Chapter 9

“It’s so weird to me that someone who really knows you would think that’s who you are.”

I frown. “Whaddaya mean?”

“You’re nothing but a big old softie, Ashley Buchanan.” The words could have been my ma’s; she always used to tell me the same thing. But I didn’t expect him to notice.

“Don’t I know it,” I mutter.

My grumbling brings a smile to his face, and thankfully he changes the subject. “What brought you to this fine establishment?”

“I was out for a drive. When I got back to town, I ended up here.” I groan inside. I just blurt out stuff around him. Usually, I’m a man of few words, but around him, I can’t seem to shut up.

But he doesn’t comment on my words. Instead, he asks about my plans for the weekend, and when I tell him about the pile of sandpaper and the buckets of paint waiting for me at home, he offers to help.

“You don’t hafta do that,” I say.