Page 18 of The House on Forgotten Hill

No splatter on the stove.

Nothing to suggest a meal had been prepared here.

“You didn’t make dinner, did you?” I asked.

He placed a hand over his heart.

“I’m wounded you would suggest such a thing,” he teased. “Perhaps I clean as I go.”

“So do I, but when I cook, there’s always evidence.”

He studied me for a moment, then wagged a finger. “You’re far more observant than most.”

“It isn’t the first time someone has said that to me.”

“I suppose I’d better confess then. A close friend of mine owns an Italian restaurant downtown. He cooked everything.”

Preston reached for one of the bottles and poured two glasses, handing one to me.

He raised his glass. “To new neighbors.”

I raised mine. “And new friends.”

Our glasses touched.

Preston took a sip, his eyes never leaving mine.

I’d spent the entire day thinking about this moment.

Rehearsing questions.

Considering how much to reveal and how much to keep to myself.

No amount of charm on Preston’s part was going to derail me.

If it was a game of wits he wanted, I had come to play.

10

Preston dished up two plates of food, and we moved to the table. As we took our seats, he looked over at me and said, “It doesn’t take me long to get a feel for a person. You may not be the easiest woman to read, but I can tell you’re intelligent. That’s a quality I don’t come across often.”

He wrapped a strand of pasta around his fork and smiled, unfazed by the ridiculousness of the statement he’d just made.

“You realize that’s not much of a compliment, right?” I said.

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“Most people would have smiled and said thank you. But you’re different. You questioned what I said.”

“I questioned how you said it.”

“Which proves my point.”

I shook my head. “Part of me thinks you’re charming. The other part thinks you’re impossible.”

“I don’t see why I can’t be both.”