Page 6 of Fighting Words

“Nice pour,” she says with a light laugh.

“Figured we might need it.”

Her finger brushes mine as she accepts the glass and then she nods toward the living room. “If I promise to be careful, could I take my food in there? That fire is calling my name.”

“You need socks and a sweater.”

She looks down at her bare feet like she’s embarrassed by them. “Yeah…mine got wet outside. Even the hems of my pajama pants are a little damp.”

Bloody hell. Of course, how could I forget that?

With a shake of my head, I rush off to the stairs, taking them two at a time. From the chest of drawers inside my room, I grab a thick pair of wool socks, and from my closet, I grab an old college sweatshirt.

Summer is curled up on my chair when I make it back downstairs.

Mychair.

Half an hour ago, that would have been one misstep too far. I would have unceremoniously dumped her out of it onto the floor, but fortunately, I’ve regained my manners for the time being.

“Here.”

She looks up to see what I’m handing her, and I spot some jam on the left side of her lip. She’s eaten most of the crackers. She must have been really hungry.

“I can make more.”

Her cheeks redden again. “I should tell you no, but actually, I would love more. Thank you.”

In a weird way, it feels good to help her. Living on my own for so long, being wholly independent has made me forget the value of doing things for other people.

I go back into the kitchen to prepare more of my weird “girl dinner” as she calls it and steal surreptitious glances at Summer while I do it. She’s from InkWell and I can’t forget that, but also, curled up like that, in my sweatshirt, she doesn’t look like the enemy anymore. The tabby cat has followed her downstairs, and when she thinks I’m not watching, she feeds it a little of her food.

“If you feed them, they’ll never leave,” I taunt, keeping my attention on the jam.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, covering her tracks. “Though I thought I saw some cat food in a bowl near the door…”

I clear my throat, choosing not to discuss that.

“Do you have a name for this cat that’s not yours?” she asks, leaning down to rub under his chin.

“Cat.”

I say it like it’s dumb she even had to ask. That’s Cat, and the others were Chicken and Sheep and Dog. They don’t get names—that’s a step too far. And if she asks me if I let Cat curl up at the end of my bed more nights than not, I’ll plead the fifth.

“And where is Mrs. Foster tonight?” Summer asks, stealing her attention away from Cat long enough to look up at me with raised brows.

I furrow mine. “My mom?”

She laughs. “No…sorry. I was trying to pry gently, but I guess I should just flat-out ask if you live with a woman.”

What part about me feeding her cheese, slightly stale crackers, and pickles for dinner made her believe there is a woman in the house? I only had one towel upstairs for crying out loud.

“No woman.”

“Oh.” She rears back, actually taken aback by this. Then she looks over the space with newfound interest.

Ah.So that’s why she asked.

“I bought this place from a widow who wanted to move to London to be closer to her children. She originally bought it from a couple a decade before that, and so on. I don’t think anyone ever purges before they leave. One person owns the cottage and fills it with their things, they pass it on, and the next person does the same.”

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