingredients as suited her.

Mal walked in while she cut shortening into her flour mixture for the pastry dough.

“I love seeing a woman who knows what she’s doing in the kitchen.”

“Glad to oblige.”

He went to the coffeepot, judged the remainder stale, tossed it. “I’m going to make a fresh pot.You want?”

“No, I’ve had enough.”

“So, what’s on the menu?”

“Pies.” She heard the edge in her voice, made the effort to dull it. “Lemon meringue and cherry.”

“I’ve got a weakness for a good piece of cherry pie.” Once he’d set the coffee to brew, he stepped over to her counter, scanned it. “You use actual lemons for the lemon meringue?”

“Well, they were out of mangoes.” She glanced at him as she added ice water. “What else?”

“You know that little box with a picture of a slice of pie.”

She unbent enough to laugh. “Not in my kitchen, friend. Juice and rind from actual lemons.”

“How about that?” He poured the coffee, then poked in a cupboard. “Hey, Pop-Tarts. Is it going to bother you if I watch?”

Stumped, she stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “You want to watch me make pies?”

“I like seeing how things work, but I can take off if I’m in your way.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

“Deal.” He took a seat on a stool on the other side of the counter.

“Do you cook at all?”

He ripped open the Pop-Tart package as he spoke. “When I first took off for L.A., it was learn to put food together or starve. I learned. I make a damn good red sauce. Maybe I’ll put that together tonight, especially if the rain keeps up.”

“Mac claims it’s clearing.”

Mal glanced out at the thin, steady rain. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s what I said.” She picked up the rolling pin—a good marble one she knew Del had bought with her in mind. It made her feel small about jumping down his throat.

A sigh escaped as she flour-dusted her board.

“It’s hard to be rich.”

She looked up, stared again. “What?”

“Harder to be poor,” he said in the same easy tone. “I’ve been both—relatively—and poor’s tougher. But rich has some baggage with it. I was doing okay in L.A. Steady work. I built up a rep, and I had a decent cushion when I got hurt doing that gag. That put the brakes on the work, but they ended up dumping a shitpile of money on me for my trouble.”

“How bad were you hurt?”

“Broke a few things I hadn’t broken before, and a few more I already had.” He shrugged it off as he bit into the Pop-Tart. “Point is, by my standards anyway, I was rolling in it. A lot of other people figured the same, and that they could do some rolling, too. Mice come out of the woodwork looking for a nice bite of the cheese, then they get nasty if you don’t share, or share enough to their way of thinking. Gave me a whole new perspective on who and what mattered, and who and what didn’t.”

“Yeah, I guess it would.”

“Del’s always had the rolling in it, so it’s some different for him.”

She stopped rolling. “You were listening?”

“I was walking by, heard what I figure was the last of it. I didn’t plug my ears and whistle a tune. But maybe you don’t want my take.”

“Why would I?”

Her frigid tone didn’t seem to chill him in the least. “Because I get it. I know what it is to need to prove you can handle yourself, make your own. I don’t come from where you do, but it’s not all that far off. My mother talks,” he added. “I let her. So I’ve got some of the backstory.”

She shrugged. “It’s not a secret.”

“Pisser though, being gossip fodder, especially when it’s ancient history, and not really about you since it’s about your parents.”

“I guess I should quid pro quo and tell you I know you lost your father, and your mother moved back here to work for your uncle. And that didn’t work so well for you.”

“He’s a fucker. Always was.” He picked up his coffee, gestured with the mug. “How do you do that? The crust deal? Get it almost perfectly round?”

“Practice.”

“Yeah, most everything takes it.” He watched in silence as she folded it, placed it in the first pie plate, unfolded. “Applause. So anyway, my take—”

“If I’m going to get your take, you can be useful and pit the cherries.”

“How?”

She handed him a hairpin, took another. “Like this.” She demonstrated, plunging the pin into the base of the cherry. The pit popped out the top.

His eyes, very green, lit with interest. “That’s freaking ingenious. Let me try that.”

He did so with considerable more skill than she’d expected, so she pushed two bowls toward him.

“Pits in here, fruit in here.”

“Got it.” He got to work. “Del doesn’t think about money like most of us do. He’s nobody’s fool, that’s for damn sure. He’s generous by nature—nurture, too, if what I hear about his parents is even half true.”

“They were amazing people. Incredible people.”

“That’s the word on the street.” Mal’s hands worked quickly, deftly—impressing her—with pin and pit. “He’s compassionate and fair. Not a pushover, but believes in using money not just for his comfort and pleasure, but to build, to make a mark, to change lives. He’s a hell of a guy.”

“He really is.”

“Plus he’s not an asshole, which counts a lot. Hey. You’re not going to water up or anything, are you?” Mal asked cautiously.

“No. I don’t water up easily.”

“Good. So what I’m saying is he buys this place—or he and Legs buy it.”

“Are you really going to call Parker ‘Legs’?”

“She’s sure got them. An investment, sure. And a getaway for them. But he—they—open it up. Seems to me they could’ve said, ‘Okay, vacation time. See you in a couple weeks.’ But that’s not what they did.”

“No, they didn’t.” Her opinion of him rose several notches. He understood, and he appreciated.

“So we’ve got this houseful of people. I felt a little weird about tagging along, but that’s on me. For Del, it’s, ‘We’ve got this place, let’s use it.’ No weight, no strings.”

“You’re right. Damn it.”

Those sharp green eyes met hers again, with an understanding that nearly made her “water up.”

“But he doesn’t get we bring our own weight, our own strings. He doesn’t feel them or see them. If he did—”

“He’d be irritated or insulted,” she finished.

“Yeah. But sometimes a girl needs to buy her own lemons, so he’s got to deal with the irritation and insult.”

She finished the other piecrust, placed it in the second pan. “I should be able to explain it to him. I guess that’s on me.”

“I guess it is.”

“Just when I was starting to like you,” she said, but smiled.

When Emma wandered in, Laurel was demonstrating the proper way to create meringue.

“Tournament in the game room, in about an hour.”

“Poker?” Mal asked, brightening up.

“It’s being discussed. Jack and Del are putting together some sort of game decathlon, and poker is an element. They’re arguing point system. Ooh, pie.”

“I have to finish this, then I’m going to start some bread while Mal makes red sauce.”

“You cook?”

“I’d rather play poker.”

“Oh, well, I could—”

“Uh-uh.” Laurel pointed a finger at Mal. “We have an arrangement.”

“Fine. But the tournament doesn’t start until I’m done here. And I don’t do dishes.”

“Reasonable,” Laurel allowed. “We need ninety minutes,” she told Emma. “If the rest of the entrants want to eat tonight, they’ll wait for us.”

Laurel brought a timer with her, set for the end of the bread’s second rising. Her pies cooled on their racks, and Mal’s sauce simmered low on the range.

It seemed a damn good deal for a rainy day.

When she stepped into the game room, she realized Del and Jack had made their version of pie out of lemons.

They’d set up stations, even had them numbered. The poker table, the Xbox, the mat for Dance Dance Revolution, the dreaded foosball.

She sucked at foosball.

Any number of people had been in and out of the kitchen in the last hour, grabbing snacks, drinks. The bar held bowls of chips, salsa, cheese, fruit, crackers.

Sometime over the last hour or so, they’d fashioned a scoreboard, listed the names.