By the end of the weekend, she had one hell of an emotional hangover.

Staring at the task board at the bakery Monday morning had her thoroughly convinced that it was going to be as much of a Monday as she’d ever experienced. It completely turned out to be. And Cyn didn’t help. To the point Emma had to banished her to the front of the store.

Emma glared at the pie on the floor of the passenger side of her car. The custom order irked her.

She never took anyone’s recipes. Never.

And baking that pie rankled every nerve in her body.

Mostly because she still had to deliver it.

The pie itself turned out great—on the second try.

She had ten minutes before the thing was supposed to be delivered, and she debated.

Did she want to see Mason or not?

The meringue started to wilt after being out of the fridge so long. She needed to deliver the dang pie before it melted and then get out. If she saw Mason, great. If not, then, oh well.

Emma stepped out of the car and picked up the pie, balancing it in one hand as she leaned back inside to grab her keys. The queue of golf carts used to bring the residents to and from the club house was about half its usual size.

“Hey, Sam,” she called to a young, black man driving one of the carts. “Can I get a ride?”

“Miss Elliot.” He beamed a smile at her and gestured to the cart. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Things have been a little crazy with the family. But I’ll be here Friday afternoon.” She smiled at the man, a little twinge of guilt shooting across her chest. If the help had noticed she hadn’t been around, surely the residents had. Though, Sam did have a certain sweet tooth for her desserts.

“We will be glad to see you back. Where to?”

Emma pulled the sticky note off the top of the pie cover. “Susan and Robert Covey?”

“Coming right up.”

He wove them along the line of independent condos, chattering about nothing. He was completely oblivious to Emma’s noncommittal nods and hmms. She liked Sam, but a pit of anxiety rose in her throat, and it was all she could do to not just leave the pie and let him deliver it.

That wasn’t how she did things though. She had been coming to Troutdale Springs for years, making special desserts for resident birthdays and tea parties and bingo nights. Emma was nearly as well known as the staff and she always hand delivered her products.

Sam slowed the cart and pointed at the closest condo. “Here we are. 39A. You’ll love them. And I’m sure they’ve heard all about you already.”

Emma willed the heat away from her cheeks, cursing herself. Of course, they would have heard of her. From the residents. “Thanks Sam.”

“Just have them send a page when you need a pickup.”

Emma turned back. “You aren’t waiting? It’s just a drop off.”

“Susan will have you sat down for coffee and a slice of that pie before you can introduce yourself. Trust me. Enjoy yourself, Emma.” He drove away before she could respond. Great.

Emma drew in a steadying breath and took in the front of the condo. The place had been overwhelmingly decorated in seafaring accoutrements, not unlike the way people decorated for Christmas, except it was May. How long had they been here? Emma couldn’t help but be a little impressed.

She knocked on the door and prepared her delivery face. Wide smile, sparkling eyes, cheery lilt to the voice.

When the door opened, it was immediately apparent that Emma was not the expected guest. The surprise lasted only a moment before the petite, dark haired woman grinned. “How can I help you?”

“Special delivery from Sweet Buns Bakery. I hear it’s somebody’s birthday.”

The woman shrieked and pressed her fingers into her bright red lips. “Robert! Mason got me a pie!”

“That’s nice, dear,” a muffled voice called down the hall.

“Come in, come in.”

Emma held out the pie for Susan to take, but the woman reached right past it and grabbed onto Emma’s free hand, pulling her inside. She tried to protest, but Susan would have nothing of it, and before she knew it, Emma had a cup of coffee in her hand. Sam had been completely serious.

“Do you like cream in your coffee? I’m Susan, by the way. And this is Rob. What’s your name?”

“Emma Elliot. It’s nice to meet you both. Black coffee is fine.” Emma stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. “Where would you like the pie?”

“Oh, right. The pie. Addled brains. Here we go.” Susan took the pie from Emma and set it on the counter next to a plate of neatly arranged Oreos.

Emma’s breath caught. Oreos. With green filling. The Oreo situation made sense.

“My son, Mason, will be here any minute. You must stay for a slice of pie. What kind is it? No, never mind. Don’t tell me.” Susan shuffled around the kitchen, opening cabinets, looking for something.

“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” Emma said, setting her cup of coffee on the counter. “I need to get back to the bakery.”

“Nonsense. Have a sit.”

Emma tried to hide her frown as she grudgingly slid into one of the stools at the counter. She didn’t know if it was Troutdale Springs residents specifically, or just older people in general, but they were so impossibly stubborn. Most of the time, it didn’t bother her, but she really didn’t want to be there when Mason showed up. Which wasn’t fair to Susan, on her birthday.

After five minutes of small talk, which gave Emma a lot more insight to Mason than she bargained for, someone knocked on the door.

Mason had been expecting his mom to be waiting at the door for him. Especially since he was late. So, when he put his hand on the doorknob and it didn’t swing open on its own accord, he hesitated. He could hear voices. And someone laughing. Probably one of the other residents, or in the worst case, Florence. Mason considered turning around at the thought. He really didn’t care for that woman.

