Kahrin looked up at the brisk knock on the door to her room. She knew it was Innes before he opened it, because of course it was. No one else would enter without invitation, because he didn’t need one, and who else was going to dare face her when she’d stormed from a fight?
“Brought up some food from your Ma.”
She wanted to pretend not to hear him, but that would mean holding her tongue, which was not her forte. “Not hungry,” she said into the book she was pretending to read. That would be another tell that she was just sulking. Also, she could smell the unmistakable aroma of Ma’s cooking.
“Okay.” A pause. “Guess I’ll eat these spiced pears myself.”
Her lips pinched together as if drawn shut to keep her words inside the purse of her brain. No good. “You don’t like spiced pears.”
“I don’t dislike them.” He leaned against the doorframe, no easy task for someone as tall as him in the low opening. He rolled a shoulder to his ear. “I could always toss them in the compost.”
Oh, that was just uncalled for! Her foot bounced beneath her as the book became a useless prop in her hand. “Don’t do that!” Her words were more panicked than she’d intended. They were fresh-cooked and she was sure the syrup was still liquid. “I mean, you shouldn’t insult Ma like that.”
He clicked his tongue. “Mm. Good point.” He poked the pears around the bowl with a spoon before taking a bite. “Did I say I don’t like these? Who would turn these down? Surely no one with any sense!”
Kahrin slapped the book down beside her and tried to glare, but she couldn’t do it without a twitch of a smile. “I suppose I could call a truce for Ma’s pears.”
“I suppose you could,” he answered, crossing the room in two strides to sit beside her.
@b.r. hill-mann 2019