Page 47 of The Matchmaker
“There’s a cobweb in your hair,” is all she says at the sight of me.
“It’s called fashion. Did you eat lunch?”
“I did.”
“And did you get out with Plankton?”
“He wouldn’t budge. He’s having a sniff in the back.”
I nod. The back garden is fenced off, so we let him roam around freely. Everywhere else, the dog needs a leash. He tends to run after anything and everything, and, with the added traffic on the roads because of the site, both Granny and I have gotten a little jumpy.
“I’ll take him out later. He can come with me to the barn.”
She frowns at that. “You just came from the barn.”
“I know. But there’s still a lot of work to do.”
“So long as you don’t tire yourself out,” she warns, as I race up the stairs.
“I said I was going to give this everything I’ve got.”
“You also said you were going to learn to make lasagna from scratch,” she calls. “But I’m yet to reap the benefits.”
I ignore her, tugging my sweater and T-shirt over my head, and stuffing them into the overflowing laundry basket in the bathroom. Between my usual shifts at the bar and all the festival prep, I’ve been neglecting my chore list. I probably have two days of clean clothes left. So, laundry. I need to do laundry, and go on a food run and get more of that bread Granny likes. Tomorrow, I need to go to the pharmacy and pick up her medicine, and then I need to order a new bulb for her reading lamp, and do some meal prep for the week because it’s not like I’m going to have time to cook anytime soon.
But first, laundry.
Or maybe a shower.
I peel down my leggings, kicking them free of my ankles before unclasping my bra. Every bit of skin that was uncovered at the barn now has a fine layer of grime coating it, and my legs are stamped with bruises I don’t remember getting.
“Do you have any colors?” I yell to Granny, as I pad barefooted to my bedroom. “I’m going to put a wash on and then I need to—”
I cut off with a screech, clutching the falling bra to my breasts as I come to an abrupt stop in the doorway. I can almostfeelthis new core memory slotting itself into my brain, ready to be analyzed during future sleepless nights as the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me. Because, as I stand half-filthy and half-naked in the hallway, Callum Dempsey stands a few paces away, looking right at me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He lingers in the middle of the landing, with a toolbox in one hand and an empty mug in the other. A pair of headphones cover his ears, and I can just make out the tinny sound of guitars blaring as we stare at each other in horror. Or at least, I stare at him in horror. Callum looks like someone just whacked him over the head, his gaze darting from my face to my chest and back again like he can’t stop himself.
It’s only when I back up a step, feeling like my face is on fire, that he seems to snap out of it, scrambling to pull his headphones off as he moves toward me.
“Shit, Katie, I didn’t know you were—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest of the sentence. I whirl back to the bathroom instead, locking the door shut.
Oh my God. Oh myGod.
“Katie?” I jerk away as he knocks on the wood, letting my bra fall to the floor as I grab a towel and hastily wrap it around me.
“What are you doingin my house?” I shriek through the door.
“Your grandmother asked me to—” He breaks off with a curse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were home. I didn’t see anything.”
The man’s a liar. The girls were definitely free for at least half a second.
“Katie?” He knocks again when I don’t answer, and I wince.
“I’m fine!” I lie. “Just going to have a shower now!”
