As Robin's truck pulls into the drive, Regina stares up at the house—large and imposing as it sits behind a tall wrought iron fence atop a small hill—and a sense of dread fills her. She'd never liked the house, it'd never been home to her. She'd merely lived there, almost as a captive. She didn't have very many happy memories of it, and the ones she did have were tainted—they'd been mere moments, never lasting, always fleeting.

"Home sweet home," Robin murmurs, his voice sardonic as his gaze follows hers. "Officially, now, I suppose."

Regina looks at him. That hadn't actually occurred to her, and with a heavy sigh, she looks back to the house. Though she was certain that Leopold hadn't intended to leave the house to her, he had. And though she knew she wasn't the wife referenced in the will, the fact that he'd left her a place she hated seemed like one final joke at her expense.

"Yeah. I suppose."

"At least you know your step-daughter won't toss you out."

"Considering he used the money my father gave him to pay it off, it seems only fair that I get to stay." Robin offers a low hmm and nothing more, drawing her gaze away from the house and back to him. "What?"

"I just… I don't get why your parents made you marry him."

Regina nods, her eyes shifting down to focus on her hands in her lap. "My father didn't want me to marry him."

"Didn't he have final say? You're always talking about how men—"

"My family may be the exception to that," Regina interjects. "My mother… loved power and my father was very passive. He never wanted to rock the boat, especially when it was about something my mother really wanted… and she really wanted me to marry Leopold. I guess she… she somehow got it into her head that me marrying him would give her the power she craved."

"How though?"

"Hell if I know," Regina says with a shrug of her shoulders. "I'm sure she explained it… or something… but…" She sighs and looks back at him. "It was about status, I think. My family had the money, but not necessarily the respect."

"And Leopold Blanchard had the respect?"

She can't help but laugh. "Yeah, I guess so. He was… charismatic and—"

"Fake."

"Yeah, well, not many people saw through that." Her smile fades as she looks back to the house, remembering how she'd cried the morning of her wedding, begging not to have to go through with it. "My mother died shortly after my father," she tells him. "A heart attack that took everyone by surprise."

"Oh—"

"And your father?"

"Car accident."

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not sure how much of my mother's plan actually met fruition or what Leopold changed or…" She sighs. "I was generally left in the dark."

"That's… so frustrating."

She nods, still staring at the house and still dreading going inside. "I… really thought he was going to leave this place to Mary Margaret," she murmurs, finally looking back to Robin. "Hey, um… can you stay?"

"The night?"

Again, she nods. "I… I know that tomorrow is Thanksgiving and—"

"I can."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, John's home and Tink's probably with him—"

She feels a pang of guilt. "Oh, well, they probably want—"

"To not have me."

"What about Roland?"

"He's passed out in my bed by this point," Robin tells her, grinning softly. "I'd be sleeping on the couch, raining on everyone's parade."

Her lips press together and her eyes narrow. "I feel like you're just saying that because—"

"No, no. I'm being sincere. There's a reason Roland and I are moving out." He grins at her, a playful glint in his eyes. "It's hard to canoodle on the couch with your girlfriend when your best friend is passed out snoring across from you."

A little smile tugs up at the corner of her mouth. "Canoodle?"

"Yeah," he offers a gruff little laugh. "John hates the word, so I use it as much as possible."

"Doesn't he have a room to… canoodle in?"

"He does, but it's a tight squeeze… without access to the kitchen or the radio or the fireplace or…" His voice trails off as she laughs. "I have to leave early though."

"Understood."

"Okay then," he says, turning off the engine and hopping out of the car, trampling through the light dusting of snow as he runs around the front of the truck to open the passenger side door for her. "It's icy, m'lady."

She rolls her eyes but grins as he helps her down from the truck—and just a few moments later, they're standing in the foyer of the house. Holding her breath, she flicks on the light then locks the door. Her eyes scan the space, taking in the slightly discolored wallpaper where art used to hang, a porcelain stand where a Ming vase once sat, the now-empty top of an eighteenth century entryway table that was once adorned with Waterford crystal candlestick holders and a Tiffany lamp.

She feels her chest tightens. It's not because of the missing items or how sad the space looks compared to what it once was—her chest tightens because it doesn't affect her. None of it matters to her.

"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's go to bed."

Robin's fingers entwine around hers and she leads him up their stairs to her bedroom. She flicks on the light, and though it's unnecessary, she closes the door.

