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day.
    ‘‘Don’t worry about a little miscommunication,’’ Dorcas said. ‘‘That can be fixed.’’ She and her black cat, Sabrina, occupied a red wing chair set at a right angle to the love seat, while Ambrose leaned against the mantel, sipping his Irish coffee. Sabrina kept eyeing Megabyte and arching her back, but Meg took no notice.
    ‘‘I don’t know how to fix it.’’ Then Jeremy realized he was asking for the very thing he didn’t want— matchmaking services. ‘‘Wait. Forget I said that. I’m really not here for that kind of advice.’’
    ‘‘Even if it’s free?’’ Over the top of her mug, Dorcas focused her amber gaze on him.
    He was sorely tempted because he couldn’t figure out his next move where Annie was concerned. But he was twenty-eight years old, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t have to consult Dear Abby on this issue. ‘‘I’ll work it out,’’ he said.
    Dorcas nodded. ‘‘No doubt over a nice meal.’’
    ‘‘You think I should ask her out?’’ He envisioned a quick and embarrassing rejection. Before he risked asking for a date, he had to clear up her misconceptions about him.
    ‘‘I think it would be a good move.’’ Dorcas looked as if she understood good moves. A sleek brunette in her fifties who dressed with big-city flair, she didn’t seem to belong in a backwoods place like Big Knob.
    ‘‘But she won’t go out with me.’’
    ‘‘I’ll bet she would,’’ Ambrose said. ‘‘Most women aren’t prejudiced about gay guys.’’
    Jeremy clenched his jaw. ‘‘I don’t want her to go out with me under false pretenses. Damn, if only I’d known what to say. But I’m not quick on my feet in a situation like that, and she left so fast. I couldn’t very well run after her insisting I’m heterosexual.’’ He took a large gulp of the Irish coffee. The drink was strong and had an unusual taste . . . maybe amaretto.
    Ambrose’s lips twitched. ‘‘No, running down the street proclaiming your virility would have been worse. But Dorcas is right. Get the date, which will allow you plenty of time to clear up the misunderstanding.’’
    Ambrose sounded so urbane, so . . . un-Big Knobian. Jeremy had never been able to figure out what Ambrose and Dorcas were doing in this small town handing out relationship advice. But here they were, and here he was, listening to that advice. He couldn’t argue that they had a good point.
    ‘‘I have Tony closing up tomorrow night,’’ he said, ‘‘so I could leave the café by five. I could take her to the Hob Knob for an early dinner. That’s even assuming she’d go, which I still say she won’t.’’
    Ambrose set his mug on the mantel. ‘‘Well, you can be sure of it if you throw in a little magic.’’
    ‘‘That’s the other thing. I appreciate your offer, but there’s no way you can teach me enough to make her believe I’m a magician. I’ll be the goofy guy getting tangled in colored scarves and dropping coins on the floor.’’
    ‘‘Not on my watch.’’ Ambrose crossed to the love seat. ‘‘Drink up. I’ll mix you another one.’’
    ‘‘Is that a good idea?’’ Jeremy appreciated how the drink had softened the painful memory of Annie leaping to the wrong conclusion about his sexuality. But he was here to learn something, not get wasted.
    ‘‘It’s an excellent idea,’’ Dorcas said.
    ‘‘But shouldn’t I be looking for ways to sharpen my reflexes?’’
    Dorcas shook her head. ‘‘You need to sharpen your instincts, not your reflexes.’’ As she stroked Sabrina, the cat turned her back on Megabyte and curled up in Dorcas’s lap.
    ‘‘She’s right,’’ Ambrose said. ‘‘At the moment, logic is getting in your way. Another Irish coffee, and you’ll let go of your preconceived ideas of what you can and can’t do.’’
    ‘‘You mean I’ll lower my inhibitions.’’
    Ambrose nodded. ‘‘That’s another way of putting it.’’
    ‘‘Bottoms up, then.’’ Jeremy