Must be the weather.
“I came out here for solitude. You’ve got everyone else in the world to be friendly with.”
Goldie pauses, taking a deep breath before her eyes harden. “Fine. If you want your solitude, you'll have it. But don’t you dare think I’m going to apologize for trying to be a decent neighbor.”
I take a step back, my body tense. “Alright, truce. No more surprise gifts, and I won’t barge in to fix things.”
“Deal.” Her voice is like steel as she thrusts out a hand.
As our palms meet, a spark shoots between us, zinging up my arm and exploding in my chest. Something kicks me square in the stomach. I jerk back, rubbing that same hand down the side of my jeans. Her pupils widen, her lips parting slightly, as if she's trying to make sense of the unexpected sensation too.
Maybe it was just a static charge.
A glance down and I grimace. I've tracked dirt and pink frosting onto the hardwood.
“Sorry,” I mutter, gesturing to the mess. “For the floor.”
She follows my gaze, then looks back at me, her expression softening a fraction. “A little dirt and frosting never hurt anyone.”
Feeling the odd pull to remain, but knowing I should go, I turn to leave. “I better head out.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, her voice soft and distant. “Things to do.”
I exit, throwing a final glance her way. She stands there, a contemplative furrow in her brows, the palpable energy between us still lingering in the air.
But it’s done. We won’t talk, interact, or have anything to do with each other from this point on.
My gut clenches and my muscles tighten with a strange restlessness.
This is exactly what I wanted.
So why do I feel like I just made the worst mistake of my life?
Chapter9
Porridge And Adult Nappers
GOLDIE
The wind howls eerily against the windows and the creaking floorboards beneath my feet serve as a constant reminder of my new surroundings. Everything groans, as if the house may collapse under my feet.
“Steady old girl,” I whisper lovingly to the house, running my hand down the door jamb as I pad into the kitchen. Or am I saying it to myself?
All through my shift at the Poison Apple, the attention from the guys grew more intense, like it had over the past week. Their increasing infatuation felt off. It was as if every compliment and lingering look became more exaggerated, more suffocating. Maybe I'm overthinking, but it’s all beginning to make me uncomfortable. It’s as if the more they act like they want me, the more fake it all seems.
Which keeps turning my brain back to my interaction with the NFH this morning. Presumably, ourlastinteraction.
Or rather Ted. I know his name from when I slipped the invite to the Poison Apple into his mailbox and caught sight of the letters. It wasn’t intentional. When I pulled his bills out and sifted through them—that was intentional. But I still maintain the NFH moniker fits him better.
I can’t stop thinking of the thick cloud of tension that practically vibrates between us, especially when he came crashing over to my front door today. Or the way his presence heats up my blood and brings all my nerve endings to attention. The way he helped with the mirror then disappeared into his cold indifference, left my head spinning.
It’s three AM, but I'm starving, having not had a chance to grab a shift meal or snack. I meander to my rickety dining table with a chipped bowl of oatmeal. Again.
When I’d been going through everything that first day with Red and Cinder, I stumbled upon an unexpected find. A massive barrel of oats next to a dusty saddle in the detached garage. The best I can surmise is that my aunt either once owned a horse or planned on getting one. Another wasted or lost dream my aunt left behind.
Spooning a bland bite of porridge into my mouth, I wonder if the NFH contributed to my relations not sticking around. Maybe Aunt Astrid had to go on all those trips, leaving this house to rot, becausehemade living out here so unbearable.
Or maybe I’m just cranky from the thick heat smothering me, making it so my skin feels suffocated. Or maybe it’s the way this meal is going down.
