Fourteen
Xander woke with the dog staring at him from the side of the bed—nearly nose to nose. His cloudy brain registered Milo before he remembered his longtime companion was gone. Still, he handled the interruption of sleep in the same way he had with Milo.
“Go away,” he muttered.
Instead of hanging his head, à la Milo, and sulking off to lie down again, Tag wagged his tail and pushed his cold, wet nose into Xander’s face.
“Crap.” To make his point, Xander nudged the cold, wet nose away, which Tag took as encouragement.
The wet, soggy tennis ball plopped on the bed an inch from Xander’s face.
Even the sleep-clouded brain knew better. If he knocked the ball on the floor, the dog would see it as a game and start all over again. So he closed his eyes, ignored the ball and the dog.
Helpfully Tag nosed the ball closer so now the soggy and wet rolled against Xander’s chest.
Beside him, Naomi stirred, reminding Xander he had much more interesting games he could play at oh-dark-thirty.
“He won’t stop,” Naomi murmured beside him, and sat up before Xander could make his move. And beside the bed, Tag danced in joy. “It’s morning ritual.”
“It’s not morning.”
“Five in the morning, like clockwork. He’s actually about ten minutes late.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m getting up, which is part of the morning ritual. Getting dressed—also part of the ritual.”
To Xander’s severe disappointment, she moved away in the dark, rummaged around. He could see her silhouette pulling on some kind of pants.
“You get up at five, every morning?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Even weekends? This is America.”
“Yes, even weekends, in America. The dog and I are in tune there, at least.” She crossed over and opened the doors to the deck. Tag happily raced out. “Go back to sleep.”
“Why don’t you come back to bed, and we can try out a new morning ritual?”
“Tempting, but he’ll be back inside of ten minutes nagging for his breakfast.”
Xander considered. “I can work with ten minutes.”
He liked her laugh, the smoky morning sound of it.
“Go back to sleep. I need coffee before he comes back.”
If he wasn’t getting sex, maybe . . . “Is the dog the only one who gets breakfast?”
She was still just a shadow—a long, slim one—already heading for the door. “Not necessarily.”
When she walked out Xander lay there a moment. Normally he’d get another hour—maybe seventy minutes more on a Saturday. But he wouldn’t get a hot breakfast.
He picked up the tennis ball, judged the distance to the dog bed, tossed it.
So, she was an early riser, he thought as he got out of bed. He could handle that. She wasn’t a snuggler—and that equaled bonus points in his score book.
He didn’t mind staying tangled up for a while after sex, but when it came to sleep, he wanted his space. Apparently so did she.
Not only amazing in bed, but didn’t expect him to cuddle her like a teddy bear for hours after. Big bonus points.
And she cooked.
He found his pants, tugged them up, and when he couldn’t find his T-shirt, he turned on the mermaid light. It made him grin. A woman who’d buy a naked mermaid lamp—more points.
The room smelled like her, he realized. How did she do that? And she smelled of summer. Of storms and the sultry.
He found his T-shirt, pulled it over his head.
She still kept some of her clothes in packing boxes. Curious, he crossed over, glanced into them. Organized—and he appreciated at least a sense of organization. Not a lot to organize in there, to his eye.
He studied the opening of what would be a walk-in closet, currently under construction and empty of wardrobe.
Jesus, he had more clothes than she did.
It struck him as both weird and fascinating.
He also spotted a boxed toothbrush in what he’d term her bathroom box, and figured everyone would be happier if he took it.
He crossed over again to use the bathroom, and when he hit the light found it gutted. The rough plumbing told him where things would go—and she’d have a kick-ass shower from the size of it.
He could use a shower.
He went out, found another gutted bathroom, found a bedroom half painted—nice color—and a third gutted bathroom. Just as he decided he’d have to use the great outdoors like the dog, he found one outfitted with baby blue fixtures. Ugly, he decided, but serviceable.
And if the fist-sized showerhead over the blue tub worked, he’d make use of it later. But now, he really wanted coffee.
He wandered down, seeing bits and pieces of Kevin’s work. The place would be a showstopper. Not glitzy and fussy—and someone else might have looked for that.
But solid and handsome, with some serious respect for history, location, style.
He paused at the living room. Again, the color worked, and while the gas logs made sense up in the bedroom, he was glad she’d kept the wood-burning original here.
