Page 39 of Violent Little Thing

Since the doors were closed and the office was locked up tight, I saw no reason to announce that I was here.

I’d gotten off of work today and had come by the shop to find that poor Kenny was swamped.

I’d intended to go home and rest—as well as hide out since I’d been informed that the Cottonwoods were in town—but I hadn’t been able to leave Kenny to do that much work on his own.

So I’d changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and got to work.

That was over two hours ago now, and my stomach was rumbling.

A soft knock could be heard from the side of the shop, and I frowned.

“Hey, it’s me!”

Charleigh.

I walked to the side door at the back of the shop and opened it, looking down the length of the building where I’d heard her voice.

She turned to me and grinned, holding up two to-go containers.

“How did you know that I was here?” I asked as she pushed past me with a waft of burger and strawberry shampoo.

“I saw your vehicle when I drove by,” she said. “Figured I’d bring you food since I spotted those pretentious assholes in town and tell you about the news.”

“What news?” I asked as she took the to-go boxes to the top of my toolbox and opened them up.

“I didn’t know what to get you to go with what you like to eat, but I went ahead and decided on a couple of bunless burgers, sweet potato fries, and a side salad.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, touched that she remembered that I didn’t eat carbs and didn’t push it.

Though the sweet potato fries were carbs, they were at least a hell of a lot healthier than a normal french fry.

She got to snacking on her own burger and fries, and that was when I realized that she hadn’t stopped to get food at all, but to make it.

“Did you make this?” I asked.

“I did.” She nodded. “You don’t have issues with eating food made at someone’s house, do you? I swear, you can eat at my house. I know you can’t eat at everyone’s, seeing as some people let their cats put their assholes on their pots and pans. But I don’t have a cat, just a bird. I don’t allow him onto the counter, and I certainly don’t allow him in there when I’m cooking.”

I grinned. Which surprised me, because I felt like I hadn’t done that in a lifetime.

What was it about this woman?

I’d had years to come to terms with Lauri’s death—and the death of our child—but I was still fucked up over it. The sun didn’t seem as bright. The night’s stars not as vibrant. Laughter no longer came easy, and a good time was never had.

But there was something about Charleigh that I felt like I could have that with her…if I wanted to.

But a fucked-up person could spot another fucked-up person from three states away.

Charleigh had “don’t engage” written all over her.

“I learned to cook at a very early age,” she said. “Sometimes, we’d have pinto beans and rice for a week straight. Beans are cheap and filling. But I learned that I needed to find new and inventive ways to make stuff, because I hated eating the same thing every single day for all meals. My mom taught me how to cook, but when I was old enough to take care of myself and stay home when they were at work, they both picked up second jobs. I barely ever saw them.”

“Looks like you got something out of your alone time.” I nodded at the burger. “These look delicious.”

Her cheeks heated slightly as she took a big bite.

She had just as much food in her to-go box as I did, minus the salad.

I walked to the box and took a burger out wrapped in lettuce.