Page 77 of The Grump Next Door
“Here.” I reach up, fixing the strand before she can try again. Our fingers brush—a small thing, but my pulse kicks anyway. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold.”
It’s August.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I ask.
“Um. Lunch?”
“Which lunch?”
She winces. “The… yesterday kind?”
“Damn it, Poppy.”
“I’ve been busy—”
“You’ve been stubborn.” I finish the last clip and step back. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen. Food. Now.”
“I don’t need—”
I’m already walking away. After a beat, her footsteps follow.
“Bossy,” she mutters.
Practical, not bossy. Someone has to make sure the wedding planner doesn’t collapse in the middle of my property. It’s a liability waiting to happen.
The kitchen is dim, the under-cabinet lights throwing soft shadows across the counters. I pull out leftovers. She perches on a barstool, headlamp still crooked, exhaustion written all over her face.
“You can take that off now.”
“Oh. Right.” She removes it, and her hair comes with it, falling around her shoulders in loose waves.
“Better?” she asks.
Worse, actually. Much worse.
I slide a plate across the counter. “Eat.”
She eyes it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Food. Eat it.”
She takes one bite and groans softly. “Oh wow.”
“It’s just pasta.”
“It’s heaven,” she says around another bite. “When did you make this?”
“Earlier. While you were running around playing fairy godmother.”
“I wasn’t—” She stops, smiles sheepishly. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Silence settles—comfortable but full of static. She eats; I lean against the sink, watching her demolish the pasta like she’s been starving for days. The sight stirs something protective in me I don’t want to name.
