Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with that?”

“Not really, but I think she appreciated my ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to broaden your culinary horizons?”

She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own stew down on the placemat across from her.

“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that sounds more appealing.”

She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea sounds great.”

I filled the kettle and set it on the already hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had pushed into my hands before I left.

“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer asked.

I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.

“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.

“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.” I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It welled with blood, and I closed my fingers again to keep it from dripping onto the floor. “Kind of like that.”

Spencer grabbed a towel from the counter and took my hand. She wrapped it tightly with the towel and tucked in the end. “Keep it up like this.” She pushed my arm toward me so it bent at the elbow.

She stood to search for a first aid kit, found one in the back of a drawer next to the sink, and carried it to the table. Then she pointed to one of the chairs. I cradled my injured hand against my chest, obeying her silent orders. Spencer pulled the second chair closer and sat across from me. She took my hand and rested it on her knees, then unwrapped the towel to inspect the cut again. It was deep but wouldn’t need stitches as far as I could tell. I watched her as she tore open a small packet with her teeth and pulled out an alcohol swab. She swiped it across my palm, and I hissed through my teeth.

Spencer grinned. “Now who’s six?”

She lifted my hand and blew on it to take away the sting. I would’ve been happy to recover with her cool breath on my open palm, but she produced gauze and tape from the kit to finish the job. When she finished wrapping and taping it, she turned my hand from side to side to look over the dressing. Satisfied, she bent her head and kissed my palm. “There. All better.”

“Nicely done.” I wiggled my fingers as if she’d reattached a limb rather than bandaged a cut. “I’m lucky you were here, or I may have bled to death.”

Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, well, I think you would have pulled through, but you can thank my dad for the first-aid skills. I was constantly hurting myself as a kid, so he had lots of opportunities to demonstrate his technique.”

“Same here, although I’m not qualified for much more than a Band-Aid. I was usually too busy fussing over my injury to notice what Maggie was doing.”

“Worst childhood injury?” Spencer asked.

“Broken nose when I was twelve, courtesy of my brother. But I totally deserved it.”

“Yeah?”

“I was annoyed he wouldn’t let me skip school to go with him on a trip, so I told Maggie about the Playboys he had hidden in his dresser.”

Spencer laughed. “You ratted out your own brother?”

“I know, I know.” I hung my head. “I’m the worst.”

The teakettle whistled, and I hopped out of my chair to answer it. I poured the boiling water into one mug, got another from the cupboard, and filled that too. “Here you go.” I brought them to the table. “Just let it sit for a few minutes before you try it.”

“Honey?”

I scowled at her with feigned horror. “Honey? Normal tea needs honey. Maggie’s tea doesn’t need anything but a mug. Trust me.”

Spencer put up her hands in surrender. “So sorry. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a tea sommelier.”

I grinned at her as I retook my seat. Her chair was still pulled close, and our knees brushed together as I settled into mine. “What about you. What was your worst injury as a kid?”

“Couple broken bones, lots of cuts and scrapes.” She thought for a second. “Oh, maybe it’s not the worst, but this one is the grossest.” She held out her left hand to me, palm flat. She pointed to the silvery outline of a jagged circle.

“What’s it from?”

“I was eight, just learning to ride a bike on my own, and I was lucky enough to fall straight onto a bottle cap. It went so far in it had to be removed in the ER.”

I winced, imagining the metal cap where the scar now marked her palm. “Nasty.”

She smiled, probably glad her story had had the desired effect. “Yeah, but the worst part was the tetanus shot. Right in the ass, and those things hurt.”

“Aww, want me to kiss it?”

She smacked her scarred palm against my chest. “Shane!”

I laughed. “Oh, come on, you walked into that.” I caught her hand and kissed her palm as she’d done for me.

She didn’t pull her hand from mine. “Okay. Favorite book?”

“To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“I love that one. But my favorite is The Secret Garden.”

I laughed. “Really?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I love it, and true love lasts a lifetime.” She lifted her mug from the table and took a sip. Her eyes widened, and she flashed a delighted smile. “This is really amazing.”

“I told you.” I took a sip of my own tea. The sweet tang of citrus and mild spiciness warmed my throat. It made me miss home. “Any pets?”

“No, although I always wanted a dog. My dad said it was too much hassle since we moved so much.”

“I love my dogs.”

“What kind?”

“Irish Wolfhounds,” I said. “Yeats and Beckett.”

She smiled. “Figures.”

“I know. I’m such a stereotype.”

“So, we’ve established that you love your dogs and your mother’s tea. Oh, and you’re obnoxiously proud of your Irish heritage. How many girls have you been in love with?”

“None,” I answered right away.

“Is that ‘none’ as in, you’ve never really been in love, or ‘none’ as in you’ve never even felt like you were in love.”

“I’ve liked plenty of girls, but I’ve never been in love. Jimmy likes to joke that my dogs are the only living things I’ll ever say the word to. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not too far off, I guess. What about you?”

“Pass,” Spencer said with a shake of her head.

“No way. I told you about my deep and enduring love for the wolfhounds.”

“Right, and I told you about my love affair with The Secret Garden, so we’re even.”

“For now,” I said.

“Moving on then. Beatles or Stones?”

“Van Morrison,” I said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“What? That wasn’t even a choice.”

“It should’ve been considering that Astral Weeks is the greatest album of all time.”

“That’s high praise for an album I’ve never even heard of.”

“Agh.” I grimaced. “You’re killing me. You know who Van Morrison is, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’ It’s cute if you like that sort of thing.”

The dishes rattled as my head thunked against the tabletop. “Why is that the only song anyone knows? Are you seriously telling me you haven’t heard ‘Domino’? ‘Into the Mystic’? ‘Sweet Thing’?”

“I may have,” she said, lifting one shoulder.

I gave her a mock-stern look.