She could use some help with the yard, clearing out the overgrown, pruning back, digging up the weeds. Right now the view from the front was just sad.
He worked his way back, wondering what in the hell one person would do with all the space—then stopped at the library door. For the first time he felt genuine and deep, deep envy.
He’d seen the early stages of the built-ins when he’d dropped by Kevin’s shop a couple times, but the finished product beat it all to hell. The natural cherry would glow red-gold in the light, and simmer like the fire in the evenings. And all the space—what he could do with all that book space.
He’d get himself a big leather chair, angle it to face the fire and the view out the window.
Change the chair to a couch? He could live in this room.
The empty shelves and cases stabbed his book-lover’s heart. They needed to be filled.
He took one more step toward the kitchen, and the scent of coffee reached him.
She was racking up points like Fast Eddie.
He found her sitting on one of the four stools that hadn’t been there on his last visit, drinking coffee and looking at her tablet.
“Help yourself,” she told him.
He went for one of the big white mugs rather than the daintier blue cups, poured coffee.
Though it was cool, she’d opened those accordion doors. He could hear the dog chowing down on the deck in the dark that was just starting to thin.
“I found a toothbrush in one of your boxes. I used it.”
“That’s fine.”
“That blue bathroom. Slated for gutting, right?”
She looked up then—just punched him in the gut with those deep, dark green eyes. “You don’t like the Boxer Bathroom?”
“Boxer—wait—black and blue. Funny.”
“I wasn’t sure what to call the pink and black one, but it’s gone now. And so is its cabbage rose wallpaper border.”
She sipped her coffee as she studied him. He looked rough and rugged, jeans zipped but not buttoned, the slate gray T-shirt bringing out the blue of his eyes, his hair mussed, stubble on his narrow face. Feet bare.
What the hell was he doing drinking coffee in her kitchen before dawn—and making her regret she hadn’t taken him up on the offer to come back to bed?
He watched her as steadily as she did him.
She set the coffee down. “So. I’m trying to decide if you get a bowl of cereal, which is my go-to if I go-to breakfast. Or if I really want to try out my new omelette pan.”
“Do I get a vote?”
“I believe I know your vote, and lucky for you, I really do want to try out the pan.”
“You cook in it, I’ll wash it.”
“That seems fair.”
She rose, went to the refrigerator, began to take out various things, set them on the counter. Eggs, cheese, bacon, a green pepper, those little tomatoes.
This looked serious.
She chopped, sliced, tore up some leaves she got from a pot on the windowsill, whisked, while he drank coffee.
“What makes that an omelette pan?”
“It’s shallow with sloping sides.” She poured the eggs over the tomatoes and peppers she’d sautéed, crumbled bacon over that, did the cheese-grating thing over that.
She slanted him a look as she eased a spatula around the sides of the cooking egg mix. “I wonder if I still have what it takes.”
“From where I’m standing you do.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Watching him still, she tipped the pan, gave it a gentle shake. “I’m taking the gamble.”
Before his astonished eyes, she jerked the pan so the egg flew up, flipped over. She caught it neatly back in the pan, smiled in satisfaction.
“I’ve still got it.”
“Impressive.”
“Could’ve been a disaster. I haven’t made a serious omelette in a couple years.” She used the spatula to fold it. “Bread’s in that drawer—pop some in the toaster.”
She slid the omelette out, set it in the oven she had on warm, and did the whole thing again. Including the flip.
“I officially love this pan.”
“I’m pretty fond of it myself.”
She sprinkled a little paprika over the plated omelettes, added the toast. “I still don’t have a table.”
“We aren’t far off sunrise.”
“My thought, too. Take the plates, and I’ll bring the coffee.”
They sat on her glider, the hopeful dog sprawled at their feet, and ate while the stars went out and the sun began its golden burn over the water.
“I thought the library was the only thing I was going to envy here. But that . . .” Red, pink, and pale blue joined the gold. “That’s another one.”
“It never gets usual. I’ve taken dozens of pictures of sunrises here, and they’re all their own. If this place had been a dirt hut, I’d have bought it, just for this.”
“And this is where you eat your cereal.”
“Or whatever. I probably will even after I get a table. I need to look for one for out here, and some chairs.”
“You need books. That library needs books. I haven’t seen any around here.”
