Peyton shot him a dirty look. “Fix my dishwasher.”
“How about, ‘Please, oh, sir knight. Fix thy dishwasher and release thy maiden’s duties from washing thy dishes’?” He dramatically held the screwdriver against his chest as he made Shakespeare roll in his grave. It was like he had sinned against literature. He didn’t even have to try.
“How about, ‘Please, oh, pub owner. Fix my dishwasher before I go to your pub and break yours with my skill of breaking appliances’?” Peyton said with a smirk.
Jay ignored her and removed the panel of the dishwasher, setting it on the floor. Peyton tried to peer over his shoulder and into the insides of the washer. Jay cranked his face, gave her a wink, and reached for the flashlight.
“Your uncle unplugged this, right?” Jay asked, his back turned to her.
“No, my uncle wanted you to get electrocuted. Of course, he unplugged it,” she sassed, untangling her arms and pushing off the bench she’d been leaning on.
He turned around and raised an eyebrow at her. “Got to love them sassy hotel owners.”
Peyton sang along to the song that played as she folded the laundry she’d taken out from the dryer. It was a song she knew very well. The artist, June Sinclair, had used the hotel as a writing retreat and would be returning to The Spencer-Dayle in the spring. She was from the city, and pressures from her recording company had had her in a funk. June was someone Peyton admired, and her upbeat music was what was favoured, but when Peyton had heard her acoustic—more country—version, she had fallen in love.
Now, June’s music was mixed, and Peyton had even received a mention in June’s thank-yous in the album’s booklet. Since she’d broken the hotel’s dishwasher earlier in the day, Peyton had made sure not to touch anything else in the hotel and opted to call it a day. She had gone home and looked at her plans—she had no plans on her ‘plans’ paper. So she’d procrastinated and ended up doing housework.
“I can’t help but blame myself for thinking we’d make it past all our mistakes,” she sang along with June’s voice on the speaker.
A loud knock on her front door had Peyton walking over to the speaker her iPod was plugged into and turning down the music.
Peyton stepped barefoot over the cool floorboards until she reached the front door. The stained-glass window panels decorated with Australian birds blocked the view of her visitor. Instead of looking through the peephole or asking who it was, she opened the door.
“Son of a bitch,” she said, annoyed by the visitor who stood on her ‘Spencer’s’ doormat.
“Such a warm welcome. Thank you, Peyton,” Callum said, sounding almost hurt.
Ignoring whether or not the way she had greeted him was the reason for his hurt tone, Peyton glanced over Callum Reid.
He was wearing dark-blue skinny jeans, and his unzipped hoodie exposed his tight, grey T-shirt. He’d always embraced a casual look. His dark brown—almost black—hair was tousled upwards. She remembered the times that she’d sat under the cherry blossom tree outside her window and run her fingers through it. She had well and truly loved him at seventeen. The heat and tightening of her chest returned from the memories.
Damn it, Peyton. Don’t feel. Do not feel anything towards him. Be numb. He broke your heart. Why do you keep forgetting that?
“What do you want?” Peyton asked roughly, wanting him off her property as quickly as possible.
She noticed him wince and felt awful. Though she sassed at Graham and Jay, she was never mean to people. But Callum was an exception. She was a bitter and angry person because of him…and other circumstances. Sometimes, she just hated the world and the cards it had given her. Stupid, unfair cards at that.
“I thought I’d let you know that I’ll be in town for a while,” he stated, his eyes never leaving hers.
That one sentence stopped her heart and breathing.
Don’t show any emotions. Don’t give him anything.
“Why?” Her hands clutched the door and she dug her fingernails into the wood.
“Wow, Peyton. Not blunt at all, I see. I deserve that,” he said, his body still tense.
If he was looking for a, “No, Callum, you don’t,” then he was kidding himself.
“Why are you here? I thought you went back to the city. And why are you on my doorstep? And get off my mat,” she said, looking down at the customised mat her mother had purchased shortly before her death. It was worn, the ‘E’ and the ‘R’ in ‘Spencer’ hardly able to be made out.
Peyton lifted her chin and scowled at him. Callum looked down at the mat before he took a step back. He wouldn’t get why his feet on her surname offended her. It was like another slap in the face for her. He hadn’t been there when she’d buried them and seen their last names on their graves. He was literally stepping all over the Spencer name.