“Well,” I say carefully. “Most people can’t get dramatically fired from their jobs like me.”
She looks at me over her shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No,” I say with a chuckle. “But because I don’t want you to think I somehow deserved it, I’ll add that the reason behind my termination was because my boss’s wife worked in the office and sent an email to her friend about how badly she wanted to bang me. Her husband found it, and I got whacked.”
“That’s not legal.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree. “But what am I going to do? Fight for a job that just got super weird?”
As if she feels pity for me, Sophie slides a few pieces of sliced pepper my way.
“Besides,” I say, popping the pepper into my mouth with a nod of thanks, “everything happens for a reason.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do. I think.”
“What will you do now?”
That’s the million-dollar question.
I sit back in my chair and blow out a breath. “I’m not sure. I was in the running to get my dream job before Bang Gate.”
She laughs, her cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. “That sounds like a porno.”
“What a dirty mind you have.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the stove, her body angled so she can keep an eye on me. The aroma from the pan billows through the room as she stirs whatever it is slowly.
“So are you out of contention now?” she asks.
“I’m not sure. I’m worried about it, to be honest.” I lean forward and rest my elbows against the counter. “They love stability and look for people that don’t hop around from job to job. Which makes sense. And now I’m basically a vagrant with a broken engagement.”
Her brows lift. “Broken engagement? Do tell.”
She takes a package out of the fridge and plops it into a bowl. I watch her work while I try to figure out what, and how much, to say. It doesn’t feel like it matters, and I’d rather talk about her.
“There’s not much to tell,” I say as she puts the bowl in the microwave. “Jessica and I parted ways after we realized that we’d only been together because it was easier than separating. No drama. No crazy story.”
She mulls this around, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear while she thinks.
I can’t help but appreciate her figure from this angle. Her curves are soft and round, narrowing at the tie from her apron at her waist. Her neck is exposed, thanks to her curls being swept up on top of her head, and I can see the little chocolate milk–like birthmark just below her hairline.
“Can you fix it?” she asks. “The stability problem?”
“Not unless you want to marry me.”
She laughs. “Um, the last time I married you, we were seven, and you took the Ring Pop off my left hand and ate it right after the ceremony.”
My chest vibrates with my laugh. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“Not me. Come to think of it, it’s probably part of the reason I have marriage issues.”
The microwave buzzes. She removes the bowl and slides it in front of me. An incredible scent wafts up from the ceramic vessel. I peer inside to see miniature sausages with bacon wrapped around them. A shimmer coats the top.
“You’re not a healthy eater, are you?” she asks, handing me a fork.
“Not today.” I stab one and put it in my mouth. The sweetness of sugar mixes with the smokiness of the bacon and the meatiness of the sausage, blending together on my tongue. “That’s amazing.”
“I know.” She shrugs. “I couldn’t watch you sit there and drool while I cooked. I have a thing about people being hungry.”
“How about for people needing a room?”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks? I have my résumé out in a couple of places. As soon as I hear something, I’m gone.” I look up at her with puppy-dog eyes. “Please rent me a room. I’ll beg.”
A sigh that’s laced with both amusement and reservation topples from her lips. “You don’t even know how much I charge.”
“By the time I factor in gas and my time driving back and forth to Nashville, you could probably double your price and it would still be worth it.”
She grins mischievously. “It’s eighty-eight a night plus a dose of antibiotics.”
“Sophie . . .”
She laughs as she flips off the stove. “Fine. I’m teasing. You can have the blue room. Top of the staircase, last door on your left. But keep it down after nine, because the couple in the yellow room go to bed right after the early news.”
Her cheeks are a light shade of pink, and I’m not sure if it’s from my smile or the heat of the stove. Either way, I pause to appreciate it.
She bites her lip. “The pipes in the bathroom squeak a little. It’s on the list of things to replace as soon as I can.”
“I can deal with noisy pipes.”
“Good.” She turns back to the stove. “Dinner isn’t included with your room. Just breakfast. It’s a bed-and-breakfast. Get it?”
“Oh, so that’s what that means,” I say, letting my mouth hang open in faux surprise. “I never knew that.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll whip something up if you want me to, since I’m cooking anyway.”
Her back moves in such a way that I’m pretty certain she’s laughing. It occurs to me that I haven’t had such easy banter with a woman in a very long time. I also can’t remember ever feeling this relaxed around a woman. My last interaction with my former fiancée included a migraine and the indifferent return of an engagement ring. Maybe this one is so easy because she keeps me in check, or maybe it’s our shared history. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it right now.
“I’m going to head to the car and grab my bag,” I tell her.
“Suit yourself.”
I turn away but stop when she calls out to me.
“Holden?”
“Yeah?”
She smiles sheepishly. “The hot water in the shower upstairs is on the right. Not the left. Liv and I installed a new faucet last summer and . . . you know. That stuff gets confusing.”
“No worries.”
She clears her throat. “I have to go by my brother’s and drop off a few things. Then I’m heading to Tank’s for a fish sandwich. It’s the best part of the week.”
“Okay.”
“Well, um, if you want to meet me there in a half an hour or something—no pressure. I can bring you something back. Or . . . not. Either way is fine.”
My lips twist at her stumbling over her words. “I’d love to meet you.”
“Cool. See you there, then.” She grins to herself and turns away.
There are dozens of questions on the tip of my tongue—about her and the bed-and-breakfast and Liv and the soot that I can still faintly smell. But instead of asking them, I head outside and get in my rental car.
I sit in the driver’s seat and take in the Honey House. It needs a good coat of paint, and one of the shutters is askew. But it’s still quaint and looks more or less just like it did when we used to ride our bikes by here as kids.