Page 29 of One Wrong Move

I lean against the island, resting my hands on the edge of the stone surface. “Why did you decide to bake scones right after work?”

There’s a tiny suspicion in my mind, and it has to do with the list I’d seen yesterday. The one that had fallen out of her bag.

30 Under 30 list.

Sometimes it pays off to have a photographic memory. I only scanned half the entries in the second before she grabbed it out of my hand, but it had been more than enough to understand what I saw.

She’s made herself a list of things to experience.

And number seven had been try a new recipe.

Was this it? Scones?

Harper sighs. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“You’ll laugh,” she warns, but her voice is dryly amused, too. “Okay, so I watched a lot of The Great British Bake Off in the last few weeks.”

“Wherever you were going, I didn’t expect that,” I say.

“It’s a comfort show. And I rarely bake, so I wanted to try. Make something British.” She looks over at the scones. “Well, I guess trial batch number one is a bust.”

“Mm-hmm. You’re welcome to try again.”

“Even though I almost burned down your kitchen?”

“Even if you do end up burning it down.” I nod toward her hand. “Need a Band-Aid?”

“No.”

“Medical attention?”

She chuckles. “No.”

“A scone, ordered from the nearby bakery?”

She rolls her eyes. “Insulting. And no.”

“All right then.” I close the oven; the smoke is gone now. The cleaners will handle the disaster zone when they swing by next time.

Harper turns off the faucet and gently dries her finger. The burn looks small. Thankfully.

I shut the back door to the small garden, blocking out the lingering evening chill of the early spring.

“I didn’t think you’d be home,” she says.

Right. “Hoped to have the entire house for yourself?” I drawl.

“No, no, it’s your place.” She leans against the counter, much like I had earlier. “I just figured you’d have plans. Considering you’re, you know… you.”

“Because I’m… me?”

“Yeah.” Her lips turn into a smile. “No event to go to? No ribbons to cut, no investors to woo?”

“Contron doesn’t have investors,” I say. “We invest.”

She smiles. “Sorry, my bad. What a faux pas.”

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