Page 13 of For Fox Sake

Except, now that she’s standing right in front of me, the words aren’t coming.

How would I react if some stranger showed up, demanding answers about something that involved my departed sister? Not too friendly, and not ready to roll over and give up info, I imagine.

She jerks her thumb toward the kitchen. “Shall I check out the stove?”

“Yes. Right.”

She heads through the house, and I follow her.

“Do you want some water or something?” I open the fridge and pull out a plastic bottle. If she drinks from this, I can send it in for DNA testing.

“No. Thanks.”

I twist off the cap and take a drink. “Are you sure? I got plenty of bottles. They’re nice and cold and refreshing.”

She shoots me a confused look, her brows dipping.

Yep. I’m making it weird. There goes that idea.

She stands in front of the stove, pushing buttons, turning knobs, and of course nothing happens.

Would it be weird to offer to brush her hair?

How long will it take for her to figure out the issue? This same scenario happened to me at one of the cabins on my family’s rental property before we turned it into a camp. It took me a good thirty minutes to realize it was simply unplugged. I have no idea why the tenants decided to do it, it’s not like it’s easy to pull the appliance out from the wall and tug the cord out, then push it all back in, but people do weird things.

She twists around to look at me. “Can you help me get this out from the wall?”

“Of course.” Damn. She’s quicker than I was. Maybe it’s not surprising, since I was more than likely hungover at the time.

I stand next to her, wrapping my fingers around the back of the oven and tugging it forward on the right side while she mimics me on the left.

It’s a heavy, stainless-steel oven, so the motion is ungainly and at one point my hip brushes hers.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“No problem. So,” she grunts as we get it out from the wall a few inches, then she pulls her phone from her back pocket and turns on the flashlight. “Where are you visiting from?”

After a second’s hesitation, I tell her the truth, if only to see her reaction. “I’m from Whitby. It’s in New York.”

She points the phone back behind the oven, peering down the back of it, and frowns. “Whitby? Never heard of it. I lived in Ithaca during high school and college. Though I didn’t have a chance to explore the rest of the state much.”

She didn’t even flinch. She’s either an Oscar-worthy actress, or she’s truly never heard of Whitby. Ithaca is only a couple of hours away, but Whitby is tiny. Confusion pokes at me, questions popping up in my mind like an unwieldy jack in the box. There were never return addresses on the envelopes the letters were in. A printed label adorned the front of each one with our home address. Is it possible she isn’t the letter writer? There can’t be another Ryan and Mia in Dull. “It’s a really small town, near the Catskills.”

She sighs. “It’s unplugged. I should have known those renters would do more than leave their crabs behind.”

“Crabs?”

She waves a hand. “It’s nothing. People are weird. So, is Whitby smaller than Dull?”

“Yep.”

She pulls back and grips the side of the oven again. “We have to pull this out farther to get the plug back in the wall.”

I help her wiggle the appliance farther and then she hoists herself up on the counter, lying on her belly to reach behind it.

The position showcases her trim waist, the subtle arch of her hip, and the curve of her ass in her tight jeans.

Lust blows through my body. My groin tightens.

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