Biting her lip hard to hold back the tears, she stood and nodded formally to Burke and then her dad, then walked stiffly out the front door.
Only when she was outside did she realize she forgot her jacket.
She stood there on the porch like a bump on a log, mind overwhelmed, and wondering what the heck to do next. Dad followed her out and opened his wallet. “You’ll need some groceries for the house.”
When he pulled out a couple of hundreds, Kimberly shook her head. “No, thank you. You’re doing what a dad is supposed to do, and I appreciate it, but I don’t want it.”
“Your accounts are frozen, and you won’t get paid from the sale of the house for another month, Kimberly. What are you going to live on?”
“I got a job. I get my first paycheck on Thursday. Please understand, this isn’t me being ungrateful. This is me asking you not to bail me out this time. I have to learn how to bail me out.”
Please just let me go before I break down!
Dad lifted his chin higher and put the money back in his wallet, leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “You call me if you get in a spot,” he murmured before he turned and went back inside.
He didn’t know it, but she wouldn’t call him. Even if she was in the gutter, she was determined not to call him or Mom for help. She would only call Leslie, who would hang out in the gutter with her. Leslie wouldn’t judge her.
Burke appeared in the doorway, her jacket and purse in his hands. He handed her both and made his way past her. “You’re doing this,” he gritted out.
Okay. Okay. “I’m doing this,” she whispered as she followed him around the house toward the garage where her boxes were stored.
His giant navy and white Bronco was sitting by the garage like a gosh-darn monster truck, all jacked up to the sky with the biggest tires she’d ever seen.
“Okay, that’s a little much,” she muttered.
“You say that until you need me to haul your stupid little car out of a snowbank.”
“I really don’t have money for groceries,” she whispered to herself. “What if I starve?”
“Sell your purse. It smells like alligator leather. Should make you enough to pay off the damn tiny house.”
“I can’t sell my purse. It’s worth more than your life!”
“Good. You can buy at least four boxes of macaroni with the profit then,” he deadpanned. Obnoxious boy. “How many boxes?” he asked, waiting for her to enter the code into the garage door to open it.
“Twenty-seven, I think.”
“Ha! Choose five. The tiny house won’t hold twenty-seven boxes of garbage.”
“It’s not garbage! It’s my whole life!”
When he arched his eyebrow at her in a “your whole life is garbage” look, she kicked at him. She didn’t know why she did it. He just made her so mad she stabbed her high heel at his thigh. But he moved out of the way easily. “I wish you weren’t a shifter.”
“Yeah? You and me both. Which five?” he asked, pointing to the stacks of boxes.
“I want all of them!”
“Fine. I’ll choose.” He sauntered over to a stack of three boxes and read the sharpie writing on the top one out loud. “Shoes. Let’s take this one because you can sell them.”
“I’m not selling my shoes!”
He carried the box to his Bronco. “You don’t need six billion pair of brand-name high heels, Kim.”
“It’s Kimberly!”
He walked back to the stack of boxes. “Oh, my God, all of these boxes say shoes on them.”
“I have the best shoe collection in all of Missoula.”
“Grand. Now, you can sell that collection and invest in some functional snow boots and maybe a pair of UGGs to wear around your house.”
“I don’t wear UGGs. They’re mundane.”
“Your loss. They are the comfiest shoes you will ever wear, and I disagree. They are pretty damn cute. Wear them with leggings and a hoodie and show off that little ass of yours. Flaunt all them squats your fancy trainer has had you do.”
“That outfit sounds hideous. And besides, I don’t even own a hoodie.”
Burke stopped sifting through her boxes. “What?”
“I don’t own a hoodie. They are baggy and make me look homely.”
“Homely? Hoodies are warm and functional and cute as hell to a guy like me.”
“Well, I’m not trying to land a guy like you. I’m trying to land a millionaire.”
Burke offered her an impressive eyeroll and a muttered curse. He was so annoying.
“Stop!” she exclaimed as he picked up another box. “If I only get five boxes, I want to choose them.”
“There you go. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Choose. You have four left.”
Whatever, she would just come back this week and load more boxes into her car, so screw him. “I’ll take the toiletries one, the one that says peasant clothes, and that one over there with my favorite kitchen utensils, aaaaand…” She looked around at all the writing on the stacked boxes. “That one over there.” She pointed.
Burke glared at the box in question. “That’s really the last box you want?”
“Yep.”
“The one that says college trophies and stuff?”
“Yep.”
“Why are you bringing your trophies to a tiny house? To remind yourself how awesome you are?”
It stung. His judgement stung. “No,” she said softly. “It’s to go through all the pictures of when I first met Braden and throw them away.”
She tried to smile at him, but her stupid lip trembled. His eyes filled with something she didn’t recognize, but it made her insides feel funny. So, she ducked her gaze, pulled out the box, and made her way to the opened back of the Bronco.
When all five boxes were loaded into the back, she helped Burke shut the back and made her way toward her car parked in front of the house.
“Hey, Kim?” Burke asked.
“It’s Kimberly,” she said, turning around.
He was standing by the passenger side of his rig, his head canted to the side and his eyes blazing an inhuman gold. “You did good today.”
She didn’t know why that compliment warmed her. He was virtually a stranger, and his opinion shouldn’t matter, but she hadn’t heard words of encouragement like that in a long time. That four-word combination mattered. It filled her up with this fluttering sensation, and for the first time in a long time, a little sense of pride in herself. “Thank you.”
“I got something for you,” he told her and opened the door to his Bronco. He tossed something blue through the air, and she lurched forward to catch it.
It was a bag of Chex Mix.
She’d been joking when she’d texted him about wanting some, but he’d gone to the store for her. She didn’t know why, but this bag of snacks meant a lot to her mangled little heart.
“It’s dinner since you’re poor now and can’t afford groceries,” he called out. She laughed.
Laughed.
Her, Kimberly Wilson, at the tail end of a divorce, moving into a home the size of her old closet, had laughed. How long had it been since she’d even smiled? Since her divorce? Since a year before that? Two years?