"I'm… glad I don't have to sleep alone tonight," she says, her voice nearly cracking as she feels a rush of emotion. "You have this way of… of distracting me from… well, from myself." Her cheeks flush. "That's… kind of embarrassing to admit, but…"

Robin grins warmly and holds out his hand to her as her voice trails off. "It's not, or it shouldn't be," he murmurs as she crosses the room to take hold of his hand.

He tugs her to him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight—and suddenly the only thing she can think about is how nice it would be to spend every night this way, wrapped up safely in his arms.

Regina smiles softly at the note that Robin left on her wardrobe.

Should your Thanksgiving plans fall through or you need a break from small-talk with the Pendragons, swing by 7659 Sherwood Ave. Roland and I will be there. If not, we should rendezvous for breakfast at that little diner where we used to grab coffee (and pretend we hadn't arranged it). Love, Robin

Robin stayed until just after sunrise.

They had coffee and a light breakfast—that tasted far better than it had any right to taste, considering it was simply stale bread dipped in egg, then fried—and she filled him in on her Thanksgiving Day plans.

The Pendragons invited her. There'd be turkey and wine—thanks to John—and a whole host of extended family. She knew that Mal wanted her to go and in the few days they'd been back in Storybrooke, Henry had taken to the Pendragon children. And Arthur and Guinevere had never been anything but kind and welcoming to her. Yet, she was dreading it.

It was the sort of party she'd generally avoid. It was the sort of party that Leopold would've hosted, but this time, she wouldn't be able to fade into the background. And though she hadn't cared about the perception of being rude whenever Leo was hosting, she didn't want to appear rude at the Pendragons—but at the same time, she didn't want to spend an evening answering questions about Leo or where she'd been or a million other things that either weren't anyone's business or she didn't have answers for.

Robin was vague about his own plans—the usual, he said before transitioning the conversation to everything that he'd need to prepare before that evening and how he was excited to try a new butter herb rub that he'd found in none other than Ladies Home Journal.

They parted ways that morning with a kiss, and as she watched his truck disappear down the winded street, she felt a pang of loneliness—a familiar feeling behind these walls, she realized…

A chill runs down her spine as she renters her bedroom. She tosses another log on the fire, then chooses her clothes for the day. She takes her time washing her face and applying her makeup, and as she waits for her curling iron to heat up, she realizes that the gnawing pit in her stomach that flared up while she was sitting in the lawyer's office returned.

So much of what happened the previous day hadn't sat right with her, and though Robin was able to quell her tears and offer comfort in the moment, her calm hadn't quite been lasting. He was a distraction—a comforting one, at that—but not a solution. She wasn't as hysterical as she was when she found herself standing at the end of his driveway, but her chest ached and her stomach was in knots—this had never been her home or Henry's, but it had been Mary Margaret's and though she had no control over it, Leopold not leaving his daughter anything didn't sit well with her.

But that was only one of the things about yesterday's meeting that hadn't sat well with her. Her one hope for that meeting was to walk away with answers, and though she'd gotten some, she left more confused than she was when she arrived. Knowing about the trust her father left for Henry clarified a lot and yet nothing at all.

The thing she couldn't understand, the thing she kept circling back to, the thing that had been in the back of her head for years now, was why Leopold hadn't filed for divorce. He was well within his rights—not only was he likely aware that she'd been unfaithful and lying to him, she'd abandoned him. While she'd been in London, she'd refused to let herself dwell on it. As long as Henry's tuition payments kept arriving, she told herself that she didn't care. But now she knew that Leopold hadn't been paying it from his own pocket, he'd been using the money her father left to her son. Had it truly been a status issue for? Had it truly been not wanting the embarrassment of an unfaithful wife and illegitimate child? Was it his pride that kept him quiet, not wanting to admit the Pendragons had shown him up or made a fool of him?

Or was it something else?

Regina tries to distract herself by curling her hair, but to no avail, she can't focus.

Deeming her hair good enough, she yanks the curling iron's cord from the wall and pulls on her robe, drawing in a long breath as she steps out into the chilly hall. She walks determinedly toward Leopold's office, a space that had always been off limits to her, and as she reaches for the door knob, an eerie chill runs down her spine.

She hesitates for a moment, suddenly and irrationally immobilized by the fear of getting caught—and then, heart racing, she opens the door.

