Bubba sets two beers on the table and mutters under his breath, “Don’t stay too long, ’kay? Thanks, Zoey.”

Before I can answer, he scurries back behind the bar, holding flat palms up in the air to tell everyone to hold steady, he’s getting rid of me. For his part, Blake still hasn’t said a single word, but he’s scanning the room as though he’s learning everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets just by laying eyes on them.

In a lot of ways, he’s scarier than I am. I’m all reputation, but he’s the one who really is looking at the small gathering with a dead-eye stare like he’s Jason Bourne ready for action. The very idea makes me smile, but I cover it over with a hand so people don’t think I’m even weirder than I am.

Smiling for no reason? Oh, she must be plotting someone’s unfortunate demise. Because there’s no other, possibly normal, reason I would be happy. Uh, Blake learning everyone’s secrets might not be a normal reason, Zoey.

Well, fine. I’ll admit that’s probably true.

Once Blake gives everyone the evil eye, his gaze settles on me and softens.

I steel my guts because here come those questions. But instead, he surprises me with an innocent, almost normal question. “What’s good to eat here?” he asks, as if our entrance was perfectly ordinary and not cause for an explanation. “I’m a burger guy myself.”

My mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, but no sound comes out. How is he so nonchalant about all of this?

Blake rolls on as if I’m not an idiot who can’t answer the simplest question ever. “I think I’ll go for a cheeseburger. Usually a safe choice because bars go through them daily, so the meat doesn’t have a chance to go bad. As long as the kitchen’s clean?”

I manage to find words. “The burgers are good.”

Great answer, Zoey, I scold myself.

I am such a dork.

A confused one, but a dork, nonetheless.

I try again. “Bubba makes the burgers fresh to order, and I’ve never gotten food poisoning. Though there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

Blake laughs, and a moment later, though I hate that I added the disclaimer and possible jinx, I laugh too . . . after touching the wood wall to wipe away any bad juju from my words. “And does he have onion rings?”

“Ehhhh . . . I’d recommend the fries.”

“Cool,” Blake says before calling out, his voice echoing across the bar that’s mercifully returned to business as usual, “Hey, Bubba. Can we get two burgers and fries, please?”

Bubba pauses his bar wipe-down to meet Blake’s eyes across the room and take his measure. I already know what Bubba sees. Blake screams ‘city boy’, but there’s an edge to him, an athletic aura that’s far beyond whatever he’s gotten from rec league soccer, and an ease that probably makes people flock to him like seagulls following kids with popcorn.

And Bubba?

He might look like a country bumpkin in a faded T-shirt and overalls, but he’s wily and willing to fight dirty if necessary.

Bubba blinks first. “How you want ’em?”

“Two of however Zo takes them.”

He’s claiming me, whether he means to or not, making him persona non-grata too. My heart flutters and a zing shoots through my core, both of which are really bad omens and my neon flashing signals to get out of here.

For both our own good.

Blake crosses his hands on the table, looking like a lawyer ready to argue his case. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It’s a beer, dinner. Not a marriage proposal. After all, we’re getting fries, not rings.”

He smiles at his own joke, and it’s a good one. But I can still feel the blood rush out of my face and know that if it weren’t dim in here, Blake would worry about the degree of paleness I’m currently sporting.

“And paperwork,” I add, bringing us back to the true reason for this meeting. “We should get that out of the way first.” I pull my phone out of my bag, intending to log in to the county website and do the forms I should’ve done days ago.

“No rush,” Blake tells me. His lazy smirk should make it easy to get through the few screens to get started, but I cannot seem to remember my username and password.

Hell, or my own name.

I click at the screen, entering gibberish, unless I changed my username to asdfjkl;mmmm, and I’m reasonably sure I didn’t do that in a fugue state or while sleep-working. It’s a real thing—sometimes, I work out details of questionable cases while snoring away in the middle of the night when I’m not limited by rational thinking.

When my phone beeps its displeasure at my holding down the M button, Blake’s lips lift into a full, white-toothed grin as he slouches, throwing one arm casually along the back of the booth. Humor dances in his eyes as though he’s in no rush for me to do the paperwork that he came all the way out to Williamson County to badger me about.

“The smallest bones in the human body are in the middle ear. The ossicles—malleus, incus, and stapes.”

My fingers curl into the super-protective, hard plastic case of my phone. It usually keeps it from a fate worse than death, aka a blue screen of inoperability, but though it guards against gravity, I don’t think it’s strong enough to fight off being squeezed like a toothpaste tube.