“Slim Jim,” he said, throwing open the pantry door and scanning the items inside. He snatched one from the open box, ripped it open, used it to lure Russell upstairs, and threw it in his bedroom before shutting Russ inside.
A sudden fear that Bree would slip back to her house if he didn’t hurry propelled him down toward the landing. His eyes roved the space and, quick as a flash, he danced around the paint buckets, tidied up the toilet paper rolls in the hall closet, tossed a crumpled pair of athletic pants and T-shirt in the bathroom vanity, and snatched up his tennis shoes. Dropping the shoes side by side by the door, he exhaled, smiled, and whipped the door open.
She was still there. Hesitancy deep in her eyes.
“Coast is clear,” he said, smiling as though he’d been lounging around all day.
Smiling as though she was just a friend who’d come by for dinner.
A neighbor swinging by for a quick bite.
Like normal people did. Normal, non-mortal enemies.
“C’mon in,” he said and swung the door open wide.
She looked down at the threshold as though he’d asked her to step off a ledge.
His brow rose. “Tell you what. You come in, and I promise we can resume hating each other tomorrow if it’ll make you feel better.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You know, just to keep our options open.”
This tipped her face into a smile.
She took one tentative step in.
They both looked down at her foot appreciatively for a few moments.
“All right then.” Chip clapped his hands together. “Let’s get you some food.”
Bree followed Chip, her head swiveling back and forth as she took in the house. She looked as uncertain as he felt. “So . . . you feed the dog Slim Jims on purpose now.”
“I admit, I had a hard time finding it on the doggie food pyramid, and the vet informed me in no uncertain terms that I’m an irresponsible doggie parent if I let him eat them too often. So don’t worry. I am well-informed of my bad parenting.” He dragged a kitchen chair beside the space heater and waved to it.
“Oh.” Bree cracked a smile as she sat on it. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re admitting it at least.”
“And that’s the first step to recovery, I hear. Sorry—” He leaned over her, reaching for the power button on the space heater squeezed between Bree and the kitchen wall. He clicked it on, then pushed the heat to high. Even without touching her, he could sense her stiffness. Feel his own.
He stood upright. “There. That should just take a couple minutes.”
“What? Not thirty? I was promised thirty.”
He looked up to her face as he moved to the other side of the counter. Heard the playfulness in her tone. Good. She was starting to relax. Even if just barely.
He swiveled around. Pulled open the fridge and ducked his head in. “Okay then. Chili. Moderately decent chili . . .” He plucked a couple of tomatoes from the bottom drawer. Grabbed the jar of minced garlic with the other hand.
“Minced garlic. Wow.” Bree stuffed her hands beneath her legs. “I did not expect you to be a cook.”
He raised a brow. “You mean you haven’t seen me chopping up onions from the kitchen window?”
And for once, she looked abashed. “Well . . .”
He smiled as he set a few cans of black beans on the counter. “You know, while brooding with a steaming cup of coffee at your lips?”
She rose her brow innocently. “Has that ever happened? Surely not—”
“And mouthing words at me? What were those words . . .” He tapped his finger on the counter as he shut the cabinet. “What were they? . . . I. Hate. You?”
“Oh look!” Bree pointed to the cabinet. “It slow-closes now. Isn’t that just lovely?”
The comment, intended to distract, brought the conversation to an abrupt stop. He opened his mouth, tripping to find a good reply, while the thoughts flashed across his mind in bold: She paid so much attention to him that she knew his soft-close cabinet had been broken at one point. And that he’d fixed it. She’d watched him enough through the window to observe the pace at which his cabinet closed.
And had just admitted it.
To him.
He found himself looking for a reply that would make the red creeping up her neck dissipate.
“Well, it’s not anything near the vintage-modern style of your open cabinetry, but I’ll take the compliment,” he said nonchalantly. “By the