36
Anna opened her screen door. Took a step back, closed the screen, and opened it again. She leaned an ear toward the hinges. Open. Close. Silence. Weird.
The scent of pine filled the living room. Spike must have changed his soap. Not that he didn’t always smell like Christmas, but the accompanying hint of spice was missing. This was pure, natural pine, and a bit overpowering.
A pair of sweatpant-clad legs stretched out from under her sink. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
Spike shimmied out of the cabinet, wrench in hand. “Did you know the sink was leaking?”
“Maybe.” But the slow drip would result in a geyser if she touched it.
“‘Maybe’ isn’t an answer.”
“Did you fix the screen door?”
“Maybe.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Annoying, isn’t it?”
She threw her keys on the counter
