“I do better alone.” As soon as the words were out, she realized she’d admitted to the exact thing she had tried to avoid saying.

She shook the keys in her hand. The clanking soothed her but she had no idea why. Probably had something to do with the idea of freedom. She held the keys, and she was closer to the door, which meant she held the advantage.

“I’ve spent the last two years trying to convince myself I didn’t need anyone either, but I was wrong.” With each word he grew more serious.

His sister. Her murder. Maddie had read bits and pieces, all filtered through articles designed to gain attention. She knew the ending because the murderer had been caught on Whitaker a few months ago, but that didn’t mean she knew anything about Connor. Not really.

She kept repeating that mantra in her head. She might empathize and feel for him, but she wasn’t the only one in the room throwing up a defensive wall.

“Okay.” That seemed like a neutral response, so she went with that.

“Tomorrow at the Lodge. Six.” He finally broke eye contact and walked around the kitchen island until it sat between them again. “You don’t have to come. Just know I’ll be there and you’re welcome to join me.”

“Not going to happen.” She didn’t have dinner. Well, she did, but not with him . . . or dates . . . or whatever he was proposing.

He opened the box and studied the pie. “Is it me or all humans?”

“Yes.”

He glanced up at her with a smile that disappeared as quickly as it came. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”

He moved around the kitchen, grabbing a plate and a fork. Clinking and clunking things together. Then he went back to the butcher block that held the knives and pulled out a small one. He worked with ease, as if the room were a comfortable place for him.

Her comfort zone consisted of a toaster oven.

“Good.” He’d stopped paying attention to her but she felt like she should say it.

“Great,” he said without looking up.

This is what she wanted—no attachments. Drop and run. Fast and far.

She got the whole way to the front door, keys locked in her hand and her mind ready to move on to the next thing she had to do today, but one question nagged at her. He pricked and poked on the inside of her brain until she looked at him again.

She needed an answer. “Why me?”

He was too busy moving the pie plate around as he shifted the blade, increasing and decreasing the size of his anticipated piece. “Excuse me?”

“You’re reasonably good-looking.”

He froze before slowly lowering the knife. He didn’t lift his head to stare at her until the blade rested against the countertop. “That’s so flattering.”

“And you seem to make friends fine.”