“I use my reader when I’m traveling.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you have something against e-readers?”
“No. Do you have something against actual books?”
“No. I’m sending for mine. I don’t have anywhere close to what you do, but I have books. And I have the room now to collect more.”
It made him think of the book on his wall, the one that told him things about her she didn’t want anyone to know.
“Do you still want pictures of mine—the books?”
He caught the hesitation, though it was brief and well covered. “Yeah, I would. It’s a statement.”
“What will you do with them?”
“That depends on how they look, if they work the way I see. For the gallery, most likely. And I may do some as notecards for my website.”
“You do notecards?”
“It always surprises me how well they sell. People still use notecards. Plenty of book lovers out there to buy them. The wall of books—some angles on that. And a stack of them beside a lamp maybe. One open, being read. I could use your hands for that.”
“My hands?”
“You have big hands, big man hands, rough and callused. That’s a good shot,” she murmured, already seeing it. “Rough hands holding an open book. I could do, say, six shots for cards. One big, arty one for the gallery.”
“Do you have anything going tomorrow?”
“Why?”
Always cautious, he thought.
“You could take the pictures tomorrow, and since you’d have your equipment anyway, you’d be in the mode, I should be able to get the guys together. You could take the shot for the CD.”
“I don’t know what you want there.”
“Something that sells some CDs. You’re the doctor.”
“I’d want to see what you used before.”
He boosted up a hip, took out his phone. He noted that he had a half a dozen texts to check, then scrolled through for the CD shot.
The five men, with instruments on the stage at the bar. Done in moody black-and-white.
“It’s good.”
“She says without enthusiasm.”
“No, it’s good. It’s just not particularly interesting or creative. Nothing here to set you apart.”
“What would you do?”
“I don’t know yet. Where do you practice?”
“The garage, one of the back bays.”
“Well, I’d start there.”
He wanted, seriously wanted, to see where she’d start, where she’d finish. What she’d do. “Is tomorrow too soon?”
“No, I guess not. At least I can get a sense. The black T-shirts are okay, but have everybody bring a couple other choices—and some color.”
“I can do that. That was a hell of an omelette. I’ll get things washed up.”
It wasn’t much, and easily done. So he still had time to . . .
“Does the shower work up there?”
She did a little wiggle with her hand. “Grudgingly.”
“Okay with you if I grab one before I head to work?”
“You work today?”
“Eight to four, Monday through Saturday. Twenty-four-seven emergency towing and road service. When I have a gig, somebody covers until I’m clear.”
“Right. Sure, you can use the shower.”
“Great.” He grabbed her, had her back against the refrigerator, plundering with that hungry mouth, those big, rough hands. “Let’s go do that.”
She planned to get out early, explore on her way to Cecil’s—for pictures and maybe a table.
But his hands were under her shirt, and his thumbs . . .
“I could use a shower.”
—
Naomi blamed the sexual haze in the shower for her agreeing to have pizza with Xander after the workday.
It wasn’t a date, she assured herself, and decided to go wild and wear the pewter leggings instead of the black. They were having sex now, so dating was unnecessary.
If she hadn’t been hazed, she’d have made an excuse or at the least suggested he pick up the pizza, come to her place.
Her turf. Despite the short span of time since she’d moved in, the house was her turf.
“Then I’m going over there tomorrow,” she told the dog. “It’s work, yes, but that’s still three days running.” She topped the leggings with a tunic in a ripe peach color she liked, then belted it so it didn’t look as if she wore a bag.
She grabbed what she needed—wallet, keys—and started downstairs with the dog prancing beside her.
She stopped. “You can’t go. You have to stay here.”
Until that moment she hadn’t known a dog could actually look shocked.
“I’m sorry, but you’d just have to sit in the car the whole time, and that’s not fair, right? Besides, you’re my excuse for coming back in case he suggests, I don’t know, a movie, or going to his place. You’re my ace in the hole. I’m only going to be an hour or two. Tops two hours, then I’ll be back. You have to stay.”
He trudged back upstairs—actually trudged, she thought, while sending her forlorn looks over his shoulder.
“You’d think I was locking him in a closet and going out dancing,” she muttered. And felt guilty all the way into town.
—
As he pulled on a fresh shirt, Xander figured he was running right on time. Hitting her up for the pizza had been inspired—especially since she’d been hot and wet and limp in the shower when he’d come up with it.
