Still, she hadn’t engaged in verbal sparring with anyone like that in years, and it stirred something within her—an odd, dormant thrill of challenge that had long gone unmet.
Kevin had always been so agreeable. Faith picked the restaurants for their dates. Faith chose the movies they would watch. Faith was the decision maker, again and again. If Kevin ever had any opinions, he didn’t voice them or care to make them known. Sure, it made for a sense of harmony within their relationship, but that was easily overshadowed by how boring things had quickly become. And stayed.
With a sigh of regret that she’d wasted so many good years on something so monotonous, Faith paced her small one-room apartment to tug on the refrigerator door handle. There were four to-go boxes of leftovers on a shelf at eye level, stacked neatly like a Styrofoam game of Jenga. Chinese, Mexican, Thai and Italian. Despite the growl quivering low in her stomach, nothing sounded appetizing, even with all the variety. If she had planned her evening better, she would have carved out the time to stop by Main Street Market to grab one of their lemon pepper rotisserie chickens before heading home from work. She could get three full dinners out of those, repurposing the leftover meat in things like enchiladas, soups, or salads.
She shut the door to the fridge and pouted, glancing out the window of her two-story apartment to survey the skies. It had started to snow again, light, fluttering flakes that collected along the wooden banister and dusted the landing she shared with her neighbor across the way. She’d been responsible for sweeping their entry this winter season after the last tenants moved out in late August. Faith didn’t necessarily mind, but she did prefer to have an upstairs neighbor, if only for the added safety and security.
She wasn’t the type to borrow a cup of sugar (she had plenty of that at the bakery), but she did enjoy a friendly morninggreeting or casual chitchat when checking the mail. Faith had been thrilled when her friend, Sarah, had recently moved into one of the vacant downstairs apartments with her daughter, Laney, to be closer to her work at the library. Even though they were on the other side of the complex, it was nice to have the reassurance of familiar faces nearby.
Faith’s stomach grumbled again. She needed to eat something, but nothing in her refrigerator or cupboards would satisfy her craving now that she had that rotisserie chicken on the brain. Shouldering back into her still sodden coat, Faith dipped her hands into the small dish to retrieve her keys. She would brave the snow and the cold for the promise of that roasted goodness. It was as close to her father’s timeworn recipe as she’d ever tasted. Maybe it was that heartfelt nostalgia that made it all the more delicious. Maybe it was the simplicity of an already cooked meal. Whatever the reason, she had a hankering that could only be satisfied by the real thing.
Gripping the handle on the front door, she paused.
Footsteps suddenly thudded on the concrete stairs outside, loud and rhythmic, like a quick-paced jog. She pressed her ear to the door and felt the frame rattle from the thundering approach.
Faith trapped her breath in her lungs and squinted through the peephole.
No.
It couldn’t be.
She looked again, gasping.
She would recognize that set of broad shoulders anywhere.
Jaw tight and molars clenched, she yanked the door open and burst onto the landing. “Mitch?”
The startled man whirled around, nearly dropping the two plastic sacks of groceries weighing down his hands. “Faith?”
“What are you doing here?” Her furrowed brows lowered so far over her eyes she had difficulty seeing him clearly. “Are youstalkingme?”
“Stalking you?” His chin jerked back. “Do stalkers typically do their stalking with full loads of groceries?”
Faith’s hands wove across her chest and her feet took a defensive stance. This man had some serious explaining to do. “What are those groceries for?”
“To eat.” He looked at her like she’d fallen out of a tree. “That’s usually what people do with food.”
And that’s when she caught it. The faintest lemony scent, chased by a hint of spicy pepper. “Do you have a rotisserie chicken in there?”
“Yep. Last one.”
Her hand curled around the keys in her coat pocket, inadvertently stabbing them into her palm. She loosened her grip. “What did you say?”
“I grabbed the last one.”
Her momentary confusion over Mitch’s presence on her porch was completely eclipsed by her disappointment that she’d missed out on the last Main Street Market chicken. It couldn’t be. “You grabbed thelastone? As in, they’re all out?”
“That’s usually what the word ‘last’ indicates.”
And then Mitch did the strangest thing in the world; he turned around and fit his key into the lock on the apartment opposite hers.
“What on earth are you doing?” Faith shouted, suddenly horrified.
“I’m letting myself in.”
“You can’t do that!”
“My lease says I can.”
