Page 24

“I own a bakery, asshole.”

“Then shouldn’t you be baking something?”

“Shouldn’t you be haunting a cemetery?”

I grunt and turn back to my work.

She sets the box on the bench beside me.

“Thought you might want this back.”

I stare at it.

“Why?”

“Because you made it.”

“Gave it to you.”

“And I gave it back.”

“Ten years ago.”

“Apparently we’re both terrible at returning things.”

I look at her.

She’s smiling.

Of course she is.

Autumn Hayes could walk into a funeral and somehow convince the corpse to lighten up.

“Keep the damn box, Pumpkin.”

“Fine.” She picks it up again. “But I’m keeping the letters, too.”

“Figured.”

“I read some of them last night.”

My hand stills on the wrench.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I wait.

She doesn’t elaborate.

Just wanders toward the black Indian Chief parked near the garage doors.

“Is this yours?”

“Don’t touch it.”

Her fingers hover over the handlebars.