She nods excitedly and spreads her hands wide, the silver, heart-shaped ring on her index finger glinting in the evening sun. “Here’s my plan. I thought I’d start offering a new fun and quirky treat each day. Like candy sushi on Mondays at three, and then on Tuesdays I’d do coconut chocolate chip cookies, minus the food item that shall not be named.”

I mouth thank you.

“On Wednesday afternoons I’d offer a grapefruit macaron, for instance. And I can market the shop more on social media like the food trucks do. It’ll be like appointment treats daily at the Sunshine Bakery.”

“That’s brilliant.” I clear my throat, sigh deeply, and set a hand on her arm. “But I need to break this to you. No one likes grapefruit. Not even in a macaron.”

Her green eyes shine like she has a secret. “Ah, but you’ve never tried my grapefruit macaron. I’ll make that for you next. It’s delish. I promise,” she says, then reaches up to tighten her ponytail. Her dark brown hair is streaked with pink near the tips. Normally shades of bright colors in the locks do nothing for me, but on Josie, it just works. It suits her personality. She’s bright and outgoing. Friendly and happy. She’s exactly the type of person who can rock pink-streaked hair and selling cake, cookies, and seven-layer bars at a cheery bakery on the Upper West Side, plus sushi candy, too.

She has the whole look—the soft curves, the inviting smile, the warm eyes, the fun hair, and the upbeat attitude. Like it’s a surprise this woman became one of my closest friends after I met her about ten years ago. It’s impossible not to like Josie.

And I’m not even talking about her rack. See? I’m so well-behaved.

She gives me two more treats to try, and neither one floats my boat. I tell her that each time, and she simply nods and says thanks. Dipping her hand in the bag, she grabs what looks like a Twinkie sushi roll wrapped in taffy to represent the seaweed.

“Try this one,” she says, handing me a slice as a summer breeze rustles the branches of a nearby tree.

I arch an eyebrow in question. “Aren’t Twinkies bad for you?”

She winks at me. “Don’t you know? Everything that tastes good is bad for you. Besides, it’s not a Twinkie Twinkie,” she adds, pointing at the dessert sushi.

“What is it? Like a Twinkie’s bastard cousin? A Winkie Twinkie? A Kinky Twinkie?”

“It’s a Trinkie,” she says, laughing. “It’s homemade. I whipped it up and brought it to the class. I made my own version of Twinkies. So they’re not, y’know, disgusting. Here you go,” she tells me.

I bite into the treat, and my eyes go wide. “Holy shit. You have to sell that.”

“I’m so glad you like it,” Josie says, with a grin. “And now you have done your due diligence as my favorite taste tester. Do you have any idea how awful it was for me when you were in Africa?”

“I can’t even imagine the hell you went through without me around,” I say, since I was gone for a year with Doctors Without Borders, doing a stint in the Central African Republic and helping out the people who’ve suffered most through the armed conflict and instability in that country. Those were some of the most challenging but also most gratifying times I’ve ever spent. It made me a better doctor; I hope it made me a better person, too.

It definitely made me miss Josie’s taste tests of treats, though.

“It was rough, Chase,” she says, all serious-looking as she teases me. “I just had to take it day by day to get through.”

“Speaking of rough days . . . So this guy came into the ER earlier,” I say, since Josie enjoys Tales from the ER. Her eyes light up, and she rubs her hands as if to say tell me, tell me. “He was testing the structural integrity of a chandelier,” I say, then share the rest of the story of Aquaman’s adventures.

She cringes, then laughs. “Well, that beats my crazy morning.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t tell me you tried to get intimate with a KitchenAid mixer?”

“Ha. No. Last week, I started looking for a roomie now that Natalie’s moved out.”

“Oh, yeah?” Natalie is Josie’s former roommate. Now she’s hitched to Wyatt and they’re living together in his apartment.

“Talk about a pain in the forehead. This morning a woman who answered my ad stopped by to see my place and wanted to know my ‘quiet hours.’ Like, what time each night we have mandatory lights out at my home.” Josie shoots me a look that tells me that’s the nuttiest idea.

“Did you tell her the curfew at Chez Josie?”

“Nine p.m. On the dot,” she says primly, straightening her spine. “But I didn’t bother to tell her that after nine is when I go crazy and watch loud and naughty HBO shows.”

“Like there’s any other kind.”

She taps my leg. “But that doesn’t even compare to the lady who wanted to know if the building allowed snakes.”

“No fucking way,” I say, recoiling. I can handle blood, guts, and all manner of foreign objects in completely wrong locations, but animals that slither? Nope. Can’t do it.

“Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?” Josie and I ask in unison, quoting Raiders of the Lost Ark.

She shudders. “I swear looking for a roommate is all I’ve been doing, too. And the parade of crazy started as soon as I began advertising for a single female roommate, twenties to thirties. The next woman who answered the ad wanted to know if I would be baking at home. She said she was allergic to flour and feared my apartment would aggravate her sensitivities.”