It's silly, she thinks, to fear entering a room, and yet as she steps inside, she can't help but feel she's being watched, like any moment the door will slam shut or a maid will catch a glimpse of her and run to tattle, like she'll spend the rest of the day paying for her brazen stupidity.

But she reminds herself that she's alone and rounds the desk, returning to the drawer where she found Henry's letters—she wonders, yet again, why he kept them. Her jaw tightens as she imagines Leopold sitting at his desk, reading them and laughing, finding pleasure in his cruelty.

She's not entirely sure what she's looking for, but nonetheless, she lifts out the letters and sets them atop the desk, then looks back into the drawer. There's another stack of letters—proof of tuition payments, letters to her uncles requesting the money, and a few other letters of no real importance. She tosses the letters back in and slams the door, leaning back in the chair and folding her arms—again, she doesn't know what she's looking for, but she's upset not to have found it.

As she looks around, she catches a glimpse of the ledgers Leopold kept. They're organized by year. She was vaguely aware of what was in them—he'd referred to them constantly throughout their marriage and Leopold spent hours in the evenings, pouring over them, reviewing them and logging entries to track household expenditures and personal savings.

Carefully, she selects the ledger from the year they married and then the one from the year that Henry was born, then returns to the desk, setting them down and flipping the first open.

She huffs as she finds the day before their wedding—the day she spent crying and pleading not to have to go through with it—and she finds an entry, making the amount of her dowry. Her jaw tenses with annoyance—she always knew that she'd brought more to the marriage than he did, but she hadn't realized that they'd been practically living off her money. He wasn't broke at the time of their marriage, but he also wasn't particularly well off despite inheriting a massive fortune.

On the pages that follow, she tracks the spending spree he went on after their marriage, and though it's infuriating to her, it's nothing incriminating, and nothing that would answer her questions. He could've easily divorced her and took the money, there'd have been nothing her family could do about it.

The second ledger provides more insight—and her stomach lurches.

A few days after her father's death Leopold made an entry. Just like with her dowry, there was an entry in thick black numbers for $500,000—the amount she now knew her father had left to her son. But in smaller letters beside it was the written "in 1940"—1940 was the year Henry would turn twenty-one.

Leopold thought he would inherit the money upon Henry's twenty-first birthday, not Henry.

Again, her stomach lurches and her hand begins to tremble her thumb and forefinger hold the page.

What was he going to do? Was he going to manipulate him in some way to get the money from his trust? Or was it something more sinister than that?

A chill runs down her spine as she slams the ledger shut.

Seething, she leaves the office, privately hoping that Leopold is burning in hell.

Back in her room, she finds that she's nearly heaving for air—her chest hurts and she's on the verge of tears. Then, when she's finally calm down enough, she sits down at her dressing table, pulling out a piece of stationary embossed with her name at the top.

Dear Mary Margaret, she begins…

I think we were both surprised to find that the house and everything in it had been left to me while you were left with the choice of a few favorite trinkets. I'm sure it was a mistake as your father's home was never mine. So, I have a proposition for you: why don't we switch. You take the house and I'll choose a few momentos. I'm sure your father would prefer it that way…

She leaves out the part where she hopes that Leopold is rolling in his grave over his wishes not being honored.

Though I don't know where I'll go, I don't think Henry and I will stay here much longer. Given the state of the market, I doubt either of us could sell it, but perhaps, if you and David don't want it, we can come up with some plan for it. Regardless, I'd like to have it resolved by the new year.

Out of habit, she nearly signs it "all my love," but catches herself before the pen touches the paper.

Happy Thanksgiving, she writes instead before signing her name and stuffing the letter into an envelope, sealing it before she charges her mind.

Slowly, she exhales.

She'd burn the place down out of spite, if it were up to her, but she finds that that nagging gnawing feeling in her stomach is letting up and the ache in her chest has lessened—and that's enough to get her through the rest of the day.

She's barely in the door—pie in hand—when Henry comes rushing at her, squealing about the painting he made the day before, and on his heels were Arthur and Guinevere, and sauntering behind them was Mal, a glass of bourbon cradled in her hand.

Guinevere took her coat and Arthur took the pie while Mal and Henry led her into the drawing room where a myriad of guests are mingling. So many of them have familiar faces, but for the life of her, she can't remember any of their names.

She sucks in a breath. She'd forgotten how bad she was at this.

"Mom, do you want to see my painting? It should be dry by now."

"Yes, of course," she breathes out, feeling both relief and genuine interest. "I'd love to see it."

