"Gabi," he said when she picked up her cellphone, conscious of the clang and murmur of the diner on her end of the line, "come over and make me dinner."

"No can do, cowboy, got a hot date," she replied cheerfully.

There was no hint of artifice in her voice. But this was Gabi; it didn't mean she was telling the truth.

Josh didn't care even if she did have a hot date. Well, not much. Well, actually, more than he should—but not enough to deter him altogether.

"I'll pay you five hundred bucks," he offered gamely.

"Come by the diner for lunch and I'll make you a meal for five bucks, and you can leave a four hundred and ninety-five dollar tip," she returned.

"Can't make lunch." He fought to keep the frustration out of his tone. When his biggest client had called this morning to ask for a mid-day meeting, Josh hadn't been able to think of a lie fast enough, and God knew the truth wouldn't work. No, I'm booked. I have an unnatural need to eat food cooked by my ex-girlfriend. I'm addicted to trying to make her laugh while I ignore her flirting with her other customers.

It's kind of a standing thing.

He could tell Gabi was disappointed when she blew out her breath. He could read her easily, even over the phone; she had so many secrets, and for all that, so few walls. "Well. Oh, my damn and all that."

One side of his mouth quirked up to hear those words out of her mouth. "I'll pay a grand," he said.

"You really want my sage, ricotta, and squash brown butter pizza tonight, huh, big boy?" She covered the receiver a moment to chat with a customer, and was muffled a moment. "You could do with a little less pizza, though, champ."

"Yeah, great diet tip, I'll pass it on to my nutritionist. In the meantime, you could do with a little more money, I'd bet. Or is your new food processor going to buy itself?"

"I keep hoping it might. I leave the door unlocked every night in the hopes it'll show up on my counter one evening, tortilla chips in tow, and make me and Sofia a fresh bowl of mango salsa."

Josh outright grinned at that, and he hadn't had much cause to grin lately. He realized all at once that he'd been smiling, just a little, ever since Gabi had answered her phone. "Five grand," he said finally, not willing to let the dream die.

Missing lunch today would have been fine except that he hadn't seen Gabi since Tuesday, and he wouldn't be able to make it in again on a day she actually worked until Sunday. And the real problem was, their friendship was too fragile to mix with anything but food—specifically, food that she cooked and he paid for.

"Josh." There was warning in her tone. She was telling him he was getting close to one of the unpredictable land mines planted around her. Whether she'd planted them to defend herself or their fragile relationship, he didn't know. Both, he suspected. "It's not a good idea."

"C'mon, Gabi. I need a home-cooked meal." And to see your face, to see you move around my apartment. To stop being haunted by the memories there—by the fear that the memories are all that's left. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he said aloud. "If you've proven one thing in the last year and a half, it's that you can definitely resist me. And now," he patted his tummy reflexively, "you have less to worry about. I'm not in peak form."

The noise on the other end of the line got quieter, and Josh found himself imagining that Gabi had tucked herself into a supply closet or the employee bathroom. "I actually couldn't, you know."

"Couldn't… what?"

She blew out another breath. "Resist you, you idiot. If you thought that was me resisting you, you weren't paying attention." He could almost see her shaking her head to clear it. "But we're not going over this again. It's not the time—we're not ready. I mean—God. I'm going on this date. With a nice guy who builds cabinets in his free time. And he's going to make me dinner, and you're not going to interfere with this one."

He felt that low in his gut. Gabi's actions had hit him there so many times, it was no wonder he had developed padding to protect it. Bruises atop bruises.

He ventured more than he usually would have. The phone was making him brave. "We're not ready, you said. Does that mean you think we're gonna be ready? Eventually?"

"I don't know, boss." There was a long pause, as she seemed to mull over, for once in her life, what she would say. That pause said she was serious like nothing else could have. "I… hope so."

"OK. OK." He noticed he'd been drawing on the butcher block paper on his desk, idly while they were talking, and there in his hand, the words "boss" and "hope" and "Gabi" all together. He drew a quick line through them. He didn't know why; Elliott would see them one way or another. His apartment was hopeless as a bastion of secrets. "Hey, answer me one more thing."

"Shoot."

"You weren't serious before when you said you leave the door open—for your future food processor? Because that's really danger—"

"You think Sofia would allow it?" she was laughing at the idea. "We had three deadbolts installed before we moved in, two at the base of the door so 'it can't be kicked in,' she tells me. And she won't let me keep a key on the top of the doorframe anymore, so…"

"Oh, good God. On top of the—you know what? Great. High five Sofia for me when you see her, Gabs." He scrawled 'hire Gabriella a bodyguard?' onto the paper in front of him for easily the dozenth time since he'd met her.

"Will do, tiger. And I'll save you a seat for lunch tomorrow?"

Well. Now she'd know the real reason he'd called. That was fine, though. He only had so much pride left, with Gabi. "Yeah—no. I can't make it until Sunday."

"Oh." There came a loud knocking from her end of the line. "God, Manuel, I'll be out in just a minute! Although why you bought a freezer that locks from the inside I'll never understand. OK—Josh. I'll… I guess I'll… see you Sunday?"

Maybe he could go in for pie this afternoon. No. He owed himself a jog. Actually, he owed several, and not only to himself. He'd only gained twenty pounds—well, okay, twenty-six—but that was an astonishing amount in so short a time. They'd all hit him just like Gabi: straight to his gut.

And if he ran far enough, maybe he'd forget she was going on this date tonight, and that he wouldn't see her until Sunday. If he ran far enough, he might even be able to buy himself a slice of pie to have with his lonely dinner in his lonely apartment and….

That aching in his gut wasn't getting less persistent. He cleared his throat. "Sunday. Count on it," was all he said.