“I know,” Kate replied, voice strained. “I’m trying. It’s just… harder than you think.”
When I peeked, I saw him hugging her belly like she was the fragile one in this arrangement.
It stung more than it should have.
At dinner, I pointed out her pie was undercooked.
I expected an argument.
Instead, Kate got oddly cheerful.
“Why don’t you bake a pie yourself,” she said, “and bring it to Mr. Davis?”
I frowned. “That grump doesn’t even greet me.”
Kate’s lips twitched like she knew something I didn’t.
“I think you’re mistaken,” she said. “He’s not so bad. And besides… I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
I laughed, sharp and dismissive.
“If he’s interested, he can make the first move. A man should court a lady.”
Kate exchanged a glance with Andrew.
One of those glances married people use when they’re coordinating without speaking.
The next morning, I stepped outside and nearly dropped my coffee.
Mr. Davis was walking toward me.
Awkward. Stiff. Like it pained him to be polite.
“Margaret,” he began.
“For you, it’s Miss Miller,” I corrected.
His jaw tightened.
“Alright,” he said through his teeth. “Miss Miller… would you allow me to invite you to dinner?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I allow it,” I said, arms crossed.
He nodded and started to leave.
“Is that how you invite someone?” I called after him. “When? Where?”
He paused, then answered without turning around.
“Tonight at seven. My house.”
And just like that, my miserable little living arrangement had a crack of light in it.
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