Page 20 of Where Roads Lead

“For sparring?”

“For fixing the lock.”

“Why, thank you for asking,” I said, playing into that overly cheerful bit that seemed to really piss him off. “It is.”

“It is a bad time?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Because if you had knocked, I would’ve invited you in and we would’ve had the opportunity I was looking for to break the ice, but now the plan is ruined.”

“We don’t need to break the ice,” he said. “The ice is fine.”

“Well, we’re not exactly skating over here, are we?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said through furrowed brows.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Fine!” He huffed, dropping his screwdriver. “I’ll come inside.”

I beamed, opening the door wider for his entry.

He muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out, but paused when he got into the kitchen.

“Now what?”

“Sit.” I gestured toward the table. “Have a muffin.”

He eyed them suspiciously, as if the sight of something delicious and sweet offended him.

“I don’t want a muffin.”

“But I made them for you.”

He squinted. “You made them for me? Why?”

I rolled my eyes. “Just have one.”

Smart enough to know that I would go up to bat with him as long as he was willing to put up a fight, Will wisely skipped the back-and-forth and sat himself down at the small circular table in the center of the kitchen.

I took a warm muffin out of the tray and pushed it in front of him, proud of the cute fall wrapper I’d baked them in. Will held it up skeptically, took a tentative bite and, to my delight, looked considerably less disgusted than usual after he swallowed it.

I watched him, unable to tear my eyes away from how comically oversized he looked in my chair.

But he didn’t notice me staring. Instead, he was busy focusing on every detail of my kitchen with those scrutinizing eyes of his.

I’d hate to be that crack in the ceiling he was eyeing with such displeasure.

I crossed my legs, looking around the place anxiously. The condition of the house wasn’t my fault. And anyway, I’d done my best to make it cozy on the limited budget I had. The antique store in town provided me ample opportunity to re-decorate for cheap, and even though it wasn’t exactly in the budget, I knew I couldn’t live in a home that didn’t have at least a touch of me in it.

I’d put up some curtains in the kitchen window, threw a candle on the countertop, and a few fall decorations here and there.

It wasn’t much, but it was considerably better than what I’d walked into. I’d done just enough to make the statement: twenty-six-year-old girl lives here instead of the place screaming Murder House formerly inhabited by Mr. Briggs.

“This house needs a lot of work done,” Will remarked anyway.