Linda wasn’t quite sure how it had happened.

Clive had refused to stop apologizing until she’d agreed that he could take her out to dinner. It was one of the trigger phrases she’d learned long ago. In a guy’s mind, “dinner out” meant “hopefully with meaningless sex for dessert.” Her standard answer of “thanks but no way in hell” didn’t appear with Clive.

Instead, she’d happily followed him to the kitchen beneath the Residence, which was apparently his idea of a dinner out.

It was late enough that the kitchen itself was quiet. A sour-faced man, introduced to her as Chef Klaus, offered her a scowl and Thor another before returning to his tiny office. An on-call chef puttered away in the pastry kitchen. The massive White House kitchen was theirs alone.

A stove with a dozen gas burners, two big grills, mixers almost as tall as she was with bowls that Thor could have slept inside. Multiple ovens with more controls than she’d ever seen before, an espresso machine that would be the envy of even a Starbucks barista, dozens of pots and pans hanging from overhead hooks, a meat slicer, knife racks… It never seemed to end—everywhere she looked there was more kitchen equipment.

But there were none of the homey touches of Clive’s chocolate shop. No pictures on the walls, no sketches taped onto refrigerator doors. It felt cold despite the warmth of the room. Without thinking about it much, she’d scooted her stool closer to where Clive was cooking.

Partly to watch him. His big fingers were surprisingly nimble as he selected, sliced, and seasoned. His hands looked as if they belonged to a stone mason or a US Ranger. But after years of hard use in the field, a Ranger’s hands would be hard-pressed to do any fine work—except strip and clean a weapon, of course. Clive’s massive hands appeared to fly as he sprinkled a pinch of salt into a heating pot of pasta water and then began building a sauce.

She also scooted closer because it felt warmer near him. Not just the burners roaring with bright blue flames. There was something about Clive that drew her in. His willingness to walk into an explosives danger zone to warn her of something he’d seen that she should have. What man did that? Clive Andrews. And what had he said when he arrived? That he was trying to be like her…intentionally! Why anyone would do that was beyond her, but Clive had. As to his saying that he liked her—in the middle of her first-ever diplomatic crisis—well, it was beyond strange.

While the fettuccini boiled, Clive thin-sliced and sautéed chicken. At the last moment he tossed in lemon juice, shallots, and slivers of lemon complete with the peel. Thor was just going to have to wait for dinner until they got home, but it was hard to care because it smelled so heavenly.

Then Clive pulled out some hamburger. “I’m not sure what to put in this, I’m not used to cooking for a dog.”

“A lump of that, raw. That’s grounds to win love forever. Uh, his love.” If Clive noticed her stumble, he didn’t comment on it.

Instead he laughed aloud.

“Ground beef as grounds for love. Good one.”

Which she hadn’t actually thought of as a pun.

“That is precisely what every man needs, the love of a good dog. Doesn’t he?” Clive asked Thor as he set to work. He placed a fist-sized ball of burger in a small bowl—thankfully her fist and not his, which would be nearly the size of Thor’s head—and quickly beat in an egg. Then he set it upon a white plate. Somehow, with those big hands of his, he quickly shaped it into an elegant form as if it was a tiny meat Bundt cake complete with spiral flutes up the sides and a hole in the middle.

Why was she feeling a fit of pique that he was doting on her dog and not on… She needed her head fixed.

“Does he like greens?”

“I…don’t know. Most dogs do.” She’d given him kibble and canned dog food so far. She’d only had him five days, nowhere near enough time to learn his preferences. Not even enough time to learn her own. The scramble of these last days had relegated her meals to pizza by the slice from the corner shop near her apartment. She’d often buy an extra couple slices to have cold leftovers for breakfast.

Clive held out a small piece of spinach. Thor roused himself enough in her lap to happily chomp it down. Clive diced up enough to fill the hole he’d shaped inside the raw hamburger patty. He crumbled bacon over the top, throwing more into the sauce for their own dinner.

“That looks good enough for me to eat, forget about the dog.”

“For a good tartare, I would fresh chop a much finer grade of meat and add some more spice. I make a good one, I’ll do that some other time.” Clive just smiled as he scooped out the finished fettuccini, let it drain for a moment, then dumped it into the sauce pan.

As if he hadn’t ever so casually dropped his plans that this wouldn’t be a one-time event. His confidence was amazing, which she liked, but with none of the arrogance that typically went with it.