But it was his mom’s birthday. He knocked on the door before opening it. From the hall he could see his dad facing the kitchen and leaning with his back against the couch. No one had noticed his arrival, and Mason drew in a breath, ready to call out.

Lavender and spun sugar hit him, and he froze.

Emma was still there.

He had taken a step to turn around when his dad called out to him. Mason turned back, a forced smile plastered to his face.

Before he could berate himself too thoroughly, his mom shot out of the kitchen and trotted towards him.

“Mason, come in. Hurry up. There’s pie. Well you know that. Come on.” She reached out for his hand and dragged him down the hallway. “I was just going to take a picture with Emma. Oh, Mason this is Emma. Well, you know that, I suppose. You ordered the pie. But isn’t she just a dear?”

They rounded the corner to the kitchen, and as his mom let go of his hand Mason stopped, taking in the vision sitting at the counter.

Emma wasn’t looking at him, her cup of coffee held to her nose. Her blonde hair was pulled back again, and he thought he could see the trace of flour on one side of her nose. She smiled as his mom said something he didn’t catch. Her eyes flicked up to him once, and then straight back to her cup of coffee.

Mason’s chest contracted. This couldn’t be happening. Then, he noticed the skipper’s hat sitting next to the plate of Oreos and the bright red, oversized cell phone sitting on the counter. This really couldn’t be happening.

“Mason, you’re being rude.”

He blinked and stepped up to the counter. He held out a hand to Emma. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for delivering the dessert.”

Emma’s gaze narrowed. She raised one eyebrow in question, setting her cup of coffee on the counter to accept his hand. “My pleasure. It would seem I’ve been roped into having a slice.”

Mason nodded. Keep it professional. There was nothing between them. “My mother tends to do that to people.”

“Oh hush. Here, Mason.” Susan gave him the phone. “Take a picture of me and Emma.”

“Mom, please. She’s a guest.”

“It’s fine, Mason.” Emma picked up the skipper’s hat and put it on her head, eyes locking into his with determination, almost in defiance. He’d insulted her by shaking her hand. Great. What else was he supposed to do?

Rolling his eyes, Mason swiped open the phone and pulled up the camera.

Susan counted down, “Three, two, one, barnacles!”

Mason clenched his teeth in embarrassment. Since when had she started inflicting her crazy on the guests?

But, Emma laughed and asked to see the picture.

He gave the phone back to his mom and busied himself with finding a cup for coffee.

“Grab some plates, will you?” Susan tapped him on the shoulder.

Mason sloshed coffee onto the counter. He around to find Emma’s eyes on him again. His cheeks warmed, and his porcupine stirred at the excess of anxious energy in his system. Cool it, you little beast. The porcupine settled right beneath his skin. Perfect.

“Does the chef want to do the honors?” Mason asked, sliding the stack of plates towards Emma. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt. “We can’t let the birthday girl cut her own pie.”

Emma smiled. “Of course.”

Robert stepped up to the counter, looking pointedly between Mason and Emma.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Mason shot a pleading glance at his dad.

Robert shrugged and leaned over the counter, sticking a finger into a piece of meringue hanging over the edge of the pie.

Susan slapped his hand away.

“I hope you don’t mind, dear,” Robert said, frowning at her good naturedly, “but I raided your recipe box.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, eyeing the pie suspiciously.

“I hear this is a classic family recipe,” Emma said, picking up a knife and slicing into the pie. She levered a thick piece out of the pan with practiced skill.

“Oh, Robert,” she exclaimed, her blue eyes tearing. “Great Grandma Ella’s chocolate pie. You didn’t.”

Mason slid the freshly dished plate to his mom with a smile. “We did.”

“It’s been years.” Susan slid her fork into the pie and took a bite. “And Emma, you made it perfectly. It is divine. Thank you all.” She put an arm behind Mason’s neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“I am glad it meets your standards, Mrs. Covey. It was my pleasure.” Emma dished out three more pieces, and the room settled into silence as they ate.

Mason could feel Emma watching him, though every time he looked up, she was concentrating on the pie in front of her. Once, they looked up at the same time, and cheeks reddening again, they both shot glances back down at their pie.

“So, Emma,” Robert said, putting down his fork and sliding the plate away, “Mason mentioned that you volunteer at the school.”

Mason tensed. When the hell had he told them that?

Susan arranged her face into a pout. “Really? I didn’t know that. Mason, why are you telling your father about the pretty girls in town and not your mother?”

“It was nothing, Mom,” Mason muttered.

Emma smiled. “I teach home-ec every other Friday. It’s a small school, so several of us in the community take turns teaching extracurriculars. It’s nice to have Mason on board to teach the real classes.” She tapped her fork on the edge of her plate. “Makes the rest of us look bad, though.” She shot him a teasing glance.

“I’m not really used to the size of classes I’m teaching, or the spectrum I’m expected to teach. If anything, the rest of you make me look bad.” Mason reached for his mom’s plate. “Let me take care of the dishes for you, Mom. It’s your birthday after all.”

