The Homecoming (Thunder Point #6)(50)

“You fit right in,” he said.

“I’m kind of hungry and I think Waylan forgot about the peanuts.”

“Want to wander down to the pizza place?” he asked.

“Tell you what. I don’t have any beer at my place but I do have food. If you get us a couple more beers to go I can make us grilled cheese.”

“Grilled cheese?”

“With bacon and tomato slices? A side of chips?”

“Waylan,” Troy hollered. “Two more Heinekens, leave the caps on. We’re going to take them home.” He stood and reached into his pocket for his wallet. He put some bills on the bar just as Waylan put the bottles there, then they walked out carrying two beers each. They went through the flower shop and out the back door to the stairs.

“Kind of dark back here,” Troy said.

“I look around before I lock up. I never see a problem.”

“What if someone’s hiding behind the Dumpster?” he asked.

She stopped on the stairs and turned to look at him. “Thanks for that, Headly. That should cost me a little sleep.”

“I’m sure you’re safe here,” he said. “Especially here.”

She snorted and led him up the stairs into a very small loft. They entered directly into a little kitchen that blended right into a living room. It looked like everything a person needed was right there—small sofa, comfy chair, two narrow side tables, a modest wall unit that held a TV and shelving for books and pictures. Except one thing was missing. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked.

“Through that door. Help yourself,” she said, putting the unopened beers in the refrigerator.

He didn’t need a bathroom, but he wanted to see the rest of the place. He handed her the two opened and still half-full beers and headed through the door that was not really a door but more of an arch. Through that arch was an extremely small room with a Murphy bed pulled down and neatly made up and a bathroom with a sink, toilet, shower and a little cupboard space. Very little. In the bedroom there was one small chest of drawers and a freestanding armoire.

He walked back to the kitchen. Grace already had food on the table for two and a frying pan on her two-burner stove. There was just the bar-sized refrigerator and microwave. “This is actually very...cute,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Is there space over all the shops?”

“Space, yes, but pretty useless space. No other apartments that I’m aware of. This was an unfinished room but I saw great potential here. It needed plumbing and a little finishing. The windows to the street are in the closet-sized bedroom. It’s very cozy, but I’m one person. And I have an office downstairs in the shop.”

“That’s a mighty small refrigerator,” he observed.

“I’ve been known to leave a couple of bottles of wine in the flower cooler,” she said. “Would you mind slicing this tomato and microwaving this bacon while I excuse myself for just a moment?”

“Sure. My specialties—slicing and microwaving.”

As he prepped the food, he considered that he’d never even been curious about Grace before. He’d been in her shop exactly twice—once to order flowers to send to his mother for Mother’s Day and once to buy Iris a bouquet, though he’d never mentioned it was for Iris. He had run into Grace around town, usually with Iris—they were girlfriends. He hadn’t known she’d made this little storeroom into a home, didn’t know who her friends were. He’d found himself in her company a few times recently because they’d been in the same place at the same time and neither of them seemed to have anyone else. And she was a good second since Iris had rather firmly cut him loose.

When she came back to the kitchen, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, socks on her feet, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. “There,” she said. “I was all done being a witch.”

“You were a good witch, but I’m still going to check in the morning and make sure you’re powerless.”

“Won’t you be surprised....”

“Do you live here alone?” he asked.

“Of course! There’s no room for another person here.”

“Why are you so tidy?” he asked.

“I like tidy,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “I scatter. I live among piles. I don’t mind a mess at all. Do you ski?”

She looked down and began fussing with bread, margarine, cheese slices. “Not really,” she said. “It’s been years. Why?”

“Well, because I’m thinking of going skiing my next long weekend. Not far—just Mount Hood. You could come along,” he suggested.

“I don’t have skis.”

“They rent ’em. Boots, too. You’d have to have your own jacket and stuff....”

“I don’t think that’s in my budget,” she said. “Especially not for one time on the mountain.”

“I had to ski in jeans and a parka for a long time. My dad did maintenance for the city and my mom was a teacher—we didn’t have much money for all the things I wanted to do. Some long underwear, jeans, borrowed gloves...”

“Yeah,” she said. “I could manage that, maybe....”

“I don’t have a long weekend anytime soon. Like maybe a month. But think about it. Could be fun.”