He stirred it a few times. Then, in quick, neat motions, he mounded the fettuccini in elegant twists on a pair of white plates. Finally he grated Parmesan cheese on the top.

“I thought you were a chocolatier.”

“I am.”

“But you can cook as well.”

“Of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”

“Why? What’s the last meal you cooked?”

Linda puzzled at that. The last time she’d cooked, something fancier than frozen pizza or a can of soup…

Clive stopped halfway through mincing some parsley. “You do cook, don’t you?”

“Well, the Army sort of took care of that for the last decade. Or Mom’s maid the few times I was dumb enough to go home on leave.”

“Please tell me that you are joking,” Clive sounded deeply offended.

“I can cook…” Linda gave up. “Though, honestly, nothing fancier than scrambled eggs and burnt toast.”

He squinted closely at her.

“What?”

“I’ve spent the last five days fantasizing about a woman who can’t cook? That can’t be right.”

“It’s true. You—” His words caught up with her. “You what?” Her shout was loud enough for Chef Klaus to stick his head out of his office, leaning out far enough to look around the big stand mixer between them and deliver a hard stare before turning back to whatever he’d been working on.

Clive didn’t appear in the least abashed. “We’re in the house that George Washington built. Even if he didn’t live long enough to ever take up occupancy here, it’s still his house, therefore I cannot tell a lie.” He dressed the plates with little spears of asparagus that she hadn’t even seen him preparing, and a thick slice of crusty bread.

“But—”

“Shall we take our plates somewhere more private?” Ignoring her feeble protests, he did one of those waiter things with a plate in either hand and Thor’s plate resting on his forearm. Then he led the way out the back of the kitchen and along the Basement Hall toward his chocolate shop.

Out of options, she set Thor on his own feet and followed after him.

* * *

Clive didn’t know how to slow down around Linda, but it seemed to be working, so maybe he shouldn’t.

He’d gotten her out of the West Wing without getting down on his knees and begging, though he’d come close while fishing her out of the men’s lavatory where her boss Captain Baxter had been washing his hands. The captain had merely raised his eyebrows as he looked down at his newest officer lying prone on the tile floor.

Clive really wanted to get her back into the Chocolate Shop, where he’d made a couple of special treats for her. He’d almost screwed that up with suggesting that they go out to dinner, because that’s what a man did with an attractive woman in DC, right? Dinner, drinks, a goodnight kiss that might lead somewhere or might not. He knew from past experience that leading somewhere tended to happen with him.

He’d never really given it much thought. He liked women and women liked him. Easy-peasy. It never lasted…

He glanced over at Linda as she squatted to give Thor his plate of K-9 tartare. It was easy to imagine watching her doing that, feeding her dog, day after day. He’d never really thought about having the same woman around for the long term. He knew it was in his future somewhere, but the insane hours of being a world-class chocolatier were no less hectic than being a world-class chef. He’d never found a woman willing to put up with that for long, which was fine—he was always up-front about it so it was never a big issue. But with Linda in his kitchen, the future shifted somewhere much closer.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t slow down around her. All of his smooth skills around women had turned into curdles and the clumsy bloom of over-refrigerated chocolate.

And now that he had her here, in his chocolate shop, his mouth had gone dry with a sudden lack of words.

“I think he likes it,” Linda patted Thor as he started eating.

“What’s not to like?” He watched her and couldn’t think of a thing. He was being ridiculous, he knew, but his attraction to her pulled at him like a new confection recipe.

Then, rather than taking her seat, she stood and stared at him. “What’s that look?”

“What look?” He rubbed his hand over his face and did his best to erase it.

“That look.”

“So much for wiping it off my face. Eat,” he pulled out a pair of stools from under the counter. After a moment’s debate, he set them kitty-corner at his central steel worktable—placing them close but still facing each other.

“Evasion, Chef Andrews.”

“Absolutely, Sergeant Hamlin.”

“And you want me to let you off the hook?”

“Consider it payback for identifying that bad man for you.”

She harrumphed but took her stool. “Okay, just this once.” But her look said not a chance was this over. “You still owe me for dumping me into the men’s room—not that I’m keeping score.”

“Did you ever figure out what they were doing, or is that now some state secret you can’t tell me about?” Clive went for the subject change.

“I wish it was. We don’t know. And we’re getting mixed signals on who they were working for. The Japanese have now disavowed both of their diplomatic passports based on today’s actions.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

“It is. Both men were gone long before it happened. Whether that is per a plan by the Japanese or an honest reaction to a betrayal is unclear. Mr. Black Wool Coat was new to the mission, but Mr. Gray Suit was a senior official who abandoned a long career the moment he stepped on that plane.”

