Page 339 of Primal

I crouch to fiddle with the printer cables. She crouches, too, unnecessarily close.

“So,” she says casually. “Are you always this grumpy?”

“This is me being friendly,” I deadpan.

She snorts.

The silence stretches. Thank fuck she doesn’t fill it with nervous chatter. She just waits.

Maybe I don’t mind this either.

Her scent slips under the whiskey. Something vanilla and fruity. It sticks in my chest. In the back of my throat. In places I don’t want to think about.

I stand. Loosen the screws.

She rises beside me.

I don’t have to look to know she’s propped against the wall, arms crossed, every move a quiet tease.

She tips her head toward mine. Too fucking close. The hair on the back of my neck rises—

My jaw tightens. Her stare is something I refuse to meet. Don’t give a damn how green her eyes might be. Don’t care if they still gleam.

I wrench the casing off. Something in the innards cracks.

Fuck.

“Careful there, Mr. Fix-It. I’m on a renter’s budget.”

I glance sideways—in time to see her bite into one of the charred cookies. Her face goes through all five stages of grief.

A rough sound punches out of me. Not quite a laugh or a cough. The kind of involuntary noise you make when someone steps on a rake. “Keep mocking, and I might start charging by the hour.”

I reach back into the printer, fingers finding the jammed roller. Twist. Tug. Pop.

The tray shifts. The screen clears.

READY.

She blinks. “Wait, did you actually fix it?”

I shrug. “Told you. Five minutes.”

“Okay, show-off. But thanks, IT Guy.” She takes another bite of the blackened husk, grimacing harder this time. “One more question. Is my bathtub really haunted?”

I lift a brow. “Who told you that?”

She licks a crumb off her thumb. “Max.”

Of course he did. “Kid’s got an overactive imagination.”

She leans a hip against the counter. “Said some guy died in there. Slipped and cracked his head. Left a dent in the tub.”

My jaw works. “It’s called calcium buildup.”

“Right. What about the dried blood?”

“It’s rust.”