The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

was a question only in technicality. It was a direct order and this woman wasn't playing. I was half convinced she'd whip that crowbar out of her skirt and wag it at me if I didn't follow her lead.

Again, it did something to me. I was annoyed as hell and I wanted to argue with her. I also wanted to listen to her spitting that sweet, sweet fire while she forced those hollow smiles, and I wanted to close the door in her face because she made me feel far too many things at once.

"I can think of plenty of reasons why I wouldn't invite you in but…" I stepped back, gestured for her to follow.

"Such a warm, inviting host you are." She stepped inside and headed toward the kitchen, overtly eyeing the space as she went. "You opened up this wall," she said, gesturing between the kitchen and living space. "Wow. After being in Midge's house, I can really see the difference it makes."

I didn't respond.

Most of the houses on this street were built in the 1920s. The floor plans were all the same, save for a few quirks and variations. It made for a string of tidy bungalows lined up one after another.

Over time, many of those houses had been renovated or razed, new construction taking the place of old. Only my house and Midge's remained from the original string—and they were mirror images of each other.

"My word. Do you have a decorator?" Jasper asked as she turned in a circle. "This design is to die for."

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Were you expecting ugly old recliners and some Godfather posters?"

She set the dish down on the countertop and studied the cabinetry. "You're assuming I made assumptions about you? That's an exciting turn of events."

"Then why do you assume I hired a decorator?"

She busied herself opening and closing drawers like she owned the place, which was a fine reminder this lady was a real fucking handful.

"Because it's difficult to make everything look like"—she yanked a long serrated knife from the drawer and waved it around with the same flippant attitude she had with the crowbar—"this. You know. Put together. Grown-up. Magazine quality."

I shifted away from Jasper and the knife-wagging, and scanned the living area with its marine blue walls. Sure, I'd had the assistance of my sister's best friends—both of whom happened to be architects—when I wanted to knock out a couple of walls and install several big banks of windows. They'd offered some pointers for making it all come together. None of this qualified as magazine quality.

Not that I minded the praise, seeing as I had put a fuckton of time into hunting down the right pieces and working on this space until it was exactly what I wanted. But this woman was buttering me up for something. That, or she routinely switched between two grossly different personalities: the sweet peach pie and the blistering hot pepper.

"I'd just love a cup of coffee." She nodded toward the mug I'd abandoned on the kitchen table.

"I bet you would," I murmured.

When I made no move to fetch that coffee for her, Jasper said, "Well, you just sit right down and I'll serve up this banana bread."

Knife still in hand, Jasper glanced between the wet bread and the upper cabinets as if she couldn't decide what to explore next.

What was with this woman and casually wielding weapons?

I pulled another glass mug from the cupboard and slid it across the counter. "Here." Then I grabbed the cold brew from the fridge. "Help yourself."

"I can see why Midge liked you." She hit me with another one of those smiles that just didn't seem connected to any real emotion, saying, "No nonsense with you. Right to the point."

I plucked the knife from her hand because I really did not want to deal with anyone slicing off a fingertip or nicking a jugular. But doing this meant we were crowded between the kitchen table and a corner of cabinets. I could see all the golden flecks in her eyes at this range.

"Milk's in the fridge, if you want it."

She chuckled and—for no good reason—I dropped my gaze to the hollow of her throat. Beneath the jean jacket she was wearing a gauzy white shirt, making her neck the only bit of exposed skin on her. The only bit of vulnerability. Everything else was fake smiles and forced laughs and comments that slapped so hard you didn't realize it until five minutes after the fact. But that pale, flawless skin was true.

"You and Midge must've gotten on famously." She topped off her mug with a heavy splash of milk. "Such a scrappy old bird, she was."

I sliced the banana bread because what else was I supposed to do? I couldn't stare at her neck much longer and I sure as hell wasn't interested in reminiscing. Not when her skirt was translucent in the morning light and she was working damn hard at playing nice after showing me her teeth yesterday.

I dropped slices of the banana bread—which was cement on the outside and mud in the middle—on two plates and nudged one toward Jasper. I made no move toward mine.

"We hardly got a moment for proper introductions yesterday. With all that commotion," she added, twirling past me to return the coffee and milk to the refrigerator then thinking better of it and setting them both on the counter. "Tell me, what do you do? You said something about trees, I believe."

"Arborist," I grunted out.

I tried to keep my focus on the plate, even if I didn't touch it. I didn't want to stare at her or that skirt but there weren't many other options. I might've blown out a wall but this kitchen was still small and she still smelled…lovely. There was no specific fruit or flower to pin down but rather a soft, gentle scent that was…lovely. That was all I could say about it. Lovely.

"Forgive me," she said with another one of