“Return it later,” I say, gesturing him in. “I smell cheese.”

“Thought you might be wanting some real food,” he says, coming into the kitchen and letting my front door shut behind him. “Brought some lasagna for later.”

I’m already diving for the paper bag.

“Or for now,” he amends, watching as I rip it open.

I pull out the foil container and tear off the lid, but I pause when I see him locate both my napkins and silverware in the right drawer on the first try.

“You know your way around my kitchen,” I say.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he says, handing me a fork and a napkin. “You wasted no time locating everything from my wineglasses to my laundry detergent.”

“Yeah, well, laundry detergent was a real stumper, what with it being on top of the washing machine and all.”

“You’re feeling better, I see,” he says as I dig a fork into the crusty cheese topping of the lasagna. “I may need to reheat that.”

“Nah, is good,” I say around a bite. “Want some?” I push the container toward him, knowing there’s zero chance that Andrew Mulroney will lower himself enough to eat directly out of a disposable foil container of takeout.

But he shocks the hell out of me by digging a fork into the other side and taking a bite.

He sets the fork down as he chews, then goes over to my cute gold bar cart that has a small wine rack built in. He pulls out a bottle and examines the label. “You mind?”

“Take your pick,” I say, still shoveling in the lasagna, pausing only long enough to rip open a bag of garlic bread and take a too-big bite of that as well. “Wine opener’s in the second drawer, glasses to the left of the fridge,” I say.

“You want a glass, or are you sticking to nonalcoholic fluids?” he says.

“The latter,” I say, taking a gulp of water. “You have extra wine, and I’ll live vicariously.”

“Your color’s better,” he says, taking a sip of the wine, then returning to the counter and picking up his fork.

“Yes, I’m sure I look beautiful,” I say, patting my wet bun and gesturing at the oversized T-shirt that an old boyfriend left behind. I barely remember the guy, but the shirt’s the comfiest thing I own.

I take another bite of lasagna and, as I wipe at a string of cheese on my chin, it occurs to me how dang comfortable I am sitting across from Andrew Mulroney, looking my absolute worst while shoving cheese and carbs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

“How was work?” I ask, changing my mind about the wine and reaching for his glass. I can’t quite reach it, and he nudges it nearer.

“Fine. Mostly a lot of catch-up, but Shelley and my partners did a good job of keeping things running while I was out.”

“That’s good.” I take another bite of garlic bread, but my chewing slows when I see him studying me.

“What?” I wipe my mouth with my hand.

“I’m sorry I left today,” he says quietly.

His apology catches me off guard, and I try to brush it away with a carefree smile. “No need to apologize. I wasn’t expecting you to stay.” Andrew blinks, his expression so unexpectedly hurt that I reach out a hand. “Wait, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He reaches again for his fork. “Sure.”

“I just meant I took care of you for one day, you took care of me yesterday. We’re even.”

“Is that what we’re doing here? Just tit for tat?”

“No, I’m just saying . . . I get it. You had to work today. And let’s not forget you spooned me when I wanted to die. I’d say you went above and beyond the call of duty for a frenemy. Actually, yeah. Let’s forget that.”

He takes a sip of wine watching me. “Frenemy.”

“Fitting, right?” I say, offering him a piece of cheesy garlic bread, because it’s the least sexy food on the planet and I’m hoping it’ll defuse some of this tension.

He doesn’t accept it, and I scramble for something to keep the easy mood between us. For some reason, the thought of us retreating to that place of being acrimonious strangers fills me with dread.

I like us being friendly, I like him talking to me, I like . . . him.

Crap.

“So, I talked to Hailey this afternoon,” I blurt out.

Andrew blinks. “So?”

The lasagna churns a little in my stomach when I realize that he doesn’t ask me to clarify who Hailey is.

I drop the garlic bread and fix a smile on my face. “She was calling to see if that whole kiss disaster was for real.”

He slowly sets his wineglass back down. “And what did you tell her?”

“The truth.” I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “That it was nothing. Just a misplaced attempt to best each other.”

Andrew crosses his arms. “Why would she care?”

I roll my eyes. “For someone who was a boy genius, you can kind of be a dolt sometimes. She likes you.”

Andrew leans forward, elbows on the counter, studying me. “And how do you feel about that?”

I swallow. It’s the most direct he’s ever been, the first opening he’s ever given me to take the first step. To say that maybe we could be more than frenemies.

I open my mouth to tell him that I feel wretched about the thought of him with Hailey. That the thought of them holding hands and kissing and him taking care of her when she’s sick makes me want to barf up all the delicious lasagna.

But then I picture how he’d react if I said that. I picture that unsmiling, sometimes unfriendly face not responding even the tiniest bit to my announcement . . . so I take the safe route.

“I think she’d be the perfect girl for you,” I say quietly.

The worst thing is, some part of me means it, even as the other part wants to tell him that he needs someone messy and ridiculous to help him not take everything so seriously.

“You do?” he says.

I smile and nod. “Yup. She’s going to ask you to go to a fundraiser next week, and for the love of God, don’t be a stiff about it.”

Andrew stands up straight, starts to pick up his wineglass, then instead shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s always hard to read, but he’s an especially blank slate right now.

“Or you could ask her out sooner,” I say, my voice sounding manic and crazy. “I bet she’s free tomorrow.”