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He hums. “I guess I don’t like unfinished projects. Or clutter. Or loose ends.”
My gaze shifts to the dirty dishes by my sink and my unmade queen bed littered with clothes and bins of essential oils and stones. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed my clutter and unfinished projects. And yet, he’s still here.
Price Milloy thrived on order. I bet he’d say I was a terrible influence on him. Why am I attracted to the tidy ones?
“Want some pistachios?” I pluck the open bag from the counter and scatter some on the table next to the puzzle pieces.
Koen’s brows jump up his forehead while he stares at the shelled nuts. “Thanks,” he murmurs, plucking one from the table before gently sliding the rest away from the puzzle pieces.
He’sa puzzle, a bunch of pieces that seemingly don’t fit until you stare at them long enough. He has calloused hands and fingernails that look clipped at best. He wears a baseball hat to hide his unkempt hair. Those dirty brown boots are probably the same ones he wears to work every day. His flannel shirt is missing two buttons, and his jeans have a small hole in the knee that’s not there on purpose.
But he’s not a fan of unfinished projects, clutter, loose ends, or pistachios scattered on the table.
“Is your dad alive? Or are your parents divorced?” I ask.
He makes a quick glance up at me before returning his attention to the puzzle. “Divorced.”
“Is Herb your dad’s father or your mother’s?”
“Dad’s.” He finds another piece that fits.
My lips part to vomit my next question, but I swallow it.
“I’m going to get dressed.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Uh …”
“That was a stupid question.” He stands. “You’re too nice to ask me to leave.” He whistles for Scrot to head to the door.
“I haven’t had dinner. So I’m going to get dressed and eat something besides pistachios.”
Koen nods before adjusting his hat. “I get up at five, so I should head home.”
“Well—” I start my goodbye.
“But I don’t want to go.” He bites his bottom lip, which wrinkles his nose. This is the first time he’s shown anything short of absolute confidence.
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. I don’t know what this is, but it’s something.
My lips twist. “It’s the puzzle, isn’t it?”
“It’s you.”
I fight my grin.
“My Frisbee skills? My fancy home? The dirty dishes in the sink? Or the catastrophe on my bed?”
“I hadn’t noticed?—”
“Liar.” I laugh.
His smile gives him away. “Why don’t you get dressed while I get you something to eat? We can work on the puzzle for a little longer.”
“Are you going to wash my dirty dishes while I get dressed?”
“Absolutely.”