“Which explains why he was so angry when we caught him,” Clive could still remember the moment. It was the only time he’d been involved in anything like that. He’d have been a basket case of nerves if it hadn’t happened so fast—Linda spooking him, Mr. Gray Suit breaking through the crowd, the officers grabbing the man as Clive pointed him out, and finally his look of fury at being caught.

“Fury or dismay? It became the latter fast enough. We’ve seized his US assets, but those are unusually small for someone who has served in Washington for two decades, as if he knew he was at risk and had cleared out most of his holdings just in case.”

“So, basically, no one is happy.” Except him. The adventure had given him the narrowest sliver of insight into the richness of mysteries in Linda’s world. Crisis, adrenaline, action, yet she’d remained perfectly calm and in control throughout. And having her in his shop was enough to make him happy for a long time.

“Well, Thor looks pretty happy,” Linda pointed out. The dog lay on the floor licking his chops with a polished clean plate in front of him. “And me. This is fantastic.”

He’d been wondering if she was eating it without even tasting. It wasn’t anything much, but it had come together nicely from various kitchen leftovers. Klaus always kept a shelf of items that any chef working late could take advantage of for a quick meal. He was stretching it a little for an agent and her dog but, other than one of his patented scowls, Klaus had appeared fine with it.

“Clive?”

“Mm-hmm?” He had a mouthful of pasta at the moment.

“What you said earlier?”

“Mm-hmm?” Uh-oh!

“Why?”

He chewed and swallowed. No real question what she was asking, so he’d go for his honesty policy. “You’re asking why I like you. Have you met many DC women?”

Her shrugs were expressive. This one reminded him that though she’d been out in Maryland for three months, her experience with DC was minimal.

“There’s a sameness to them. The way I have always figured it, DC attracts two major types of women. Ambitious women deeply concerned with politics for one. The others are looking for a job that they could find anywhere else more easily but wouldn’t have the prestige of being involved in the government—or the chance at a future president for a husband, because of course they can make the right man into that. Guess which type I normally meet?”

“The tall blondes.”

“Well sure,” he wasn’t going to fall for that trap. “Who wouldn’t? But I’m finding that now I’ve met a third type.”

Linda did that narrow-eyed inspection thing of hers.

“Short brunettes who take obnoxious K-9 instructors and international terrorists all in the stride of a day’s work without letting it flap them in the slightest.”

“You like me because I don’t fly off the handle around a man who is being an asshole?”

“It’s a good hedge against the future on my part, don’t you think?”

* * *

Linda could only blink. Every time she tried to corner Clive, to pigeonhole him somewhere in her mind, he didn’t fit. He also didn’t mind each time she caught him.

Tall blondes. It was easy to picture a tall blonde beside him. He was a tall, handsome man and would look exceptional with a beautiful woman on his arm. So why was he talking to her?

I like you.

What’s not to like? he had asked of Thor’s dinner—which had been sweet and thoughtful of him to make.

She turned the question around: what was there about Clive Andrews not to like?

The normal laundry list that washed men out of her life before they even got into it wasn’t applying.

They weren’t in the same unit.

Not even in the same branch of the service.

Her first two big issues no longer applied because she was a civilian now. They allowed fraternization within the Secret Service, provided it wasn’t within a linear chain of command. But even that didn’t apply to Clive.

There was a freedom to the thought that she hadn’t experienced in over a decade. Every relationship in the military had a dozen ramifications: rank, reassignment, and the imminent threat of death that was definitely a factor to consider in Special Operations Forces. Yet, for the foreseeable future, she and Clive would both be stationed in DC. If things didn’t work out, all she had to do was not come by his chocolate shop. The entire danger-scenario, risk-assessment part of her thoughts had been rendered meaningless by the simple act of leaving the military.

And without all of those obstacles in the way, she realized that she did like Clive as well. And she remembered a feeling, the memory of a smile that had continued to tickle her palm for the last few days.

“Clive?” This was a very low-risk environment. It was a freaking chocolate shop.

“Mm-hmm?” Now he was just messing with her, both of their plates were clear.

If she was going to do something, she should just do it.

She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. He tasted of lemon and shallot. And his return kiss was warm and thoughtful, taking his time about it. He laid one of those big warm hands over hers where it rested on the cool steel table.

