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Christopher Moore’s latest.
    â€œI love Chris Moore’s books,” she said conversationally.
    He glanced over the top of the trade paperback and grunted.
    â€œI think he’s hilarious,” she said.
    â€œYeah,” he said, this time without looking at her.
    â€œ Bloodsucking Fiends is my favorite, but I love Lamb , too,” Pea said. By now she knew the drill. She’d try to make polite conversation, and he would make noises like he was pretending to listen to her. Men did it all the time. She had a theory that men only attempted to listen to really beautiful women—and then they were mostly only attempting to listen because it might get them into the beauty’s panties. With women who were average—like her—they didn’t even pretend to attempt to listen.
    â€œYeah,” he said absently, proving her theory correct. Again.
    Pea sighed and started to chew her lip again—and then stopped. She looked at the fireman. Actually he was only an averagely attractive guy himself. Kinda youngish, like in his late twenties—he was probably only a year or two younger than her. He had nondescript brownish hair and an ordinary face and body. Of course, he had on the fireman’s casual uniform—navy blue T-shirt, with the Tulsa Fire Department’s logo in gold, and navy blue pants—so that probably made him more interesting looking. But still. The guy was average . Like Pea. And suddenly, just like that, it started to piss her off that he thought it was okay to ignore her. That everyone thought it was okay to ignore her.
    â€œUh huh, Chris Moore is a great storyteller,” Pea said. “Whenever I read his books I laugh so hard that I give birth to a whole litter of those flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz ,” she said sweetly.
    â€œYeah,” the guy said.
    â€œWonder if there’s something you can take to cure that.”
    Pea made a strangled yelping noise that probably made her sound like Chloe. Her gaze shot from the clueless average guy to the doorway of the garage, where Griffin was standing, arms folded, grinning at her.
    â€œCure what?” the guy behind the counter said.
    â€œNothin’, Honeyman. Don’t worry about it,” Griffin said, still smiling at Pea.
    Pea swallowed and wished frantically that her face didn’t feel so hot. Again. It meant that she was blushing a bright, painful pink color that there was no way to pass off as attractively flushed cheeks.
    â€œI was just, um…” Pea trailed off. What could she say she had just been doing? I was just being a total smartass because your coworker was rudely ignoring me . No, that wouldn’t do. She raised the plate of brownies like she was making an offering at the shrine of the Forget-the-Stupid-Thing-I-Just-Said God. “I brought you some brownies. As a thank you.”
    Griffin wrinkled his brow and Pea realized he didn’t remember who she was. A-freaking-gin! It had been three and a half hours since he’d rescued Chloe from the tree, and he’d forgotten her. For the fourth time. Great. How totally and typically embarrassing. Pea stood up and quickly placed the plate on the counter—thinking that’s what she should have done in the first place. Just left the damn plate there with the stupid note and gone on to dance class before—
    â€œOh, that’s right,” Griffin said, recognition clearing the confusion from his expression. “You’re my neighbor. Chloe the Scottie cat’s mom.” He paused a beat and then chuckled before adding, “Pea.”
    â€œYeah, Chloe and I just wanted to say thanks.” Pea pointed at the aluminum foil–wrapped plate, trying not to blush again, this time in pleasure, because he’d finally remembered her. “We baked brownies. Well, actually, I baked them. She and Max begged for a taste.”
    â€œMax, the real cat in the family?”
    Pea felt another