Halfling (Black Petals Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

You’re a good baker.”
    “So I’ve been told. My mother taught me back in the day.”
    “I wish my mother would’ve taught me some useful skills besides how to get drunk before ten o’clock in the morning,” I say under my breath to myself, not realizing that he can probably hear every word unless he’s deaf, which he’s definitely not.
    He grimaces. “Rough childhood?”
    I nod. “You could say that. My mom’s an alcoholic. My father left when I was a baby.”
    It’s funny the things you can find yourself telling people that you’ve only just met. Am I really so lonely that I have to flood my neighbor with all of my drama? God, I need a friend.
    Crispen nods and tilts his head to the side as he looks at a painting on my wall. “My parents both died when I was a teenager. They were murdered,” he says eerily. I watch as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
    Ouch. Both were murdered ? What are the chances? “I’m sorry,” I mutter. Here I am complaining about my parents when his were flipping murdered.
    “It’s fine. It was a long time ago. I’ve managed to move on. As much as possible anyhow,” his voice is dark, no longer joyful. Good one, Megan, way to go. “This is a pretty painting. I like the use of colour.”
    “Do you paint?” I wonder. He doesn’t cross me as the type of guy to be an artist, but who am I to know?
    “My sister used to paint. Years ago,” he tells me. He crosses his arms and turns to face me. “You?”
    “No. I probably couldn’t draw circle to save my life.” It’s not a joke. Even my penmanship is terrible. In school, I was always yelled at for my messy writing. Many times, I found myself having to rewrite things, because my teachers couldn’t read them.
    I can tell by the slight raise of the right side of his mouth that he finds this amusing.
    “Have you lived in the neighborhood long?” I wonder. I haven’t seen him around, though I’m also fairly new to the neighborhood.
    “Three days is all I’ve been here. I like it here. It’s quiet.” He runs his hand over his shirt as if to straighten it. He’s changed since the last time we spoke. Now he wears a plain black t-shirt and jeans.
    “Yeah, it is. It’s nice. Especially after a long day.”
    He then asks me what I do for a living, which is something I was hoping he wouldn’t ask, seeing as I am now unemployed.
    “Nothing currently,” I admit sheepishly. “I quit my job yesterday.”
    His eyebrows pull together in what I can only guess is confusion. Who in their right mind would quit their job when they have a mortgage to pay? Me, that’s who.
    “Why is that?” he asks when I don’t elaborate.
    Well, because I was scared some gang was going to use it to track me down and kill me. HA! Like I am going to tell him that. He already thinks I’m weird enough.
    “Long story,” I answer, hoping that he doesn’t ask any further question. I’m sure to adjust my tone to make my words sound like they’re final.
    “I like stories,” he pushes.
    I sigh. Now what, Megan? Good one. I’m a terrible liar. As I attempt to string something together in my head, the doorbell rings. I nearly leap in relief. I’ll be tipping this pizza man well, even though he will have no idea what for, he is late after all, but it worked out.
    I pay the man in the cash I have ready. In exchange, he hands me a warm, delicious-smelling pizza. My mouth immediately begins watering.
    I set the box down on the counter in the kitchen and grab two plates from the cupboard. I hand one to my guest and take the other one for myself. I dish both of us up and nod to the couch. I hate other people watching me eat, so instead of eating at the table where distractions are limited, and we’ll have to face each other, I choose the living room as a better option.
    “I hope you like onions,” I say to break the silence. “I meant to order it without, but I must’ve forgotten. They’re not my favorite, but I just