His big toe wiggled in answer as it drifted over her foot. “And peel oranges.”

“And peel oranges,” she agreed with a smile.

“Well, together we might get somewhere, because if you can brew us up some tea and make toast, I’ll fry us up some eggs.” He glanced down at the purring ball of fur nosing his way into their toe conversation. “Eggs for three, I suppose. Or maybe we should feed him the deviled ham and see if it’ll turn him into Number Five.”

“Big talk. At the rate you two are going, you’ll be kicking me out of the covers and cuddling up with him instead.”

“Not on your life.” He grazed a barely-there finger down her hip as she passed, sending a tiny shiver racing below the silk of her robe. “I like your claws better.”

While she set a kettle on to boil and pulled down the smallest metal canister from a set of FLOUR-SUGAR-COFFEE-TEA—the one marked “coffee” was only filled with loose coins and nails—Lowe found a cast-iron skillet and struck a match to light the stove.

“I meant to say this earlier, but your burn looks much better,” she said, nodding toward his arm.

“Lucky for me, I had a skilled nurse to bandage it up properly.”

She chuckled and set two empty teacups on saucers. “It’s rather strange to spend my Friday night making breakfast with a naked man in my kitchen,” she said, spooning tea leaves into two cups as she stole a glance at his body. “Strange, but good.”

“If I wasn’t here, what would you be doing?”

“Sleeping. Or, if you take into account the events of the last week, I’d be trying to sleep at my father’s house and failing. If I had to spend one more night in that depressing old place, I might’ve gone crazy.”

“He probably doesn’t want you doting over him anyway.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” She set the tea canister back in its place on the shelf and fitted bread into both sides of an electric toaster. Then she bent to pick up Number Four, who lazily draped his front legs over her shoulder. “Have you had a chance to look at the pictograms?”

“I think I’ve narrowed the third canopic jar down to a handful of names.” He cut off a nub of butter into the pan. “You ready to get back to our task?”

“We can start tomorrow, if you’d like. My weekend is free.” What she really meant to say was that she wanted him to stay here with her. That all of this was so wonderfully new, and now that she’d broken her touching phobia, she felt like a child who’d tasted sugar for the first time—buzzing with joy and delight and a glorious sort of satiated warmth.

And it wasn’t enough.

She wanted more. Both more of what she’d already had and the promise of new experiences. She wanted to know what it felt like to wake up in his arms. To bathe with him. To walk to the market and buy bags of food to fill up her empty icebox and cupboards.

Silly things.

Lowe cracked eggs into the hot butter and rattled off the names he’d matched to the pictograms. They debated the meanings behind one of the symbols. And when their humble late-night dinner came together, she pried Number Four from her shoulder, happy to have a plan for tomorrow.

They set steaming cups and plates down on a small round table sitting beneath a window that framed a view of the sleeping city. Lowe glanced at the pair of polished café chairs sitting beneath the table and tested their mobility, shifting one chair closer to the other. “Well, what do you know. Looks like you’ve got a few things around here that aren’t nailed down.”

“Don’t laugh,” she said. “You’d be surprised what the Mori can do with two chairs and a glass window.”

“I’m more concerned about the frying pan and the knives in the drawer.”

“You’d be wise to confine any arguments with me to the bedroom.”

“More than happy to test that later,” he teased, directing her into a chair.

As they dined on their impromptu meal, she fed scraps to Number Four under the table while asking Lowe about his family. He told her how his parents emigrated from Sweden and founded a small fishing company that grew into something successful. How his father decided to risk everything when he traded half his fishing fleet for rumrunners after Volstead. But when she asked him about his childhood, and then about Adam Goldberg and his daughter, something in his posture changed.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she said, sopping up orange egg yolk with a corner of toast.

He didn’t reply for several seconds. “I think I need to tell you something. Well, I don’t need to, but I want to.”

When he didn’t continue, she prompted, “Something about Adam?”

“More about Stella, actually.” He tapped the tines of his fork against the plate. “There’s a small chance she might be mine.”

Shock halted her next breath as his words sunk in. “Your . . . child?”

He sighed heavily. “Adam and I were in the same class in elementary school. Miriam was a grade younger. We were all friends, but as we hit our teens, things changed. My father was making more money, so we moved into a nicer house, different neighborhood. I made new friends. And Miriam and Adam began dating. After graduation, I went to college. They stayed and got married.”

He pushed his plate away. “Within a year or so, everything was different. Bootlegging made my family wealthy almost overnight. Adam resented that, I think. He threw himself into his work and he and Miriam went through a bad patch. The two of us exchanged letters while I was studying at Berkeley, and during a holiday weekend at home . . .”