Page 86 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“And mouthing words at me? What were those words . . .” He tapped his finger on the counter as he shut the cabinet. “What were they? . . . I. Hate. You?”

“Oh look!” Bree pointed to the cabinet. “It slow-closes now. Isn’t that just lovely?”

The comment, intended to distract, brought the conversation to an abrupt stop. He opened his mouth, tripping to find a good reply, while the thoughts flashed across his mind in bold: She paid so much attention to him that she knew his soft-close cabinet had been broken at one point. And that he’d fixed it. She’d watched him enough through the window to observe the pace at which his cabinet closed.

And had just admitted it.

To him.

He found himself looking for a reply that would make the red creeping up her neck dissipate.

“Well, it’s not anything near the vintage-modern style of your open cabinetry, but I’ll take the compliment,” he said nonchalantly. “By the way, what is with your mismatching appliances? I’m not picky, but a stainless-steel dishwasher with a white fridge . . .”

“You,” Bree retorted, “not picky? Every single room in this house is the same color.”

He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, my gray walls don’t have quite the charm as your wallpapered ones. But at least I don’t have creepy children on the wallpaper of my dining room.”

She smiled as she crossed one leg over the other and laughed in an indignant way. “What they are is adorable. Adorable little kids running down a hill carrying baskets.”

He pulled out the knife and began chopping a tomato. “Creepy little kids chasing a poor old man down a hill while carrying baskets.”

“He’s not an old man.”

“He’s bald.”

“It’s a boy with a baseball cap.”

“He’s a bald old man being harassed by the village children.” He pointed his knife toward the window. “You see it from my angle.”

While the pot of chili simmered, and after much argument, the experiment began. She went back to her house, flicked on the light switch to the dining room, and then came back so they could stand side by side at his window, observing as if they were in an art gallery.

“I still don’t see it,” she said, her fingers pressed to her chin as she squinted from his kitchen window to hers.

“Turn your head,” he said, tilting his head a few inches.

She watched him, then did so herself.

Waited a few moments.

“Nope.”

“Squint a little,” he said.

She squinted, then tilted her head the other direction and squinted again. “Nope. Just an adorable little boy followed by his clan.”

“You’ll see it better from this window,” he said and moved toward the window above the counters. She followed.

They ended up trying every window facing her house. And then, when she had finally conceded to a slightly disturbing image, she dragged him over to her house to see the wallpaper for himself—where he then conceded to it not being as creepy as it seemed from a distance.

Thirty minutes later, Bree sat with bent knees up to her chin as she dragged the last of the crumbly cornbread across the bowl of chili. They’d talked more of his family, her family, how she felt about life since leaving Gatlinburg, how he felt about the Barter bid. It was easy, talking to her. Almost as easy as it had been that first night. And for the first time since moving in, the house started to feel like a home.

She popped the last bit of cornbread into her mouth as she looked at the freshly painted wall.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

He raised a brow. He spoke around his mouthful of cornbread. “I’m sorry. Is this a trick question?”

Her eyes turned from the wall to him. She made a face. “Really, Chip. Do you think there maybe is something wrong with me, that I can’t find anything that makes me happy? Really happy?”