“What do you think?” I ask Fable, trying to catch her eye but it doesn’t work.
“It’s... nice.” She looks like she’d rather be getting a root canal.
I don’t know what happened between dragging me onto her bed and when she woke up this morning, butsomethingdid. Ispent all night burrowing myself as close to her as I could. Meanwhile, she was apparently dreaming up a new list of reasons to hate me.
I thought stopping to get her favorite chocolate chip scones from Wildwood Bakery would help, but it didn’t. She has been icy and distant all morning, hiding behind Mia and only faking a smile when Cathy looks her way.
My sister slides her fingertips across the slate-gray countertop. “Everything is beautiful, but I don’t know. Something feels off for you two.”
This place is all sharp angles and straight lines—none of the charm I’m looking for in a home. I want warm wood. Exposed beams. Character and quirks. I don’t want the fanciest house on the block, I want the most comfortable and welcoming.
The first house didn’t have that, either, and I’m realizing maybe I didn’t accurately explain to Cathy what I was looking for. Or perhaps I didn’t know until I was here and could definitively say this is not it.
Cathy clears her throat. “Let me show you the master suite. That may change your mind. The Jacuzzi tub is to die for.”
When she turns to steer us out of the kitchen, I block Fable’s path and bend to meet her gaze. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” It’s the kind ofI’m finethat comes out of a woman who’s actively plotting your death.
Cathy’s voice echoes from the living room. “And isn’t this the perfect window to frame your Christmas tree?” Fortunately, Mia’s there tooohandaahappropriately.
“It sure doesn’t seem like you’refine,” I tell Fable. “You’re barely looking at me.”
She purses her lips. “I’m looking at you right now.”
“This”—I motion motion to all of her. Crossed arms, cocked hip, sharp scowl—“is mad-looking. Last night, you were—”
“Please.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Do not bring up last night.”
My lips part as I try to piece the problem together, but I must be missing important information. Twelve hours ago, she was warm, relaxed, trying to kiss me. Now she’s distant and cold.
Mia calls our names, and Fable steals the opportunity to escape this conversation, leaving me standing in the kitchen.
While we’re touring the master suite, I can’t even focus on Cathy’s sales pitch because I’m too busy replaying the events of last night, trying to catch the moment that might’ve upsetFable. I remember every detail. Her infectious excitement as she smeared hazelnut spread over crackers. The adorable grin when she realized I’d seenPride and Prejudice. Her sleepy, half-lidded eyes when she begged me to stay with her. The sound of her soft sigh once I curled behind her in bed.
I’m not sure where it went wrong.
By the time Cathy is done showing us around the master bathroom, I know this isn’t the house for me. Idon’t need to see the rest of it. What Ineedis to know what’s going on with Fable.
So, as everyone turns to leave, I call Fable’s name from the bathroom. She reluctantly traipses in with her arms crossed.
“Please tell me what’s up.” I shake my head. “You’ve gone from begging me to stay with you, to not speaking to me. What did I do wrong?”
“I didn’t beg,” she insists, scowl still in place.
“You did. Yanked me into your bed, in fact.”
A head tilt. “You weren’t complaining.”
“I’m still not.” Luckily, Mia and Bree slept in my guest room last night, so I’m sure Layla had the time of her life cuddling in bed with them. “I had no idea it was going to come with that bedtime serenade. Ithink it was a Fleetwood Mac song, but you were half asleep, so it was hard to tell.” Her cheeks turn scarlet, and something clicks into place. “Wait, is this because you’re embarrassed? Fabes, everyone does something silly when they’re drunk.” That only seems to make her angrier. “Honestly, if you made it all the way to your twenty-ninth birthday without drunkenly embarrassing yourself, I’m impressed. So don’t worry about it. You sang yourself right to sleep.”
Her lips tighten. “That’s not it.”
“The British accent, then? We can work on that.”
“No, Theo,” she grits out.
“The mess in the kitchen? It only took me thirty seconds to sweep up the cracker crumbs. It’s fine.”