"I'll come, too," Mal says, downing the rest of her bourbon. "Even though I've already seen it eleven times."

"Eleven?"

"She saw the process," Henry tells her.

Regina laughs as he takes her hand and Mal rolls her eyes, but follows nonetheless.

Henry takes her upstairs to a large, open room that looks like a small ballroom. Four easels are set up. Henry points to Vivienne and Elaine's—noting that theirs are much better than his because they've had far more practice than he—and then, proudly, he stands in front of his own easel, carefully taking down his canvas and turning it so the painted side faces his body.

"We all had the same subject."

"A vase of flowers that have now wilted," Mal informs her.

Taking a breath, Henry turns it around, revealing a watercolor vase with what appear to be dahlias and chrysanthemums in shades of yellow and orange.

"We mixed blue and white to make the glass," Henry tells her, practically beaming. "I think it looks pretty good!"

"It's lovely, Henry."

Again, Henry beams. "Um, if we're going to stay awhile, do you think I could come back for more lessons? Mrs. Pendragon says she doesn't mind, and Lance liked having another boy around."

Regina holds her breath and nods. "I think that's a fantastic plan… as long as the Pendragons don't feel like it's an imposition."

"They don't," Mal assures her. "Vivi and Ellie like having him around as much as Lance does… and truthfully, Henry sort of… balances the chaos around here."

Regina laughs as Mal's eyes cross. "I'll chat about it with Arthur and Guinevere."

"Then it's a yes!"

Henry grins. "Mrs. Pendragon and the girls' maid say that they've been trying to be on their best behavior…"

"So they aren't incessantly squabbling or at each other's throats," Mal clarifies.

"You sound like you're having the time of your life," Regina teases.

Mal's shoulders stiffen and Henry giggles. "I love my nieces, but… I am learning that I prefer to love them from afar."

"And what about your nephew?"

"He's only seven," Mal says dryly. "His cuteness still outweighs… well, everything else."

"You know," Regina begins, turning her attention back to Henry. "Your sister used to paint when she was Vivienne and Elaine's age, I'm sure there are still some of her things at the house. Maybe tomorrow we could look for them."

Henry's eyes widen and a grin stretches across his face as he sets his painting carefully back on the easel. "Really!?"

"Really," Regina nods—and then she draws in a breath, her heart fluttering a little. "Mal told me that you enjoyed Lance's archery lessons."

"I did!" Henry tells her, practically bouncing as he turns back to her. "We shot real arrows and I even hit the bullseye on the target!"

Regina laughs—she's glad to see his excitement and it gives her hope that he'll adjust to life in Storybrooke quicker than she anticipated. "What if I told you a friend of mine here is an archer?"

At that, Mal's brow arches. "A friend, you say?"

Regina ignores her. "I mentioned that you had fun and he said he'd be willing to show you a thing or two."

"Oh, wow, really?"

Again, Regina nods. "Really."

Once more, Henry beams and Regina's heart swells.

"Henry," Mal murmurs, taking him by the hand. "I think Lance said something about wanting to play chess, and you know his sisters won't play. Even if they wanted to, I doubt they know how. Why don't you go see if he still wants to play."

"Can I go, mom? Would you mind? He had no idea there were strategies and different plays and that it wasn't just fancy checkers." Regina grins as Henry's eyes widen with hopeful expectation. "Please, mom?"

"Of course," Regina says. "Dinner is in an hour though, so make sure your game is through by then, alright?"

She's barely finished talking when Henry runs off in the direction of the nursery—and Mal lets out a little laugh as he disappears around the corner.

"He fits right in with Arthur's kids," Mal tells her. "It's like he grew up with them."

"That's… that's really good to hear."

"This is how he was at school, you know, almost everyone liked him." Regina looks at her and she grins. "I know you have a lot of regrets about sending him off to boarding school, Regina, but really, I think it was good for him."

Regina takes in a breath, slowly exhaling it. "I haven't had many victories lately, so… I'll take that."

"You should—and I don't think you need to worry about him nearly as much as you have been."

"It comes with the territory."

"I know—maternal instinct or whatever combined with your doom and gloom outlook on life—but he's going to be okay here. He's going to adjust to a new school and that drafty old house and—"

"Well, maybe not the drafty old house."

Mal's brow cocks. "Oh no?" Leaning in, she grins coyly. "Are you and Robin going to live in sin together?"

