Chapter 3
In the living room, Carter is settled on the couch, an icepack pressed against his temple. The mail sits in neat stacks on the kitchen island. Malcolm’s stretching on tiptoe to dislodge the pizza flyer from the ceiling fan.
I can’t meet his gaze, not even to thank him. Every time I do, my cheeks blaze hot. At last, I do the only thing I can.
“I’ll brew some Kona blend.” Again, I’m more squeaky than professional. I dash outside to my truck and set up the camp stove on the tailgate.
By the time the aromatic steam rises into the air and merges with the scent of grass clippings and roses, I’m back to normal, or mostly so. When I reach the door, a carafe of coffee in my hands, some Tupperware in a sack slung over one shoulder, I lose all my embarrassment. Because inside Misty’s du
