Page 17 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“It is a nice evening out. Would you”—Theodore paused—“care to . . . stroll?”

The sky was clear. The bright yellow moon hovered over the Barter just across the street, its maroon-and-yellow flags flicking in the light breeze.

Her eyes fell on the road between the Barter and the Martha, where Chip had raced across in his fancy suit, his tie flapping as he grinned like a golden retriever with a Frisbee.

The man with a girlfriend.

The man who drove like a maniac, whose bumper stickers alone had proven him to be the type of man she’d never be interested in.

The man who had thought so little of their interaction he couldn’t even remember her name.

And she had stood there like a fool and smiled at him onstage.

“A stroll would be perfect,” Bree said, her words swift and sure as she reached backward for the door. “Let me just get my coat.”

Chapter 4

Chip

Chip tried really, really hard to keep a smile from playing on his lips as Bree stomped out of the sleet and onto his concrete porch in black galoshes. She pushed her damp, dripping hair out of her eyes and swung the five-gallon paint bucket off her hip onto the ground between them.

To top off the moment, she pulled a half-eaten Slim Jim out of the back pocket of her jeans and ripped off a chunk. “I need water,” she said through her mouthful. “Fill ’er up.”

This time he couldn’t help it. He grabbed the smile and pulled it down with his hand. The two-day-old stubble on his chin bristled against his calloused palm. The smile started to creep up again.

She smiled in return, but only, it appeared, to show off her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he said for the fifteenth time in five days. “Had I known your roommate would take to the, uh”—he shifted his gaze to their porch where Evie, head flipped over, with a smile a mile wide, was dunking her hair in a bucket—“to the natural lifestyle, I would’ve put you girls up in a hotel.”

In truth, he didn’t have the funds to set the girls up in a hotel. Even so, it was a nice sentiment.

For almost a week now, trucks had been pouring into Stonewall Heights, bringing in heavy equipment and throwing dirt around Evie and Bree’s yard like confetti. The girls hadn’t been prioritized in the way they deserved, as Chip couldn’t justify hiring a twenty-four-hour plumber for twice the cost when his own company, Redpoint Construction, could do the job. That meant he had to shuffle three jobs—a fact two of his clients weren’t happy about. It would cost him relationally, if not financially, but at the moment he had no choice. He was nearly broke.

Which explained why he had broken off a job site yesterday to meet his plumber and why he himself had just hauled back three bales of wheat straw and seed to smooth over the girls’ yard tomorrow morning. He was paying for his mistake. In every way. Heavily.

It just turned out that they were too.

Correction.

Bree was too.

Evie was having the time of her life.

After going without water for five days, Evie apparently had experienced some sort of lifestyle revelation. Judging by the way she dunked her head in the bucket now, the already eccentric costume designer from the Barter had found her calling just short of going entirely off grid.

“Or you two could stay at my place.” Chip gestured toward the living room behind him. “The invitation still stands.”

She squinted through the Sheetrock dust cloud permeating the unfurnished room. “I think I’ll pass.” She enunciated each word. “Now if you’ll please give me some water . . .”

Chip took the bucket, observing a sort of nest developing in the bun on top of her head. In fact, if he tilted his head a few degrees, he could imagine a bird in there.

Bree’s frown turned to a scowl, and he watched as she ripped off another chunk of meat. Her eyes dropped to the object in her hand.

“Dinner.” She raised a brow. “I was going to make spaghetti, but you can imagine how silly I felt when I tried to turn on the faucet.” She waved the Slim Jim and the long meat stick wobbled. “About that water . . . ?”

He snapped his attention into place. “Right. Sure thing. Be right back.” He pushed the door open behind him. He paused, then added with a significant smile, “Bree.”

Using customers’ names whenever possible was a thing he did to bond. He was doing it with his new neighbors—everyone from Jerry, the man who wore a bathrobe to the mailbox, to Mrs. Lewis, the kind elderly woman with the dog across the street. But Bree? He must’ve said her name fifty times in the past five days.