Page 22 of Frosted and Sliced

“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.

“I like to fuss,” she confessed, as if it were a big secret.

He studied her a few beats and gave a little nod. “Okay, cocoa it is. But only if you defrost some of those sugar cookies you keep in the freezer.”

“Would I serve my hobo cocoa without cookies?” she said.

“Only if the cocoa were laced with poison,” he said.

“If it is, I promise you’ll never know,” she said and led the way down to the kitchen.

CHAPTER 10

Maine winters were notoriously long, and Georgie usually felt bereft with only her erstwhile brother for a companion. Generally his company was bestowed only on Sunday brunch, like a visit from a circuit preacher, leaving her with a lot of isolated free time to fill. Between those visits, Georgie had filled her time with testing recipes. Not only was it her favorite hobby, but it became practical when she opened the inn. That first winter, she spent a solid month developing the very best hot chocolate on planet earth, or so she believed. And everyone who tasted it agreed, even Brody, who pretended to be above such things.

She had spent days balancing the chocolate ratio, (sixty percent bitter, forty percent milk), combining different milks (whole, half and half, and heavy cream), along with other various additions, finally settling on a touch of honey and a generous pinch of salt as her secret additions. It was perfectly thick and rich, the right amount of sweet, and oh, so cozy. That was why it pleased her to see the staid and steady Burke wrap his hands around his mug, as if he were suddenly transformed into a Hallmark heroine.

“What?” he asked, noting her amused smile as she watched him.

“Nothing,” she said, knowing he would not share the joke, even if she let him in on it.

They sipped and munched cookies in companionable silence, until his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, frowned at the message, and shoved it away without answering.

“Your girlfriend?” Georgie probed, not certain she wanted the answer. Was Burke dating someone? She didn’t like the thought of that, and she didn’t know why, except that she felt oddly possessive about him. He was her hobo, no one else’s.

His brows rose. “You think I have a girlfriend?”

Her brows rose. “Do you?”

He shook his head. “It was my mom.” He took another sip of cocoa.

Her brows rose higher. “You have a mom?”

“Did I give you the impression I was hatched or cloned?” he asked, but he seemed almost cheered by the prospect.

“No, I guess I never gave you a backstory. You’re The Burke, and you live in my attic, the end.”

“That’s about the gist of it. But I do, in fact, have a mother.”

“Are you close?”

He let out a little breath and set aside his—empty—cocoa mug. “It’s complicated.”

“With your mom?” she asked.

“Isn’t family always complicated?” he returned.

“Are you close to your dad?”

He shook his head. “My dad took off when I was five.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He gave a helpless shrug. “He was a longshoreman. It was probably never a safe bet, and he had already been gone for long stretches before that. My memories of him are more of a vague impression.”

She didn’t respond, in case he wanted to say more. To her surprise, he did.

“My mom kind of fell apart after that, became really anxious and fearful of everything. She thought it would be better to homeschool me, to keep me away from danger.”

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