"No… well… I don't think so," Regina murmurs, her brow furrowing. "I haven't really thought much about where I'm going to live outside of the fact that it won't be anywhere that Leopold Blanchard once lived."

Mal's eyes narrow a bit and her arms fold. "That bastard didn't leave you anything, did he?"

"On the contrary… he left his wife the house and anything else that's left."

"Oh, that's vague."

"He meant Eva, not me."

"She's been dead for at least fifteen years."

"He never updated the will."

Mal's eyes roll. "It's amazing the man could tie his own shoes, really."

"But since I was legally still his wife…"

"So, now you're saddled with the house."

"At least I'm not liable for his debts."

"But you won't live in the house?"

"Not if I don't have to."

Nodding, Mal considers it. "What are you going to do with it? In this market, you'd never get what it's worth."

A little grin tugs up at the corner of Regina's mouth. "Well, I considered burning it—"

"Oooh!" Mal squeals, her eyes widening with excitement. "Wouldn't that be fun!"

"But I won't."

Mal deflates. "You're such a tease."

"I'm… going to give the house to Mary Margaret."

Mal blinks and for a moment, she's at a loss for words. "You're… you're just going to give a mansion to that spoiled brat?"

Regina feels her shoulders square—irrationally, she feels defensive. "Leo didn't leave her anything."

"What?" Mal looks genuinely surprised. "He didn't leave his daughter anything?"

"He said she could pick a few trinkets."

"That's… cold," Mal murmurs. "I thought he adored her."

"He essentially assumed that she'd be married by the time of his death and settled in her own life."

Again, Mal's eyes roll. "So, essentially, he decided she's her husband's problem now."

"That's one way to put it."

"Ouch."

"She looked… devastated."

Mal waves her hand. "I don't care, what else was in his will?"

Regina hesitates for a moment, drawing in a breath. "We… may need to sit down for this."

Cocking her head to the side, Mal looks intrigued and together they move to the sofa opposite the window. Once they're seated, Regina fills Mal in on the details of the trust that her father left for Henry—and Mal's jaw nearly hits the floor.

"That bastard," Mal murmurs as Regina's voice fades. "That fucking bastard."

"I'm not really sure what he was planning and… I suppose I'll never know."

Mal blinks and looks to the window, and for a moment, she's silent as she stares out at the dark, early evening sky. "Are you sure…"

Regina's brow furrows slightly. "About what?"

Mal looks pointedly back at her. "That you don't want to burn down the house. It might be cathartic."

Regina stares at Mal for a moment—she's dead serious, and for whatever reason, it makes Regina laugh.

Dinner, of course, was lovely.

The tablescape was beautiful, the food was better than anything served in any five-star London restaurant, and to Regina's relief, Guinevere placed her next to Mal and across from a man who said no more than five words throughout dinner.

Dessert was served in pretty little crystal glasses, and by the time the clock struck seven, the adults were leaving the dining room and making their way back to the drawing room where Guinevere promised a myriad of parlor games awaited them while Arthur and the men diverted toward the library to smoke.

"Henry," Regina murmurs, her eyes shifting from the clock to her son. "I have an idea." A grin pulls onto her lips as Henry stop and looks up at her. "I know you're having fun here, but… what would you say about leaving and stopping by another celebration? I'd…um… I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine and his son."

Mal stops, looking back at Regina and Henry from over her shoulder. She makes no attempt to hide the fact that she's eavesdropping.

Henry's brow arches. "Is there going to be pie?"

"Probably."

"Then, I'm game!"

Regina laughs and instructs Henry to go upstairs and collect his things while she thanks the Pendragons for their hospitality. After a round of hugs and goodbyes, a maid retrieves their coats while a footman calls a cab.

"You're going to see Robin, aren't you?"

"I was invited."

Mal smirks. "Oh, I don't doubt that, but… this is a big step."

"Don't make me change my mind."

"Big steps aren't bad," Mal tells her, offering a quick wink before taking a step backward. "I'll go up and hurry Henry along."

Nodding, Regina thanks her and watches her go—butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

After what seems like an eternity, Henry joins her just as a cab pulls up the drive—and when she gets in, she gives him the address that Robin left in his note that morning.

As they go, she watches Henry—watching the way he takes in the scenery, similarly to the way he did whenever they went into London. It makes her smile—and it makes her think that Mal is right, she's worried about nothing. Henry will adjust; he'll be alright.

