Chapter 11
Rowe
“Good morning,” I say cheerfully, holding a cup of coffee as a peace offering. “How’d you sleep?”
Pane frowns, which makes a dimple snap, crackle, and pop below the apple of his cheek. “As best I could, considering there was an audience.”
A night of rest did nothing to improve his mood. If he’s this ticked now, he’s really going to be mad once he figures out that half the town knows of his presence.
I gesture toward the old Toyota Tacoma he parked in the drive. “Well, you could always sleep in there.” He takes the coffee with a grunt and sips. “Ready to get to work?”
He gives a curt nod. “I need to look at the P and L statements.”
“The what?”
“Profit and loss.”
“Right. Those’ll be on my mom’s computer. I’ll set you up.”
After getting him logged on to the computer, I start breakfast. The animals have been fed, but you wouldn’t know it by how the piggies are sitting on the back porch, snouts pressed to the screen door as they eye me accusingly. No doubt they’re wondering why I’ve locked them out and replaced them with a stranger.
After an hour I knock on my mom’s door. Pane glances up from the computer. His third cup of coffee sits neatly atop a coaster beside the laptop. He took his refills by walking in and grunting like the brute he is.
Lucky for him, I speak grunt.
“Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”
He drops his gaze to the screen. “Thank you, but I’m good.”
“You sure? The eggs are fresh.”
“From chickens?”
“Actually, from the octopus I keep in an underground aquarium.”
“I’ve actually heard good things about that,” he jokes dryly.
I rest my shoulder on the doorjamb. “I’m only going to make the offer once.”
“Fine.” He drags his eyes from the computer and rises, stretching his arms over his head. This morning he’s wearing a tight burgundy popover shirt, which is a cross between a Henley and a button-down. He’s pairing this fashionable ensemble with pressed jeans and dress shoes.
“You need boots,” I tell him as he approaches. “My dad has an old pair. They might fit you.”
“First, I need a tour of the house. Then breakfast.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Boots can wait.”
Said tour takes all of five minutes. I cringe when we reach the living room, which is a carpet of quilts and naked flooring. He studies it carefully, his gaze scraping over the empty boards, some of which are sun bleached from where antique furniture once sat—as of yesterday, in fact. But luckily for me, Pane doesn’t comment on the lack of furnishings.
When we reach upstairs, he spots my sticky notes on the bathroom mirror and inspects them with a sharp eye.
“I like your aspirations.”
I sweep past him and rip the notes off the mirror and dump them in the garbage. “They’re not mine.”
He lifts his brows but doesn’t say anything else. As we head to the stairs, Buster the Cat darts out of my bedroom and follows us.
The whole way to the kitchen, Pane types on his phone, barely bothering to look up as he maneuvers steps and turns.
