Page 48 of Your Place or Mine

Ugh.

He was a walking contradiction…surly but magnetic, guarded but oddly thoughtful. Even when he was being a complete grump, something in his eyes made me feel like he was always one breath away from saying something vulnerable or punching a wall. It was hard to tell which.

And that only made it worse.

Or better.

Depending on the moment.

God, what would my mom say?

That question settled over me like it always did. Her voice wasn’t really gone. It still echoed in the quiet moments, usually when I was alone and making decisions she’d want to know about.

I could almost hear her now, laughing as she poured herself a cup of coffee, her hair wrapped up in a scarf because she never quite finished getting ready until after noon.

“Oh, Lydia,” she’d say, amused. “You’ve got a type, haven’t you?”

I’d groan, roll my eyes, and mutter something about liking good conversation and meaningful connection.

“Sure,” she’d say. “And if that comes with some tattoos and a frown? Who’s complaining?”

I missed her so much that it made my chest ache.

She would’ve had something wise and slightly inappropriate to say about Callum. She always saw right through the brooding types. She used to say that people like that wore their hurt like armor. They growled to keep people out, but they really wanted someone to knock on the door and maybe even pick the lock if they had to.

Butshehad been the lock-picker in our family. I’d just been the quiet one who watched and learned.

And now?

Now I owned a building full of stubborn tenants, one grumpy bar owner who clearly didn’t want me here, and a growing list of repairs that included a fridge that sounded like it was dying a slow death.

I took a deep breath and shook off the wave of emotion.

There was no time to stand around fantasizing about emotionally constipated men who smelled like cedarwood and sarcasm.

Still.

That image of him from earlier, shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes flickering to the list in Riley’s hands like it might explode, was burned into my brain.

I hated that he got under my skin so easily.

And I hated even more that he seemed to think I was some clueless city girl on a makeover mission, here to paint everything white and rip out the town’s identity in favor of curated hipster nonsense.

God forbid I wanted working plumbing.

He didn’t know me. Not really.

But he’d made his assumptions and stuck to them, cemented in place with a scowl and a healthy dose of judgment.

It wasn’t just insulting. It was infuriating.

And the worst part?

Part of me still thought about how his arms looked when he leaned on the bar, or how his voice dropped when he wasjusttired enough to let his guard slip.

Which brought me right back to square one… annoyed, intrigued, and in desperate need of a plan.

I tapped my fingers against the counter.

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