Clive was clearly a man who knew how to kiss a woman. She hoped that she returned even a little of the same as her bones slowly melted. With only the slightest tug on her hand, not even enough to shift it, he somehow had her body moving toward his.

The heat warmed her from the inside out and she shifted, being careful not to break the kiss. She wanted…

She wanted.

That alone was a miracle. A part of her she was sure was dead…wanted! She—who had never needed anything other than her dog and a mission—wasn’t some kind of emotional zombie as she always thought. She actually groaned as Clive slid one of those wonderful hands onto her waist. If he tried to take her here and now, she wasn’t going to stop him.

There was a sharp growl that she didn’t think came from Clive.

Then a high “Eeep!” that she was fairly sure didn’t come from her.

A growl from a dog.

Too high for Thor.

An eeep from—

She broke the taste of heaven and turned to see a young girl standing in the Chocolate Shop’s doorway with her hand clamped over her mouth. At her feet, a Sheltie growled at Thor, who’d risen to his feet in surprise.

Linda snapped her fingers and signaled for Thor to sit and stay. He sat down, but strained forward to sniff at the new arrivals.

“Dilya,” Clive sighed. His sigh seemed to include an entire conversation, but Linda had no way to interpret it. Her head was still trying to process the flash of heat awoken by Clive’s kiss, and her higher-functioning, multitasking capabilities were not reporting for duty.

The girl wasn’t as young as she first appeared—mid-teens perhaps. Very pretty. Dark skin and even darker hair that cascaded in long ruffles down to her elbows.

“Wow. He’s well trained,” she squatted down to Thor’s level. “Okay to pet him?”

“Sure,” Linda was surprised the girl thought to ask. Most didn’t. “Thor, Freund.”

“Hi, Thor,” the girl didn’t even hesitate at the name, winning her several points. “Yes, I’m friendly. This is Zackie,” she tugged on the Sheltie’s leash, but Zackie was busy getting pets from Clive—apparently he wasn’t lavishing attention on Thor just for her sake, but genuinely liked dogs. She’d been wondering.

“Zackie?” Linda asked.

“Sure. Named for the President by the First Lady back when they were still Vice President and girlfriend.”

“President Zachary Thomas’ dog was named Zackie by his girlfriend?”

The girl’s amused giggle was answer enough. “Actually, Zackie is her dog. She only lets the President play with Zackie if he’s been nice to her.”

“And what does she call the President?”

“Why, Mr. President, of course.” But Linda didn’t quite trust the girl’s blithe answer. She looked fifteen at most, yet the nuanced way she said it seemed unlikely for a girl of that age. She herself certainly hadn’t understood the subtleties of grown-up relationships at that age—except that she wanted no part of anything like her parents’.

Then the girl looked up at her. She wore a hot pink sweater, black leggings, oversized boots, and a scarf knit in tiny rows of colorful splotches to match Clive’s—a noisy combination that screamed youth. But her green eyes, caught by the kitchen lights, belonged to no young girl that Linda could imagine. She’d only seen such old eyes in…Syrian refugee camps. On kids who had seen things not even an adult should have to witness.

“I’m Linda,” she held out a hand.

“Dilya,” the girl offered in return, though it was clear she already knew Linda’s name.

“You’re the President’s dog handler?”

“When they’re traveling somewhere Zackie can’t go. Or have too many meetings or stuff like that. They just got home from Tennessee, so I took her out to burn off some of her energy. She’s fine on Air Force One, but riding in Marine One, even just the short hop from Andrews, always winds her up. Yes, I know,” she turned to the dog and unabashedly used the high squeaky dog voice, “you just can’t help yourself, can you?”

The little dog yipped happily and wiggled with delight at the attention. Under all that fur she was probably about the same size as Thor, but she seemed as young as her caretaker didn’t.

“How did you get Thor to stay like that? He still hasn’t moved. Can you teach me?”

“Um, sure. But Thor has had years of training.”

“I’ve worked on Zackie ever since President and Genny Matthews left the White House and decided they no longer needed a nanny. I still get to babysit Adele whenever they’re in town, once or twice a month. The First Lady and the former First Lady both work for the UNESCO World Heritage Centre, you know. So they always have all of these meetings. And President Matthews goes over to the West Wing and hangs out with the President or Vice President whenever his wife is busy. Which means I end up babysitting Zackie and a two-year-old. Terrible twos, they’re really something, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Linda was still puzzling at Dilya. It sounded as if she knew everything.

