Page 9 of Your Place or Mine

“Sure. Pie and sarcasm.”

Curtis grinned. “The two essentials of survival.”

I shook my head and stood, needing to burn some of the energy buzzing under my skin. “If she doesn’t show by closing, I’m calling it.”

“Calling what?” Drew asked.

“Calling her a coward,” I said, moving toward the back. “And then maybe finding her address so I can showherwhat introductions look like.”

Curtis’s voice followed me through the swinging kitchen doors. “That’s the start of a charming meet-cute or a restraining order!”

“Restraining order,” my brother piped up, and I chuckled.

I couldn’t help the grin tugging at the edge of my mouth.

Just barely.

Still, beneath the sarcasm and the pie and the teasing… I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming.

And when shedidfinally walk through that door, she’d better be ready.

Because I sure as hell would be.

I returned to the storage room and picked up the cardboard boxes nearly dissolving in my hands—beer-soaked, grease-stained, and one weirdly sticky for reasons I didn’t care to investigate.

I grumbled and shouldered the back door open, letting it bang shut behind me as I crossed the gravel lot toward the trash and recycling bins.

The sky had started its slow shift into that dusky golden color, and the scent of pine mixed with fryer oil clung to the air like it belonged there. Probably because it did. Or because it had all rubbed off on my flannel from these boxes.

I chucked the cardboard into the bin with a satisfying crash and wiped my hands on my jeans. Maybe the day wasn’t a total wash. The new building owner hadn’t shown—no call, no email, not even a passive-aggressive note taped to the door. She was probably holed up in some fancy rental across town, sipping matcha and planning where to hang her overpriced artwork.

Just as I turned to head back inside, a burst of laughter stopped me cold.

I glanced over at the metal staircase leading to the upstairs apartment unit, the one above the bakery. Two women were struggling up the stairs with suitcases that looked like they’d been packed by someone fleeing a country, not moving into a cozy little mountain town.

One suitcase was floral, the other leopard print. Both were way too big, and one was already listing to the side like it had a busted wheel. One of the women, barefoot, pink sunglasses pushed up in her blonde hair, laughing like she’d just told the best joke in the world, looked about one second from losing her grip.

I narrowed my eyes. That unit was one of the furnished ones. Short-term lease. Probably someone is moving in with a friend to save money. The town was full of ‘em lately—transplants looking for a break from city prices.

A tired old Corolla was parked haphazardly in the lot, one bumper hanging on by faith alone, and a sticker on the back that readI Brake for Snacks. I chuckled under my breath. The new building owner was going to love that eyesore on her lot.

As if on cue, the leopard-print suitcase gave up entirely and tumbled down the stairs in dramatic slow motion, flopping to a stop near my boots.

I sighed and walked over just as the barefoot woman clattered down after it, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

“Oh myGod, it’s like it’s possessed,” she wheezed, grabbing at the railing. “I swear this thing is out to kill me.”

I nudged the suitcase upright with my boot. “You pack a bowling alley in here?”

“Just shoes. And regrets.” She looked up at me with a dazzling, slightly sheepish grin. “And maybe a coffee maker.”

“Sounds like a lot of weight for a weekend getaway.”

She squinted at me. “You always this helpful with strangers?”

“You always this chatty with locals you nearly crush with a leopard-print missile?”

That made her laugh again. “Fair. I’m Melanie.”

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