“Avoid the charcuterie boards—there are strawberries on them. I’ll make sure there aren’t any next time.” Emerson hesitates. “What are you talking about?” “Strawberries?” I repeat. “The fruit? You’re allergic, right? The flight to Milwaukee tomorrow would suck if your eyes were all puffy.” Her mouth opens then closes. A deep flush of pink settles on her cheeks, and she grips the door knob with white knuckles. “Yeah, I’m allergic. I’m surprised you—” She shakes her head. “I’ll see you inside, Miller.”
