I turn around and see a tall man in a tank-top and cargo pants standing a few steps away. Despite his lanky frame, his muscles are wiry, veins standing out on his forearms. He has friendly green eyes, and he’d be handsome if it weren’t for the terrible burn scars on his face. I maintain steady eye contact to avoid staring at the marred skin.
“Trey Underhill. I just moved in.” He indicates the house next to mine that used to belong to Mr. and Mrs. Park, who lived there since forever. I was wondering who they sold it to when they packed all their belongings into a large U-Haul last month. He extends a hand. The back of it is scarred, like his face, but he has a good grip. Strong and dry.
“Bobbi Bright.”
“I was hoping to say hello a little earlier, but you seem really busy.”
“I own a bakery, so I’m always up and out early.”
He nods. “Got a cat, too, right? He sometimes comes by.” Trey’s voice grows affectionate.
Very odd. Señor Mittens doesn’t like to leave the house unless he has to, and he doesn’t like to hang out with neighbors. But maybe this man is the source of treats for Señor Mittens, which might explain why he hasn’t been eating as much as he should at home.
“He gets along pretty well with Nero. My cat,” Trey adds. “Got him after my last tour in Afghanistan. My therapist said it would be good for me.”
“Thank you for your service.” Thank God I didn’t do anything to make him self-conscious about his scars. The people who fight for our nation deserve respect and gratitude.
“So anyway, I started cooking before I realized I’m out of salt. Mind if I borrow some?”
“Yeah sure.” I smile, then lead him to my place. He limps a little, dragging his right leg—probably another sign of the sacrifices he’s made for the country.
Señor Mittens blinks with utter boredom when we walk in, then goes back to his nap. “Not the friendliest cat,” I say, half-apologetic my pet isn’t being sweeter to the man who’s fed him.
“Probably just sleepy.” Trey looks at him fondly, then glances down. “Interesting floor there.”
I chuckle. “Yeah. I don’t know what my parents were thinking. I’m going to replace the tiles soon.”
“Need help?”
“No. I got it. My cousin also volunteered, so…”
Trey nods, running his fingertips along the edge of the kitchen counter. “Well, you look like you can take care of the job. But if you need an extra hand…”
“Appreciate the offer.” I don’t plan to impose on him, especially when he’s limping.
“That couch looks nice and new.” His tone is slightly abashed, like he’s just realized he was critical of my kitchen floor.
I laugh to let him know it’s all good. “I bought it like two years ago after I got this place from my father.”
“What was wrong with the old one? Don’t tell me it matched those tiles.”
“Ha! No. It was just worn out. Plus, I didn’t want to dwell on the past. Felt it was time to move on.” Thinking about my dad is still uncomfortable, especially because we were sort of distant, and I sometimes struggle with the fact that I didn’t grieve for him the way I should, like dutiful daughters do in movies and books. I put a cup of salt in a Ziploc and turn to Trey. “This enough?”
“More than.” The corners of Trey’s eyes crease, although his smile is constricted due to the scars. He holds the bag up as he limps out the front door. “’Preciate it.”
I lock up, get in the truck and head to TJ’s, which is a two-bedroom house almost halfway between my place and Josie’s. The livable space isn’t that big—maybe two thousand square feet and smaller than the place Dad left me. TJ bought it for the big yard for Buster, although since Cassie wants children, he’ll have to get more living space at some point if he proposes. I’m pretty sure he will since she’s the sweetest, and he’s crazy about her. His mom adores her too, which means she’s a great catch. Auntie Bella is an excellent judge of character.
I climb out of the truck with the boxes of dessert and into the mouth-watering aroma of chicken wings. TJ must’ve decided to spoil me and taken out his charcoal grill, rather than half-assing it by baking them in the oven.
I walk inside the house and call out, “The pies are here!”
Buster greets me, tail wagging and barking with excitement. I kick the door shut before he can escape—he can get overly enthused when a car drives by and will chase it like a T-bone steak dragged on a string. But I shouldn’t worry too much. After giving me a doggy smile of welcome, he rushes to the backyard where the grill is, hoping TJ will give him a piece of chicken.
“Hey, long time no see.” Cassie comes out of the kitchen. A pretty brunette with friendly wide-set blue eyes, she has the nicest smile. She’s tiny—around five-four, but compensates for her height with a buxom figure I envy. She’s in a ribbed red tank top and faded denim shorts, long hair twisted into a knot at her neck. She takes the boxes from me.
“Oh my gosh, did TJ stop by your bakery?” Josie gives me a hug. She’s the exact opposite of TJ—pale and petite with long straight black hair and smiling gray eyes. Her demeanor is open and inviting. I don’t know how she doesn’t get a billion stalkers. The men who have seen TJ generally stay away, but he can’t be around her 24/7.
“A lot of people have stopped by.”
