surprising happened. Mr. Richardson’s face came to mind along with the last words she heard him speak before she retreated from the gala weeks ago.
Huh.
Well. Well. Well.
A smile crept up her lips.
Bingo.
“Actually,” she said, her voice rising, “as it just so happens, I do know something about the bid. Something important.”
Suddenly Russell knocking her over and officially breaking her tailbone no longer mattered so much. Now, armed with truly valuable information, she felt confident enough to shift her weight to one hip as she crossed her arms without a care in the world.
Chip must’ve known it too, because he started tugging the collar back down, the wry grin on his face melting at her victorious smirk.
His teasing tone dropped. “What do you know?”
The dog started nudging his knees.
“Oh, you know. Things.” Bree turned on her heel.
She walked through the yard and opened the screen door.
“What do you know?” he called after her.
The thrill of knowing she had something, something, over that man was worth a dozen dog knockdowns.
“Bree. Please.”
She halted. There was something about the way her name came from his lips. It triggered an odd eruption of emotions so tangled she could hardly unravel them. Irritation, defiance, the complete and utter joy of winning, of course, but almost . . . No, she must’ve misunderstood herself. There was no possible way she had felt . . . a flutter.
She turned with her hand on the handle. Frowned.
And yet there it was again, as she met his brown eyes. The wrinkle across his typically smooth, carefree forehead. The tautness of his shirt against his chest as he inhaled and then paused, holding his breath for her answer.
She could win right now. Walk inside and slam that door shut behind her. Win.
Maybe in her older years she would think back on this moment and fondly recall the irrepressible joy as she shut the door and watched his face fall. She would laugh to herself, alone in a rocking chair, while she imagined him somewhere small and seedy, driven mad after years of wondering just what secret she refused to share. A lonely, bitter old man in his own rocking chair somewhere—
She shook her head.
She was really losing it.
“You get this fence moved by midnight, and I’ll tell you.”
He started to reply and she threw up a hand to stop him.
“Midnight. Not one millisecond past.”
And just to prove to herself she still had some guts in her, she slammed the screen door behind her.
She pushed the front door shut and immediately began pacing the length of the eight-by-eleven-foot rug.
Lifting her gaze to the window, she saw Chip shoveling down the median, pulling up the narrow line of soil. His arms worked swiftly now, muscles working with such seamless rhythm the action seemed second nature. As though he’d been shoveling, and hammering, and wearing that slim-fitting, holey long-sleeve shirt all his life.
He looked up and met her eyes through the window.
There it was again. That flutter.
She practically jumped into the kitchen.
Caffeine.
It was definitely time for caffeine.
Bree walked into the small square kitchen overlooking the Appalachian Mountains. Like everything else in the house, it was dated, black-and-white tiles peeking out from the spaces teal area rugs didn’t cover. She reached above the stove for her coffee mug sitting on the open cabinetry and set it beside the sugar jar. She set the percolator in the sink and turned on the tap. Water flowed, though for the first time in days she barely registered the relief she had felt at seeing it rush—ice cold or otherwise—so steadily.
She glanced around the kitchen, at all the articles that were not hers. She’d come to this house with a duffel bag. It’d taken her six months to buy a coffee mug.
Nobody at home had said it, but she knew they thought she wouldn’t make it a month beyond Nana’s passing before turning tail and heading home. They didn’t think she had it in her to stay away from Gatlinburg. They also didn’t think she had it in her to stick with her job. Why would they? She had never worked long at any one place before. Now, it seemed, the choice to leave the Barter was taken before she had the chance to run.
Bree rubbed her toe against the thick mat in front of the sink still filled with yesterday’s dishes. The dishwasher had gone last Thursday, because Bree didn’t get a say, because she didn’t technically own it, because Evie had oh so conveniently bought it herself