Clive had returned to his seat from playing with the dog.

“You’ve never played with babies?” Dilya looked at her in surprise. “Oh, right, you just got out of the Army. Who were you with?”

“A group called the 75th Rangers.”

“Which battalion?”

“Third,” Linda wondered again just who this teen was.

“Oh, I don’t know any of those guys. I used to hang out with the 2nd Battalion Charlie Company when my mom was… Whoops! Sorry. We were never there. Never mind.”

Linda looked over at Clive, who had the temerity to just smile at her.

“Her mom is Sergeant Kee Stevenson, formerly with the 160th Night Stalkers, now part of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team.” Then he glanced at Dilya, who was still playing with the dogs, and silently mouthed, “War orphan.” Which explained a lot.

“Kee…” Linda’s voice trailed off. Everyone in Special Operations knew that name—she was one of the top snipers anywhere. Which meant that her father, another former Night Stalker, was the Secretary of Defense. Okay. Dilya’s knowledge and personality were making more sense in some ways, even if she was making less in others.

“You’re the one who found the explosives this morning?” Dilya asked the dog.

“He was,” Linda answered for him.

“Good doggie!” Dilya pet him some more.

Zackie had also apparently come to terms with the presence of another dog and closed the rest of the distance between them.

“Spiel,” Linda gave Thor permission to get up and play. With a single bound, the two dogs plowed Dilya over onto her back and proceeded to race loops around the small kitchen.

“Told you that Marine One wound her up,” Dilya clambered to her feet and smoothed her scarf.

“That’s just like Clive’s,” Linda couldn’t help but admire it.

“She liked the one Mom made so much,” Clive reached out and thoughtlessly flipped Dilya’s hair into place, “that I knit one for her.”

“You really can knit?”

* * *

“I cannot tell a lie,” he raised a Boy Scout salute. At least not as long as she didn’t ask him what he’d been thinking when he kissed her. During that he was thinking utterly ridiculous thoughts about a woman he barely knew. Things like there never being another woman for him. “Keep being nice to me, and I’ll knit you a sweater someday.”

“At this point I’d take a decent pair of gloves,” she wiggled her fingers at him.

That would be safer. Knitting a sweater actually had a lot of potential baggage with it. He’d heard from a ton of knitters that when the knitter made a sweater for their boyfriend, the relationship had always seemed to end at the same time the massive effort of making a sweater did. Yes, mittens would be safer. He’d have to figure out Linda’s hand size, maybe from the outline he could still feel from when she’d covered his mouth.

Linda Hamlin overwhelmed him in every possible way. Forthright in a city where everything was nuance and innuendo. Her emotions so clear that there was no questioning them. Okay, she couldn’t cook, but the way she looked while eating his food was enough to motivate him to cook forever. And he hadn’t forgotten how she looked while tasting his chocolate. And the taste of her… He was ruined for anyone else. It didn’t matter that he barely knew her because he already knew so much about her.

“It’s beautiful work,” Linda was fingering Dilya’s scarf once the dogs had settled down to clean themselves after the excitement—Clive couldn’t agree more. Whatever creator had carved Linda out of DNA and the ether of the unknown had forged a stunning masterpiece.

Dilya was watching him strangely.

“You came for chocolate, didn’t you, you scamp?”

“Caught,” Dilya admitted freely. But her look said a great deal more that he couldn’t interpret. He pulled a few pieces out of the small cabinet and set them on a plate on the marble counter. The chocolate bars had indeed gone away far more quickly now that he’d made them smaller, but Dilya had never shown much interest in them.

He was about to reach for a small to-go box, but Dilya sat down on a stool beside Linda. He wanted her to himself. He wanted to kiss her again and find out if the impossible was actually real. Clive was a worldly man who definitely knew better than to be swept off his feet. But “Linda with Thor” had done just that. In a few short days, his world had completely shifted.

Shifted?

It was like the first time he had tasted couverture chocolate. His world had suddenly made sense in an instant. Years of thinking that the world was comprised of just baking chocolate and eating chocolate. On his own, he’d improved until he could create flavors and textures that won amateur awards.

Then he’d tasted couverture. The exceptional quality and increased cocoa butter content provided astonishing results in sheen, snap, mellow flavor, and a creamy mouth feel. In that instant, recipes and techniques had reconfigured in his mind until he understood just what was possible. Chocolate had shifted from a world he understood to one that he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life exploring.

