Page 3 of Wicked William

Chapter Two

William

Maisy’s face lightsup with excitement. “Great! I bought groceries on my way here. I knew you wouldn’t have much to work with.”

She goes out to her car. Despite the fact that she looks like she survives on granola and activism, she drives a classic pink Cadillac with tail fins. It must cost a fortune to fill the gas tank. It’s a beauty, though, one my brother Dillon would appreciate.

But not very green of her.

I also think she’s crazy.

Or maybe I’m crazy. Yeah, I’m definitely the crazy one. My brothers would have a lot of fun with this. In fact, maybe they are the ones who set this whole thing up. I don’t know when they would have found the time. Between wedding plans and the interim job of mayor for Max, and a pregnant high maintenance fiancee and a job as the only mechanic in town for my brother Dillon, they should be too busy for elaborate pranks.

As Maisy sets to work in my kitchen, I watch her move with a grace and confidence that belies her young age. Her hands move quickly and deftly as she chops vegetables and stirs pots on the stove. The aroma of herbs and spices fills the air, and my stomach grumbles in anticipation.

I still watch closely to make sure she doesn’t poison my food.

When she finally sets the meal before me, I take a tentative bite.

Wow. “This is incredible,” I say, my tone awed. “What’s this called?”

“It’s just a simple pasta dish with fresh herbs and vegetables. Nothing too fancy,” Maisy replies with a modest smile. “I don’t think it has a name.”

I take another bite, savoring the complex flavors like I’m a food critic on TV. “You’re an amazing cook,” I say, impressed despite myself.

“Thank you.” Maisy’s eyes sparkle with pleasure at my praise. “If I told you I’m a kitchen witch, you’d probably throw me out of the house. So I’ll just say I love to cook.”

A kitchen witch. Right. This gets better all the time.

I invite her to join me at the table. It’s the polite thing to do, after all. So she dishes herself up a plate and joins me.

“Where are you from, Maisy?”

She shrugs. “I move around a lot. I don’t have any real roots.”

Tumbleweed. She probably blows in with the wind, causes havoc, and blows back out when it’s time to address the mess she’s caused. Like a reverse Mary Poppins.

She smooths a hand over the wooden table and closes her eyes. “You made this table.”

If she’s done her research, she already knows I’m a carpenter, so I’m not awed by her psychic pronouncement. “Yeah.”

“It was going to be a wedding gift.” She closes her eyes again. “But you decided it was too small for your brother. He plans on having a big family and you realized you wanted to make him a larger table. Almost double the size of this one. You kept this table for yourself.”

How the fuck did she know that? I never told anyone I had a false start on Max and Cherry’s wedding gift.

“How did you...?”

“I get impressions from objects sometimes.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Impressions from objects?”

Maisy nods. “Sometimes I can sense the history of an object, the emotions attached to it.”

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