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I glanced down at the sheet again. “You forgot some things.”

Mikayla frowned. “I didn’t forget anything.”

“What about your coffee order?”

“Why would you need to know⁠—"

“Large Americano. Two shots. Splash of cream. No sugar.”

“How do you know that?”

I ignored the question.

“Favorite wine is Pinot Noir. Oregon, preferably, but you’ll drink California if you have to. You hate Chardonnay.”

“I don’t hate Chardonnay.”

“You called it buttery disappointment in a bottle.”

“I did?”

“You did,” I confirmed and continued. “You hate mushrooms. Not dislike. Hate. You’ll pick them off pizza, but if they’re in a sauce, you won’t touch it because you claim you can still taste where they’ve been.”

Her mouth fell open.

“And when you’re stressed, you take off your shoes and pace.”

She went completely still.

I nodded toward her feet.

Bare.

Her heels were sitting underneath the table.

Mikayla looked down, then back at me.

“That’s not a thing.”

“It’s a thing.”

“I’m wearing new shoes. They hurt.”

“Were you wearing new shoes on your last visit when your mother called.” She’d been on the back porch of the main house. I’d watched her slip them off and walk from side to side.

She stared at me.

“And the time before that when you were arguing with someone named Richard about quarterly projections.”

“How do you know who I was talking⁠—”

“You were on speaker.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you noticed my shoes.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

I noticed everything about her.