Page 96 of Holding On To Good

Swallowing, she edged back. Just a little. Not enough for it to seem as if she was running scared. Just enough so she no longer felt the hard muscle of his bicep or the warmth of his skin.

“And the upstairs master?” she asked, dropping her gaze to his sketch and keeping it there, as if it held the answer to not only that question, but all of life’s many, many mysteries.

“Gut job in the bathroom, but no added windows.”

She pretended to consider it but really, it was a solid compromise. One that landed heavily in her favor with his idea of adding a new master suite on the first floor. “Fair enough. Now,” she said, turning toward the door, “about the other bath—”

He sidestepped so that he was in front of her. Blocking her way, a big, broad, bearded wall.

She moved to her left and he moved to his right. “Urban—”

“I didn’t invite Miranda to my house last night.”

Oh, no. They were not going to talk about Miranda. She didn’t even want to think about her or why she’d shown up at his house like she still had the right to arrive on his doorstep whenever she pleased.

Like she’d still be welcomed by him with open arms.

Nope. Not going to think about the woman who cheated on him with his college roommate. The only woman he’d ever been even a little bit serious about.

The only person who’d ever come between him and Willow.

“What you and Miranda do is none of my business,” Willow insisted. “Which you obviously already figured out, or else you would’ve told me you ran into her Saturday night.”

“I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t important.”

He seemed sincere, as if he wasn’t trying to fool both himself and her.

But she knew him better than that.

She knew him better than anyone.

“That really the direction you want to go with this? Pretend that seeing the woman who stabbed your heart under one of her pointy, stiletto heels didn’t throw you at all?”

“Miranda and I were over a long time ago. Do you tell me every time you run into one of your exes?”

No. But she wasn’t about to let his logic ruin her point. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and Miranda. Not that it matters to me,” she added quickly. “It’s none of my business.”

“You already said that.”

“You seemed confused, so I thought I should reiterate it. Make myself clear.”

She stepped around him. They still had two bedrooms, the upstairs bathroom and the entire first floor to get through. He’d been right when he accused her of trying to lull him with the easy, less expensive fixes first. New windows and knocked out walls were nothing compared to what she had planned for the kitchen.

“Why did you run off like that last night?” he asked, stopping her at the threshold.

“I didn’t run off,” she said, facing him. “I left. Besides, I thought you’d want me gone. Give you and Miranda privacy for all that catching up” —she put air quotes around the words— “she was so eager to get to. How’d that go, by the way? Did you two get all caught up” —more air quotes— “after I left? Get reacquainted” —another set because her fingers obviously got the memo about sarcasm being the theme of the day— “over a glass of wine? She tell you all the details of her fabulous Real Housewives life?”

“She didn’t stay.”

“Uh-huh. But you two did manage to catch up.” More air quotes. Really, at this point, she had no control over her fingers. “Before she left?”

A wicked gleam lit his eyes though there was nothing remotely funny about this conversation.

“Catch up,” he said slowly. Deliberately.

Her fingers twitched.

He noticed and the smile he’d been fighting broke through, his teeth flashing white against his reddish beard, his eyes lighting with humor and affection.

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