Linda Hamlin was exactly like that. Until now he knew women and how to please them. They were fun, like an infinite variety of chocolate chip cookies. But he now understood just how much a woman could be—the perfect, ever-unfolding truffle.

He looked at her to see how she’d been transformed by his realization—but she hadn’t.

Sergeant Linda Hamlin sat beside Dilya over peppermint truffles, talking about dog training techniques. They left the candies half finished when they clambered to their feet and stood side by side in front of their dogs. That certainly put him in his place.

“The finger snap does two things,” Linda was explaining. “One, it lets the dog know that whatever you do or say next is for them.”

“Same as calling their name first. Simple word association for dogs,” Dilya nodded hard enough to make her hair swirl about her head.

“Right. The second thing it does is actually far more important—it gets them looking at you so that they can see the next command.”

“Like in a Delta Force operation, when they wave a hand at the edge of someone’s vision prior to giving a silent hand signal. Got it!”

And Clive knew that meant that she did have it. He’d been on the receiving end of her brilliance enough times to know that the teen missed nothing. Though how she’d ever been witness to a Delta Force team doing anything…

Linda took it right in stride. “Exactly. The next trick is that nothing can be ambiguous. You come up with a standardized set of commands and always use precisely those words: come, come here, come along you—they’re always alerting on the word come so don’t use any other.”

“Or not. Zackie isn’t so hot on come. Or stay. Or…” Dilya groaned at the dog’s failures.

“Or not,” Linda agreed. “And why don’t they come when called, especially when you know that they know better? Because when we shift tone, they may think that it’s a different word. And each time you use it differently, it dilutes the primary. A single, consistent come will outperform all of the others combined. When you do use tone, keep that same balance to the word and simply increase the emotional trigger of intensity for emphasis.”

“Do I have to use German? I don’t think the President speaks it. Though that could be fun, actually.”

“Easy, girl,” Clive warned. “He is the President and it is his wife’s dog.”

Dilya smiled in that way that he could never interpret. He knew that most women had a smile like that—one that men were welcome to think was agreement, no matter what they were actually thinking. That’s when he remembered that the First Lady did speak German and might enjoy teasing her husband about his inability to command her dog. As usual, Dilya was three steps ahead of everyone around her. Except maybe Linda.

Clive sat on one of their abandoned stools and tasted one of the peppermint truffles. A good balance of sweet and bright mint. The mix of textures was good, the smooth crispness of the outer chocolate and the coarser but softer mint fudge center.

The contrast.

That’s what was so stunning about Linda, that contrast between who she presented to most of the world and the brief glimpses she let him see.

He fished out his notepad as they worked with the dogs.

Zackie was having trouble focusing, but Thor’s steadying influence and well-honed actions were already helping.

Contrast. Contrast and… What was it he’d thought of earlier? Interconnections.

Japan, Vietnam, and the Philippines on one side. China on the other. Tension, threatening to pull everything apart. Connection, pulling it back together. More than connection—interconnection. Where their differences made a new whole.

Linda and Thor—human and dog making an exceptional explosives detection team.

The West Pacific Rim nations unifying in some fashion that was new and different.

The Vietnamese Marou and Philippine Malagos chocolates together. Not blended. No. Use the white Marou and the seventy-two percent dark Malagos. Twist them around a Japanese Pocky-style biscuit to create a chocolate candy cane look, along with a unification of the three working together in a different way. Now that was getting interesting. He had no idea how to actually do it, but that was part of the fun.

He pulled out a larger pad from under the counter and began sketching out the likely techniques. He couldn’t simply scale up the Pocky stick—the texture would be wrong. The delicacy of the biscuit was part of the Japanese finesse. And how to twist the two chocolates together without melting them together?

Clive was several pages in when he noticed the quiet.

The Chocolate Shop was dead silent. No, not quite, Thor’s soft doggie snore sounded in the background.

Linda sat once more on her stool, her chin resting on her palm as she watched him. Dilya was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re an interesting man, Clive Andrews.”

“I’m hoping I’m more than that,” he looked at a clock to see how much time had passed, but since he didn’t know when they’d eaten or when he’d started drawing, there was no way to track how much time he’d lost. Chocolate did that to him.

“Come on,” she said to him as she stood up. Nudging Thor awake so that she could retrieve her jacket that he’d been using as a doggie bed, Linda shrugged it on.

“Where are we going?”

“You’re taking me home.”

Clive could only nod.