A flush spreads across her cheeks. Her gaze drops to my mouth for a half-second before she yanks it back up, flustered. “That was unnecessary, but I won’t complain.” She’s softening.
“Effective, though,” I point out. “He’ll go home and drink about it instead of punching holes in your drywall.”
She huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “You sound very sure.”
“Like I said,” I answer, a ghost of a smile tugging at my lips. “I read situations. He was pissed, yeah, but he was more pissed at being made to look like a fool than anything else. Men like that will go lick their wounds before they come up with their next brilliant idea.”
She grimaces. “His brilliant ideas are how I ended up in debt.”
“Then we’ll make sure his next one doesn’t involve this driveway,” I explain casually.
The we slips out before I can stop it.
She hears it. I can tell by the way her eyes soften, then sharpen again, wary. “You’re only here a week,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to get involved.”
“Lady,” I begin, straightening off the door, “I was involved the second he rolled up and you looked like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.”
Her shoulders tense again, that little flash of shame creeping back. “I’m sorry. This is not, this is not the experience I want for you. I promise. I clean. I prepare. I make sure everything’s perfect.”
She gestures around the cabin with a helpless little sweep of her hand.
“And then my walking disaster of an ex shows up and ruins it,” she finishes.
I look around properly now for the first time.
The place is immaculate. Couch just so, blanket draped, welcome basket on the table, little handwritten note propped up by the cocoa packets. Cozy lamp in the corner, soft yellow light warming the wood. It looks like a picture out of some rental brochure.
She’s done all this.
For me. For her guests she shares her home.
And now she’s apologizing like she personally invited the asshole who just tried to shake her down.
“Cabin’s great,” I say. “Exactly what I need. As for your ex,” I shrug. “Every town’s got its share of losers. I’ve seen worse.”
“Still,” she says, licking her lips. She immediately looks like she regrets the motion, probably remembering exactly what those lips were doing thirty seconds ago. “If you want to cancel, I’ll?—”
“Not happening,” I interrupt.
Her brows shoot up. “You don’t even know my cancellation policy.”
“I know I just rode four hours of what should have been three into the cold on a bike because my daughter thinks I need to get out of town before I choke a man in my own shop,” I share openly. “I know this place is paid for. I know the bed looks decent and there’s a roof that doesn’t leak. And I know you just stood your ground against a man who’s been bleeding you dry for years.”
I hold her gaze.
“I’m staying.”
Something in her posture loosens. Just a fraction. Like a wire that’s been pulled too tight, finally given an inch.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”
Outside, through the thick wood of the door, I can just barely hear the sedan’s engine turn over. Gravel crunches. Headlights sweep past the front window for a brief second, then fade as the car backs awkwardly down the drive.
He’s leaving.
Good.
Holley hears it too. Her head tilts, listening. When the sounds fade completely, she exhales a long, shaky breath and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.
