Page 7 of Pinch of Love
I shoved my hands into my back pockets and stared at Maya, dazed. “How long were you at Becky’s?
Maya shrugged. “Not more than ten minutes, I’d say.”
“And you managed to cover whether or not I was a serial killer?”
“It wasn’t me.” She shook her head. “The thought never crossed my mind. At least not until Becky mentioned it, and then I have to confess that I wondered if coming to the middle of nowhere was a really a bright idea.”
“And?”
“And then you showed up in your Jeep, and the rest is history.” She clasped her hands together and studied me. “But I’ve never met a man who could giggle without a smile.”
I straightened and frowned. “I didn’t giggle. For the record, the vases are empty. My grandparents are very much alive. They summer in Arizona.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “And your parents?”
“They are the ones who gifted me with the Buster monument, and they are doing quite well here in Buttercup Lake enjoying retirement. My siblings are currently spread throughout the state and abroad. Not dead.”
Maya’s smile widened, and I couldn’t help but notice how full and luscious her lips were. They were naturally pink with a lavender hue on the bottom lip. Nothing I should be observing when I’m handing over my rental for the remainder of the summer. This was a purely business transaction.
Her caramel eyes narrowed on me, and she kept smiling. “You’re peculiar.”
I laughed, and she pointed at me again.
“But I love your smile when it does surface,” she added.
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but peculiar was never one of them.” I smoothed my hands over my shorts. And same went forcrusty.
She twisted her lips into a contemplative pout as she eyed a painting above the mantel.
Oh, no.
Not Henry.
“I love that painting.” She lit up and wandered over to the picture of my yellow parakeet from when I was seven. “The yellow is so vivid, even though it’s watercolor.”
Please, move on. Please, move on.
She squinted at the corner. “Knox. Isn’t that your last name? Did you paint it?”
I shook my head and sighed. “No. My mom painted it.”
Maya nodded and started to step away when a thought stopped her. “Wait a second. Why did your mom choose a parakeet to paint?”
My gaze dropped to the wood floors as I hid a laugh.
“This isn’t a rental property. It’s a shrine to all your pets.” Maya snorted, and she slapped her forehead in disbelief.
“I’d never really thought of it that way before,” I explained, trying to hold in my laughter at her snort. There was something so cute about the noise, and she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.
Maya nodded and let out a whimsical hum. “Interesting. Really interesting.”
I nodded in agreement. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
I just prayed she didn’t notice the pawprint hanging in the family room of Benny, one of my other childhood pups, or the black and white photos of Cherry canvassing the hall upstairs. She’d been a beautiful cocker spaniel.
My mom was an artist, so everything had always been done beautifully and very artistically, but as Maya pointed out, they were all still reminders of the dead animals in my life.
What was wrong with me?