“Gosh, I would have thought an old-fashioned limb-ripping would have been the perfect floor show for a blutbad,” Nick said teasingly.

“Reformed blutbad,” Monroe said with a sniff. “And as my fake boyfriend, I expect you to remember that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” Nick said, schooling his face into an expression of utter contrition. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Well,” Monroe said, leaning forward conspiratorially so his face was only a few inches from Nick’s, “you could start…by letting me have the last slice of lemon meringue.”

“You reformed blutbaden drive a hard bargain,” Nick said with an impish grin, pushing the pie tin toward Monroe, “but all right. I accept your terms.”