candle flickered from the kitchen counter, the smell of vanilla and something cinnamon-tinged filling the air.
“About damn time,” came a voice from the couch.
Viola smiled instantly.
“Sam,” she said, laughing as her best friend peeked over a throw pillow, popcorn bowl in her lap. “Did you break into my apartment?”
“No. You gave me the spare key, remember? You said—‘In case Mack turns out to be a serial killer and I disappear.’” Sam mimicked her dramatically.
Viola kicked off her boots and padded toward the couch. “Well, he didn’t kill me.”
“No, but judging from that look on your face,” Sam grinned, “he did something.”
Viola flopped down beside her and let out a half-groan, half-sigh.
Sam pushed the popcorn bowl into her lap. “Start talking. I want every detail. But first—wine?”
“G
