Page 27 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Heat climbed up his neck as he stepped back.

Chip cleared his throat.

He felt something hit the top of his shoes and glanced down. “Um, you may want to do something about that.”

Bree blinked, then saw the sauce dripping out the bottom of her bag. “Shoot.” Cupping her hand beneath it, she stepped back. Sauce dripped onto her palm as she pushed the door open. “Chicken emergency, coming through!” she called, dashing through the living room, past the group of sitting women, and into the kitchen.

For a wild moment he felt the urge to follow her but then stopped. Looked down at the tops of his sauce-laden shoes. Pulled the door shut.

He didn’t belong in there. With her.

He shouldn’t want to belong in there. With her.

At the very least, he didn’t want to want to belong in there.

In fact . . .

He tapped a text to Ashleigh before settling his phone back in his pocket: What do you think about lunch tomorrow?

He smiled when her positive response came back two minutes later.

For the next two hours, though, he couldn’t help turning an ear toward the raucous laughter and shrill cries as the women’s spades game turned into what appeared to be the competition of the century. As he walked along the basement concrete, following the path of the old wire, filling in the space with new, he listened to Birdie’s complaints and Bree’s consolations. As he used the push rod to get the wire from the basement up into the stud cavity, he grinned at how hard Bree worked to draw Evie into the conversation. As he shut the panel, he noticed the volume of Mrs. Lewis’s laughter at Bree’s jokes. Bree was the glue of that group. Whether they realized it or not, she had single-handedly brought them all a little magic that night.

Upstairs, he flicked on the light and shut the front door softly. “Not too shabby, Green Fairy,” he murmured. The new porch light radiated but for a small smudge on the glass. He leaned in, rubbed it off with the cuff of his jacket, settled back again.

He picked up his tool bag and stuck one hand in his pocket as he jogged down the stairs.

At another burst of laughter inside the house, an idea popped into his head. He pivoted from his path to his front steps to his truck.

He stopped at the rear. Pulled down the tailgate. Hopped into the bed of the truck and dug around.

Pulled out a Frisbee.

Grabbed a Sharpie from his bag and scribbled a hasty note on the disc.

He set the Frisbee on the hood of Bree’s car before turning to go inside.

* * *

Funny thing about women. When you take them out on a first date, the conversation bounces along nicely from topic to topic like a stick bouncing off the slats of a fence as you drag it along, or a playing card flicking against the spokes of a bicycle wheel as it spins.

How many siblings do you have? Terrific! I have three sisters too!

You hate sushi? Me too.

No, I’ve never been to Europe, but it’s always been a dream of mine, ever since . . .

But for Chip, the questions soon turned to the subject of his work, which for the past fifteen years had always been the same. Construction. Really, for a McBride boy, there was no other option. Every Abingdon girl he’d taken on a date knew the facts of his family background well in advance. Any riveted expression just showed him how well his potential future girlfriend could lie.

Folding her hands softly together and resting them under her delicate chin?

Lying.

Leaning forward with fluttering mascara-laden lashes as though what he just told her was positively fascinating?

Lying.

And some of the words that came out of their mouths as they tried to relate . . . frankly, it was comical.