Instead, I stand in the doorway where I can watch her from an angle. It’s my default setting. Looking at the world sideways means nobody gets to look back at you for too long. Mae called me Mr. Side-Eye. Half the town joined in. I earned the nickname.
And right now, it’s saving me. If I look at her head-on, I’ll give myself away.
She shifts her weight from one hip to the other. My gaze catches on the soft curve of her waist above her skirt. The strip of skin at the back of her neck, where her hair has fallen.
My hands fist at my sides.
She turns. Her eyes go wide. She pushes her glasses down onto her nose.
“Oh. You’re back.” Pink rises in her cheeks. Talking fast, she grips the wooden spoon like a weapon. “I made pasta. I hope that’s okay. I found stuff in your pantry. I was hungry. I made enough for two.”
“You didn’t have to.” The words come out rougher than I intend.
“I know.” She holds the spoon tighter. “I wanted to. You gave me your spare room, your coffee, and your dog. Feeding you is the least I can do.”
Spool sits at her feet. He’s made his choice and wants me to respect it. Again, I don’t blame him, but it rankles.
At the sink, I wash my hands. The kitchen is too small for the distance I need.
“Sit down,” she says. “I’ll plate dinner.”
“I’ll eat at the counter.”
“There’s a table right here, Jace.”
My name. She hasn’t said it until now. I sit at the table.
She places a plate in front of me. The pasta with whatever wilted greens she found in the back of my fridge smells better than anything I have cooked myself.
She sits across from me and watches me over her fork.
I eat. It’s good.
“The stove was burning low when I got up,” she says. “I added two logs around noon. I hope I did it right.”
“You did.”
“The draft on the left is tricky. I had to adjust the damper.”
What the fuck?
She figured out the damper. My grandfather installed it backward and never fixed it because nobody else in his life needed to know.
“You notice things.”
“Occupational hazard.” Her smile reaches her eyes. Such an open expression hasn’t been directed at me in years. “I’m a book consultant. I notice what people read, how they organize, and what they reach for. Same skill with a stove, I guess. You pay attention to how something works, and it tells you about the person who built it.”
She’s talking about my grandfather’s stove, but she’s looking at me as if reading my spine. I push back from the table and take my plate to the sink.
“Thank you,” I say to the sink. “For the food.”
“You’re welcome.”
As I wash my plate, I imagine her staring at my scar.
“Jace?” she asks.
I glance her way.
