What music do you like?” he asked between calls.“Cheery, chirpy pop.”Wincing, he pulled up a station that delivered exactly that. “You owe me.”“Come on”—she turned in her seat to face him once more—“it’s not that bad.”“I’m sorry? I can’t hear you past the sugar blocking my eardrums.

Hey, Frenchie!” Sage poked his head out the door, the sun hitting the brown of his hair to reveal hidden strands of red. “Did you bring any baguettes?”“Why don’t you go season something, Herb?