“MISS CURRAN WITHDREW her name from the competition,” the man explained in a German accent, his spotless white cook’s clothing identifying him as an official even without the name badge. “She said something quite important had come up.”

“Important?” Lucas shifted the bulky evidence bag. “Did she say anything more?”

“Only that she was sorry for any inconvenience.” The man peered at the bag in Lucas’s arms. Pale dawn light through the contest kitchen windows caught the ruby color of the stalks. “That’s very lovely rhubarb.”

“Uh, yeah . . . Well, thank you for your help.”

“Please tell Miss Curran that I wish her well.” The man smiled. “I have a hunch we can expect great things from that young lady.”

Lucas said good-bye, then tapped Aimee’s number into his phone. It went to voice mail the same way it had last night. He checked the time and decided it was too early to swing by her apartment and completely wrong to abuse his resources to track down an address she’d never given him.

“She said something quite important had come up.” What did that mean? Had she simply given up on the baking contest because of the rhubarb? It didn’t sound like Aimee.

Lucas shelved his concern, drove on to the hospital instead. Hopefully his grandmother was awake and there would be time to talk with her before the rehab evaluation team came by. After those insightful moments last night —while being hissed at by a goose patrol in a rhubarb patch —he’d decided that his only priority was to be his grandmother’s advocate. He’d offer loving support of her wishes. Even though he was still holding out hope that this morning’s blood tests would show some improvement. . . .

“It’s Lucas!” Margie cheered as he crossed the room’s threshold. “You’re in time for the party. It’s been going all night!”

He chuckled, waved, took a few steps in his grandmother’s direction . . . stopped and stared. She was sitting in a wheelchair, right arm in a sling, left hand holding a large plastic cup, from which she was sipping with a straw.

“Juice,” she told him, setting the cup on the tray table next to something that looked like an empty stack of those green plastic fruit baskets. And maybe one of her paintbrushes? “Don’t look so surprised.” Her smile teased as if she’d bested him at skeet. “I was thirsty.”

“I . . .” Lucas’s heart climbed toward his throat. He wasn’t imagining it; there was color in her cheeks and her eyes were clear, bright. “Did they do the blood tests?”

“No.” His grandmother waved her hand. “I told them to go away. And I canceled that meeting with the doctors.”

“That’s right. She sure did.” Wanda Clay walked toward the bed, offered a smile that made Lucas wonder if he was hallucinating from rhubarb toxicity. The fact that her corgi was trotting behind her only increased his suspicions. He was toxic or dreaming.

“I’m confused,” he admitted. “What’s going on here?”

Wanda tossed a knowing look at his grandmother. “Rosalynn talked with the dietitian, and we’re trying some new things —starting with breakfast. Your grandmother’s feeling a lot better.”

“Because of our party!” Margie crowed, waving one of the green fruit baskets. “Everyone had strawberries, even Potter. And everybody’s feeling better now. All because of Aimee.”

“Aimee?” Lucas asked, his confusion complete. “What — ?” He stopped midquestion as his grandmother pointed. He turned to look, and his heart stalled.

“Hi,” she said, walking toward them. Her hair looked sleep-tossed, clothes sort of rumpled. “Remind me to bring a hairbrush next time.” Her gaze met Lucas’s, and the familiar blush rose in her cheeks. She took a soft breath. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he managed, the whole tableau beginning to come together in his head. “I tried to call you last night. This morning too. I got your rhubarb. The Owens baby came early; that’s why they weren’t at the market. But they let me go in and pick —”

“You did that?” Aimee’s hand pressed to her chest. “You went there and got it?”

“Yes. And when I couldn’t reach you, I decided to go to the contest kitchen this morning. But they said —”

“I wanted to be here,” Aimee told him, a small pucker of her brows asking Lucas to say no more. She turned to smile at his grandmother. “We made good use of the strawberries, didn’t we, Rosalynn?”

“We did. Aimee learned a bit about painting, and I came to know some wonderful things about her mother, and that today is this dear girl’s birthday.”

“On Valentine’s Day!” Margie chirped. “Aimee’s birthday and Valentine’s Day, and she stayed here alllll night to help Rosalynn feel better. Oh!” She pressed her hands together, eyes lighting. “You should give Aimee a kiss, Lucas. To say thank-you and happy birthday and —”

“Margie . . .” Aimee shot the roommate a pleading look.

“Happy birthday,” Lucas said, tempted beyond reason and not even caring that everyone, including his grandmother and Wanda’s dog, was watching. He’d never wanted to kiss any woman more than he wanted to kiss Aimee Curran right this moment. “And thank you, Aimee.”

“That’s nice,” Margie coached. “Now go ahead and —”

“You’re welcome,” Aimee blurted, reaching out to offer a handshake. “Really, I’m glad I came. But I should go home now and get some sleep.”

“I’ll walk you out to your car,” Lucas told her, his pulse hiking at the warmth of her touch. “I have all that rhubarb in my truck. I’d have no idea what to do with it.”

“Right . . .” Aimee cast a wary eye toward Margie, slipped her fingers away. “Okay. Let me grab my purse.”

She did that, and they walked outside, each quiet with their own thoughts. Lucas got the rhubarb from his truck and handed it to her, knowing Margie would be disappointed by the lack of romance.

“An evidence bag?” Aimee asked, meeting his gaze for the first time.

“It’s what I had. You’re lucky there are no feathers or peck marks.” Lucas smiled. “Adventures in the Garden of Eatin’.” His breath snagged as she reached out to touch his arm.

“Thank you, Lucas.” Aimee’s eyes grew shiny with tears. “That you did this for me . . . it means more than I can say.”

“You did more. Far more.” He ached to pull her close. “You gave up the contest, your dream, to help my grandmother.” Lucas glanced toward the hospital. “I came here this morning to find her sitting up and eating, when only last night I decided I had to accept her choices. I prayed I’d find peace with that.”

“I think we both learned some important things last night.”

“Yeah.” Lucas took a step closer, glanced down at the fruit-stuffed evidence bag. “Nothing like poor planning —hug a woman and squash some rhubarb.”

Aimee smiled. “As much as I like that idea, I . . .” She stifled a yawn. “I need a shower and a nap.”

He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. “That dinner,” Lucas said quickly. “Sunday —tomorrow. Are we still on?”

“Sure. But . . .” Aimee’s eyes captured his over the evidence bag. “Maybe we could get together later this evening for a while too. It’s my birthday, and I just got an idea.”

“Sounds good,” Lucas told her, thinking nothing could beat Margie’s idea. “I’ll spend some time with my grandmother and then call you later?”

“Yes. Around three o’clock would be good.” Aimee hugged the rhubarb stalks closer. “I should be ready by then.”