Page 17 of That Reunited Feeling

There’s now nowhere else for my gaze to fall but on Tom as we stand facing each other and fold our arms across our chests at the exact same time.

6

TOM

We’ve been alone for approximately a second and a half and Hannah hasn’t bawled me out yet, so that has to be a good sign.

She spins around and heads toward the foyer. “I’ll wait out here till they’ve driven off. Then I’ll go.”

Not such a good sign.

If we have to live under the same roof for the next two or three months, it would be preferable that she tolerate my presence and not disrupt my desire for peace and relaxation by filling the house with grudge vibes. So the best use of this time would be to try to win her over enough to ease the atmosphere. Plus, I am kind of fascinated to find out about her life.

“I know you can’t bear the sight of me. But please, have some food.” If she’s working here and for her cousin, her financial situation can’t be awesome. “I mean, just take some back to your place. Then you won’t even have to look at me while you eat it or anything.”

She carries on walking and ignores me. How does someone’s back manage to look resentful?

I cross the kitchen to the fridge. “Having been a teenaged boy, I know they can eat a person out of house and home.”

The footsteps stop.

That kid is clearly her weak spot.

I open the fridge door. “Whoa.”

“What?”

Ah, a response. “Seriously, you have to take some. I knew when Maggie said she’d made a lot, there’d bea lot. I mean, this is a woman who says she’s going to make a small snack and pulls out a charcuterie board the size of a garage door.”

My gaze rises to the top shelf and stays there. “Shit.”

Can looking at food be like looking at a ghost? Can it transport you back in time? Can it reproduce the exact feeling you experienced when you last looked at it, smelled it? Even if that was more than a decade and a half ago?

“What?” It’s the same for-fuck’s-sake-I’m-pissed-off-with-you tone, but it’s closer now.

I peer around the fridge door to find her standing in the doorway. “Come look.”

“I get it. There’s a lot of food.” Her eyes are steely. “I already have food for me and Dylan. I can look after us.”

I deliberately adopt an opposite, gentler tone. “Even if you won’t take any, there’s something you should see.”

She inhales like she’s trying to draw air down to her toes, rolls her eyes, and closes them as she exhales in a huff. With another snort she takes a few reluctant steps, stopping close enough to be able to see into the fridge, but not close enough to risk brushing against me.

“Remember that?” I point at the top shelf.

Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a little squeaking sound, and her big eyes widen in either surprise, disbelief, or horror—or possibly a mix of all three.

“My memory is a bit shit,” I tell her, “but I think it’s exactly the same.”

“It is,” she says behind her hand, her eyes fixed on the chocolate cheesecake scattered with white chocolate stars—a replica of the one Maggie made for Hannah’s sixteenth birthday, two months before I left for London.

“Anyway.” She steps back, sniffs, and clears her throat as she turns away. “I’m going.”

“Maggie means well,” I say as I shut the fridge.

“I know.” Hannah’s tone is softer now, but she still heads back toward the door.

“And I’m sorry about all…you know…that.” I gesture to where Maggie and Jim were standing when they broke into their performance piece about being fans ofOverlord Hybrids.

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