Page 27 of Your Place or Mine

I shouldn’t care.

Ididn’tcare.

Except… I did.

Because I’d spent the last hour trying not to think about how her voice softened when she talked about rebuilding. The way her eyes lit up when she defended herself. She didn’t back down, even when I tried to push her into it.

And now she was upstairs laughing about me like I was a punchline.

I heard Melanie say something else about my boots and how I glared like I had a personal vendetta against lighting fixtures, but I stopped listening.

I stepped back from the stairs, back toward my truck, my heart still pounding with something that was not attractive and not jealousy.

I was just pissed.

That was all.

Pissed because she didn’t take me seriously. Because she was inmytown, inmybuilding, mocking me after claiming she wasn’t here to cause trouble.

I slammed my truck door harder than necessary and gripped the steering wheel like it had personally offended me.

The laugh echoed again, even with the windows up.

God. That laugh.

She was trouble. All soft curls, quick wit, and a smile that could make a man forget why he was mad in the first place, right before she changed everything he’d worked for.

Well, not me.

I remembered exactly why I was mad.

And I was damn sure not about to forget it.

Let her laugh.

Let her joke.

Let her imagine she could sweep in here and win everyone over with her sunshine and sweet talk.

But I wasn’t buying it.

Not for one damn second.

Chapter Eight

Lydia

Reckless River smelled like cinnamon, pine, and righteous small-town judgment the next morning. Which was to say, it was perfect.

Melanie and I strolled down Main Street, sipping coffee from ceramic mugs we hadn’t paid for yet. Apparently, June at the bakery ran on the honor system and the power of baked goods. She’d handed us mugs and a brown bag of warm croissants before we could say “please,” then shooed us out the door like we were grandkids she hadn’t seen in a while.

“This place is adorable,” Melanie said, biting into her pastry. “I’m moving in.”

I gave her a look. “You hate small towns.”

“Yeah, well. I also hate sweats with no pockets, but I still own five pairs.”

“That’s not even a comparison.”

---