Emma jumped up from her stool. “I’ll dry.”

“Not necessary.” Mason gave her a tight smile. He really didn’t want to be in the kitchen alone with her. “Enjoy your visit.”

“I think I passed guest status when I cut the pie.”

“Or neither of you can do the dishes and I’ll make Robert do them later,” Susan chimed in.

But Emma and Mason were looking at one another, not listening.

He could see her bear in her eyes, fire accenting the deep brown. Challenging. Yet, there was more to it than that. Was she flirting with him?

Mason squared his shoulders. Fine. He could play the game too. He gestured towards the sink. “After you.”

“Thank you.” Emma nodded sharply, her eyes glued to his as she walked around the counter. The two of them had locked into a weird kind of waltz. All eyes and no physical contact, bodies attuned to one another as they rotated around the small kitchen space to the sink. They stood next to each other at the sink, no less than six inches between them at all times, hands on opposites sides of each plate and fork as Mason handed them over. A dance.

What had she said the other night? Things were complicated? She needed to explain? He hadn’t given her the chance. Maybe he’d overreacted to seeing her completely naked, snuggled up to an also completely naked man in the woods. Mason almost laughed out loud.

“So, Mason,” Robert said from his spot at the counter.

Mason looked over his shoulder, giving the last clean plate to Emma.

“When are you going to ask Emma on a date?”

Mason’s fingers lost purchase on the plate. It dropped onto the edge of the counter and tumbled towards the floor.

They both reached for it.

At the same time, the porcupine shot forward, springing through the gap in Mason’s cage. Quills slid through his skin, along his arms and shoulders. They poked through his shirt and the sound of fabric tearing echoed in the kitchen.

Followed by a growl that turned Mason’s insides cold.

The plate crashed onto the tile floor and shattered.

Mason had to drag his eyes from the broken plate to meet Emma’s gaze. He had expected to see a bear standing in his parents’ kitchen. He only found a pair of angry, pained eyes wrapped in the internal rage of a grizzly bear.

“Fuck, Mason!” Emma snapped, cradling her left arm and hand. No less than six quills had embedded themselves in her skin.

Mason panicked, shoving his porcupine back, but the damage had been done. His shirt hung off him in tatters. He could see droplets of blood running along the quills sticking from Emma’s arm.

The room exploded in a flurry of movement.

Robert rushed to Emma’s side and led her out of the kitchen. While Mason knew his dad was being helpful, Emma looked like she was going to snap at being ushered around like a patient.

Susan dove into a closet for a broom and dust pan.

Mason just stood there.

Until his dad walked up behind him and smacked him in the back of the head. “Didn’t we teach you anything?”

Mason shook his head, trying to wade his brain through what had just happened. Did he seriously just quill a grizzly bear? His mouth finally caught up to his thoughts. “Crap. Emma, I am so, so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Robert asked quietly.

Mason reached for her shoulder.

She brushed him off, setting her grizzly stare on him. She didn’t look like she was in pain, or at least she wasn’t showing it. Until she spoke. “It’s not a big deal.” She said it through clenched teeth.

Mason cringed.

“Just get the damn things out of me.”

“We don’t have the tools to deal with this, I’m afraid.” Robert also set his gaze on Mason. “We haven’t had to de-quill someone since he was twelve.”

The heat rose up Mason’s face. Why was his father being so fucking helpful today?

The porcupine danced around his thoughts. Don’t even get me started on you.

Mason raked his hands through is hair and looked around the kitchen.

His mother was on her hands and knees, picking up the biggest pieces of the shattered plate.

“Dammit, Mom. Let me do that. You’re going to cut yourself.” He shooed her out of the way, and made quick work of the cleanup. “Emma, I have everything back at my place to take care of you. I’ll fix it.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to get through the entire facility with porcupine quills in my arm, Mason?” Her bear made her voice gruffer than normal, even with her teeth clenched.

Shit. He hadn’t considered that. “We can…” He looked around the house, as if something inside would give him a clue. “We can walk back to my place. Through the woods. It isn’t too far, maybe an hour’s walk?”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Emma eased her phone out of her pocket with her good hand and dialed a number. She cocked her head to the side, annoyance radiating off her in waves. “Hey, Sam. Could I get a pickup? Discrete-like.”

Robert frowned at Mason.

He shrugged. Who knew what went on here or what the norm was?

Emma closed her eyes as she listened to the voice on the other line. “Yes, I know I could have paged, but I needed you. We have a… situation.”

Mason dropped his elbows onto the counter and buried his head in his hands. This was so embarrassing.

“Thanks, Sam.” Emma hung up the phone. “We have a ride back to the cars, and then you can take me back to your place. When the quills are out of my arm, I’m going to throttle you

“Seriously, I’m so sorry.” Mason didn’t look up as he said it, shame ripe in the pit of his stomach. Then something clicked. “Wait. Who’s Sam?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “One of the shuttle drivers. He, unlike some people, can keep a lid on his spirit animal in public.”