Stephanie slammed the kettle down more than was needed.It wasn’t rage. It was nerves. The subdued sort. It slithered unnoticed beneath the surface in such orderly, intentional atmospheres as this.She looked at the clock again.Six forty-two.He was late.Not late-late. Just enough late to make you aware of it.She arranged the mugs once more. Three were already lined up on the counter – unconsciously, automatically – and she frowned at them before they sat them farther back.“This is no social call,” she whispered to herself.The kettle clicked off.She poured the water in a leisurely fashion, following the steam as it ascended, regulating her breathing by it.The doorbell rang.She froze.Then exhaled once, sharp, and wiped her hands on the dish towel before moving toward the door.When she opened it, Peter was standing right there.“Sorry,” he said at once. “Traffic got jammed up on Maple. I should’ve anticipated that.” She placed the mug she had just filled on the table, steam
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