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We were stopped at a red light, and I thought about the options that we’d pass on our way back to the Campbell House.
“It’s not necessarily on our way, but you still haven’t tried a pasty,” I teased. “You can’t spend this much time in Northern Michigan without having at least one.”
He sighed. We’d had this conversation many times. “They just don’t sound good. No sauce? No cheese? Just ...”
“Beautiful flaky pastry and meat and potatoes?” I finished. “Yes. You’re going to regret ever waiting. Trust me.”
He muttered something under his breath, and I grinned.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“That’s your problem, Cunningham,” he said. “You take silence as agreement, and I promise you, that is not always true.”
I cut him a sideways look. “I know you well enough now to know that if you don’t want to do something, you arequiteverbose.”
Even though his dark eyes were covered with sunglasses, I got the sense that he rolled them.
Oof. I shouldn’t have liked it so much when he did that. Especially when his normally firm lips were sort of edged up in a slight smile.
That felt delicate too—the pushing of those boundaries with him when I couldn’t really tell if he welcomed it. If he felt the same buzzing sort of tension.
As we neared the heart of downtown and drove across the bridge over the Boardman River, I caught a glimpse of a recently closed storefront. I pulled my sunglasses down, narrowing my eyes as we drove past.
“Oh man, that boutique closed.”
He hummed but didn’t comment. I’d learned what that meant too. It was his way of letting me know he heard me, even if he didn’t have anything major to contribute. I appreciated it, actually.
“They had really cool decor,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Their light fixtures were vintage. Early 1900s, I think.”
I slowed the car and tried to get a peek into the alley behind the empty building.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you see a dumpster back there?”
He groaned.
I smacked his arm. “Just check while I slow down. I can’t drive and look at the same time.”
“A valuable lesson, I think.”
“Burke.”
“Charlotte.”
There was an open spot next to the curb, only about a block away from the storefront, and with a brief glance at the rearview mirror, I pulled the car into the space.
“Just a quick look,” I told him.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Knock yourself out.”
“Oh, you’re coming with me.”
Burke snorted. “Yeah right. I’m not dumpster diving for more crap that we don’t need.”
“Light fixtures are expensive. Especially if they’re vintage.”
His eyebrow arched lazily. “If they’re expensive, wouldn’t they have sold them when they closed?”