"Alright, ma'am, here we are."

Regina looks up, her brow furrowing as she reaches into her purse to tip the driver. "Um, thank you," she says, feeling a bit mystified as she gets out of the cab.

"This is a church," Henry tells her, motioning to a sign at the front that reads St. Mary Magdalen.

"It… looks like it is," Regina murmurs. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out Robin's note to check the address. "But this is where he said they'd be."

Regina reaches for Henry's hand and he shrugs as he looks up at her. "They're probably inside."

"Probably," she murmurs, her stomach fluttering as she takes a step toward.

When she and Henry reach the front doors, she quickly realizes why Robin gave her the address of a church—it's a soup kitchen, not a private gathering. Her breath catches as they step inside and she feels a twinge of guilt as she looks around the room, comparing it to the gathering she just left.

Henry looks up at her. "Why are all these people eating at a church?"

"Because," she murmurs. "They don't have anywhere else to go."

Henry considers it for a moment, then grins. "This is nice."

"It is," Regina agrees, her eyes settling on the back of the large, open room where a line of people wait for a plate. Finally, her eyes settle on Robin serving what looks like mashed potatoes. Beside him, Roland stands on a chair, his toothless smile bright as he dips a ladle into a pot of gravy. "It's incredibly nice."

And then Robin notices her—a fast smile stretches across his lips as he nudges a woman standing next to him. Her breath catches as he leaves the serving line, practically jogging to the front of the room.

"I didn't think you'd come."

"Well, I—"

"I'm glad you did," he tells her, offering a quick wink before turning his attention to Henry. "You must be Henry," he says, offering his hand. "I'm Robin, a… um… a friend of your mom's."

Grinning, Henry shakes his hand. "It's nice to meet you," Henry replies. "I've heard a lot about you."

Regina's cheeks warm as Robin's brow's arch. "Oh? Good things I hope."

"You sent her recipes," Henry says, giggling softly. "They always made her happy."

"Did they?" Robin glances up at her, and she can feel her cheeks turning from pink to red as her eyes sink closed. "Well, I'm glad to hear it." He pauses for a moment. "I, uh, I hope you and your mom aren't too disappointed."

Regina's eyes open and her brow furrows slightly. "Why would we be disappointed?"

"Well, I failed to mention if you joined us we'd be serving dinner rather than eating it."

"Is this what you always do for Thanksgiving?"

Robin nods. "Yes, but usually we're done by now. This year's been a bit busier."

"Good thing you have a lot of food," Henry says, gesturing to the table at the back. "It doesn't look like you'll run out any time soon."

"We certainly hope not," Robin replies. "But, um… we could use a little extra help."

Henry turns to look at Regina. "Mom, can we help?"

"If you want to, sure."

"Then it's settled," Robin says as his eyes shift back to Henry. Regina watches as Robin's hand falls to Henry's shoulder, gently turning him. "Do you see the little boy with the messy brown hair? He's on gravy-duty."

"Yes."

"That's my son, Roland," Robin says. "He was supposed to be handing out dinner rolls, but we don't have enough people. Do you think you could go stand by him and give out the rolls?"

Regina nods when Henry looks back at her and no sooner than he does, Henry skips off, quickly making his way to the back of the church. Tears fill her eyes as Henry reaches the table and Roland hops off his chair to offer Henry an apron.

"I'm really glad you came."

"I am, too," Regina says, her eyes shifting to Robin. "Had I known…"

"I didn't tell you."

"But—"

"Regina, you have quite enough to unjustifiably beat yourself up over. Don't add this."

She ignores him—there's a conversation they need to have, but this isn't the time for it. "Tell me how I can help," she tells him, smiling as she stands up a little straight, her shoulders squared and her chin tilted up.

Robin considers it then lifts his apron over his head and places it around her neck. "Desserts are currently self-serve," he tells her, circling around her to tie the apron around her waist. Slowly, she turns to face him. More than anything she wants to kiss, but again, this isn't the time or the place. So instead, she reaches for his hand, slowly folding her fingers down between his. He looks down at their entwined hands then back at her. She grins and momentarily holds his gaze.

"By the way," she murmurs. "Tomorrow morning, I'd still like to rendezvous for coffee."

"Just tell me when and where."

"How about nine—the usual spot."

"I'll be there."

A grin twists onto her lips as she gives his hand a little tug, then leads him to the back of the church.