Cullen removed the old lock and had to jog to his shed to collect his toolbox. On his return, he met Grace at the door, her hands full of bulging plastic bags. She lifted her chin and stalked past to dump her load at the curb. After wiping her hands on the seat of her shorts, she stomped back inside, returning a few minutes later with another armful of stuff.
“Is that the jerk’s?” he asked.
“Yep, I don’t see why I need to store his possessions.”
Cullen stifled a grin. Several strands of her hair had come loose from her ponytail, and her cheeks were rosy with temper. This close to her, he caught a hint of citrus—either shampoo or body lotion she must’ve had with her in her suitcase. It reminded him of his grandparents’ orange grove. Happier, more innocent times. Her indignant huff drew h
