Hiswhat? “You don’t have a lease for that apartment.” She would know that bit of pertinent information. Wouldn’t she?
“Yes, I do. Six months, in fact.”
Faith couldn’t stand the thought of engaging in this frustrating conversation for six more seconds, let alone endure six months with Mitch as her neighbor. This couldn’t be happening.
“Why didn’t you say anything back at the bakery?” She rubbed her jaw, forcing it to relax even though no other part of her could. Her limbs were tight with agitation, like a coiled spring ready to release.
“Because, as I mentioned earlier, I’m not a stalker, Faith. How would I know you lived here?”
It was a fair point, one that only made her more exasperated. “Did you really get the last chicken?”
Mitch pursed his lips, revealing a dimple Faith wished he didn’t have. Dimples were distracting. “I really did.”
Well, that was the end of that. She turned around and reopened her front door. No sense in heading out now when the one thing she’d wanted was no longer an option.
“I doubt I’ll manage to finish the whole thing.” Her new neighbor cleared his throat softly. “We could share.”
But she didn’t want to share, not with Mitch. “I’m not hungry.”
Her stomach, however, chose that particular moment to completely betray her.
“It sounds like you actually are.” Mitch lingered with the door to his apartment ajar, one foot inside and the other still on the stoop. “Come on in. I don’t have much—just a card table and some folding chairs—but I do have a chicken, and it sounds like you have a weird obsession with them.”
“I don’t have an obsession with them. They just remind me of my dad.” A confession she realized only made her sound crazier than she’d already come across.
Mitch gave her a little grace and didn’t acknowledge her odd statement.
Reluctantly, she followed him inside. He wasn’t exaggerating; he truly did only have a small table and set of four chairs. There was a crudely taped packing box perched on the Formica counter which she assumed housed his kitchen supplies, but other than that, no sort of décor or personal touches, let alone furniture to fill up the empty space in the apartment. Surely, he had a bed in the back room, but Faith didn’t let her mind dwell on that for long because just the thought made her cheeks flush with crimson heat.
“I can take your coat,” Mitch offered after settling his groceries onto the counter and collecting a runaway orange that had escaped when one of the bags tipped over.
Maybe he’d noticed her rosy glow. Faith certainly hoped that wasn’t the case. Still, she slipped out of her jacket and passed it to him. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing.” He nudged his chin toward the flimsy table that looked like a heavy platter would take it out completely. “Go ahead and take a seat while I unpack these groceries. In the meantime, can I get you something to drink? Bottled water? Soda?”
It felt a little silly to take him up on the offer when she had her own beverages just a few feet away in her apartment refrigerator, but she acknowledged his hospitality and was thankful for the polite gesture. It was the first civil interaction they’d had. “Water’s great.”
Mitch nodded once and retrieved a chilled bottle from the fridge before he got to work sorting through his purchases. Once everything was put away, he came over with the packaged rotisserie chicken and a container of something that looked a lot like broccoli salad, but with cranberries instead of raisins. He placed the items in the center of the table.
Faith glanced up. “Plates?”
“Ah.” Mitch squeezed the back of his neck and laughed. “Yes. We might need those. Utensils too, but based on your initial reaction to that chicken, I wouldn’t put eating with your hands past you.”
“Mitch, I’m not acompletebarbarian.”
He just chuckled again and headed back to the kitchen where he opened the big brown box and rummaged around for a few moments before locating what he needed.
“I didn’t realize these chickens were in such high demand,” he admitted, taking the seat opposite Faith. The smile he gave her wasn’t forced this time, and when they locked eyes, it was as if he was studying her. She sensed a curiosity behind his gaze, one that made her stomach tremble but in a much different way than earlier when it had growled persistently out of hunger. Now Mitch was the one who looked hungry, but for what, she couldn’t be certain. He broke their stare and passed her a beige ceramic plate, along with a fork he’d quickly wrapped in a paper napkin. It wasn’t fancy by any means, but it was functional.
“I don’t know that anyone else in Snowdrift is as enthusiastic about them as I am,” Faith admitted. “It’s just one of my tried-and-true comfort foods, if that makes sense.”
“It does.”
Mitch popped off the plastic lid from the container, sending an aromatic burst of roasted spices and seasonings mixed with citrus into the air. He motioned for Faith to help herself to the steaming chicken first. She did, pulling off one leg and setting it onto her dish before scooping a helping of salad to deposit next to it.
“That’s how my aunt’s potato casserole is,” he continued as he quietly watched Faith make up her plate. “She makes it every year for Christmas, and always brings an extra half-portion justfor me so I can have it for breakfast the following day. Favorite meal ever.”
“Funny how both of our favorite foods are tied to family.”
