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“No, I guess it isn’t,” I said. “But my impression is that people are friendly around here. This is a particularly eclectic town.”

“Yeah, it is,” Marco said, turning off the tap and drying his hands. “That’s why I chose to open a business here.” He shifted farther down the counter and took down a dog bowl from one of the cabinets, carried that to a smaller counter at the side of the room, and started to put together Polo’s supper.

Polo jumped up from his bed where he’d been watching the two of us like he was a spy taking notes for the ghosts.

“How is business, by the way?” I asked as I started in to chopping tomatoes for the salad. “I know it’s just been two weeks, but do you have a sense that this was a good investment yet?”

“Oh, you know,” Marco gave another weird answer as he scooped kibble from a bag into a bowl.

I frowned, more curious about what had shifted Marco’s mood than ever. He’d been fine when we were dealing with the ghosts, still fine when he started cooking supper, and downright happy about the idea of cooking classes. Was it me? It had to be me, I already knew I weirded people out.

“I’m sure things will be popping in Provisions as soon as people start entertaining for the holidays and buying Christmas presents. And you’re going to be providing some refreshments for the Halloween party, right?”

“Yep,” Marco said, smiling in the way I’d noticed he had when he was trying to bolster his spirits.

“You should be able to meet pretty much everyone in the neighborhood who you haven’t met at the Halloween party,” I went on as he set Polo’s food out, washed his hands again, then returned to check on the chicken fingers.

“Does everyone in the community usually show up?” he asked, glancing to me with way more worry than the question should have had attached to it.

I shrugged. “Yeah. It’s a really popular event. It’s been one of the highlights of the season in the past, but with all the work Common Grounds has been doing to reach out to other members of the community this summer, I bet even more people will be there.”

“Oh.” Marco sounded…disappointed? That didn’t make sense.

“Is something bothering you?” I asked outright, since I didn’t know how to ask subtle questions that would prompt him to talk about his change in mood anymore.

Marco let out a breath as he flipped the chicken fingers over with tongs. “No, not really. I shouldn’t let it bother me.”

My eyebrows flew up. “Let what bother you?”

Marco swallowed, pushed the chicken around in the pan a bit, then let go of all the tension he’d been holding onto. “I shouldn’t let it bother me,” he repeated with more force, like he was scolding himself.

“If something’s bothering you, I hope you feel like you can tell me,” I said.

Marco suddenly smiled, his cheeks going even pinker. “I love that voice.”

“Which voice?” I asked, even though I sort of knew.

“When you get all smooth and sexy like that,” he answered.

I beamed, my face blushing to match his. “My voice isn’t really that sexy, is it?”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed, easing more and more into the relaxed, happy Marco I knew. “You could charm the pants off the grumpiest humbug with that voice.”

“Fortunately, I have no intention of seducing humbugs at the moment,” I said, my own heart going lighter and lighter as Marco smiled more. “They’re not my type. I prefer the sunshiny, eternal optimist types myself.”

“Emphasis on eternal,” Marco said, raising one eyebrow.

I barked a laugh that made Polo look up from his dinner. “Don’t let the house ghosts hear you say that. They’ll think I’m interested in them instead of—” You, I filled in mentally. Go ahead and say it. Tell Marco you’re interested in him. Seriously interested in him.

Judging by the way he lowered his eyes and grinned at the chicken fingers as he checked them and turned them again, he knew where I’d been going.

“You’re one of the coolest people I’ve ever met,” he told the chicken fingers quietly and with heart. “I just wish other people could⁠—”

I waited, but he didn’t finish. This thing we’d fallen into of stilted conversation and not saying what we were really thinking wasn’t as cute as it was when we’d started.

Then it hit me. Just like he’d figured out what was supposed to fill the silence I’d left, I caught on to what he wasn’t saying.

“Has somebody said something mean to you?” I asked, gripping the knife I’d moved on to cutting beetroot with tighter. It sort of looked bloody, and the beet juice that spread across the cutting board reflected my feelings about anyone who would say anything against Marco.