He also figured it was past time they had an actual date. Pizza always served up a good starter. He’d be on call, but those calls—if any—would go to his cell phone. If luck stuck, he’d get her back to her place and into bed without being called back to tow anything or anyone.
He opened the door, pulled up short. Chip stood, his big, raw-knuckled hand poised to knock. Or punch.
“Hey, Chip.”
“Hey, Xander. You’re heading out?”
“Yeah, but I got a minute. Do you want to come in?”
“That’s okay, I’ll walk down with you.”
Chip started down the steps on his slightly bowed legs. A big guy—football star in high school—he tended to lumber unless he stood on the deck of a boat, as he did daily for his family business. There, Xander knew, the man had the grace of a Baryshnikov, and his shy, self-effacing nature worked well for the tourists who wanted to do some fishing or sailing.
He’d mooned over Marla as long as Xander had known him, and had finally won her when she’d come back to the Cove after two years of college.
He’d won her by punching the guy she’d taken up with who liked punching her.
It wasn’t the first or the last guy Chip had punched over Marla. Xander really didn’t want to be the next guy.
But he didn’t sense anger, didn’t see that hard light in Chip’s eyes as they reached the base of the stairs.
“I wanted to, you know, say I was sorry about how Marla acted last night. I heard about it.”
“It’s no big.”
“She’s still got that thing for you.”
Xander kept a close watch, in case that hard light came calling. “Chip, you know there’s nothing there, and hasn’t been since high school.”
“I know it. I wanted to say how I know it, so you know. Patti, she’s making noises like there was something, but I know better. Plenty of other people know better, too.”
“Okay then. We’re cool?”
“Sure. I want to apologize to the lady—the new lady? It’s Naomi, right? But she doesn’t know me, so I didn’t want to go up there and scare her or anything.”
“You don’t have to worry about it, Chip. You don’t have to apologize to anybody.”
“I feel bad about it, all of it. Anyway.” He put those ham-hock hands in his pockets, gazed out at nothing special. “You don’t know where she is, do you?”
“Naomi?”
“No, not her, not Naomi. Marla.”
“Sorry, no.”
“She’s not at her place, the place she has now, and doesn’t answer the phone. Patti said she got mad at her last night, because Patti said she was embarrassed and all. She just took off—and she’d been drinking.”
“Was she driving?”
“Seems Patti was, but it’s not a far walk back to the place she has now. She didn’t go to work today at the market either. They’re that pissed at her now.”
Hungover, mortified, mad, probably in bed with the covers over her head.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“If you see her, maybe you can give me a call, so I know she’s okay and just in one of her moods.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll let you go. Maybe if you see the lady—Naomi . . . If you see her, you could tell her I’m sorry about the trouble.”
“I’ll do that. You take it easy.”
“It’s the best way to take it.” Chip smiled a little, then climbed into his truck.
Since it was close, and he was running a bit late now, Xander got into his own truck and drove to Rinaldo’s.
She was already there, sitting in a booth, looking over the menu. He slid in across from her. “Sorry. I got into a thing just as I was leaving.”
“That’s all right. I was just trying to decide if I’d have room for this calamari starter.”
“I’ll split it with you, then you would.”
“Then I would.” She set the menu aside. “Busy place on Saturday night.”
“Always has been. You look good.”
“Better than I did a few hours ago?”
“You always look good. Hi, Maxie.”
The waitress, young and fresh with doe eyes and sunny blonde hair streaked with a pretty shade of lavender, pulled out a pad. “Hi, Xander. Hi,” she said to Naomi. “Can I get you some drinks?”
“A glass of chianti, thanks, and some ice water on the side.”
“You got it. Xan?”
“Yuengling. How’s that hatchback running?”
“It gets me where I’m going and back, thanks to you. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
“I guess you get a lot of people where they’re going and back.”
“It’s what I do. Listen, if a big, lumbering sort of guy comes up to your place—”
“What? What guy?”
Xander waved a hand. “Harmless guy. Chip. He’s Marla’s ex. He came by just as I was leaving.”
As she straightened, Naomi’s shoulder blades went to iron. “If he’s mad about last night, he should be mad at who started it.”
“It’s not that. He’s a nice guy—too nice most of the time. He wanted to apologize for her. He said he wanted to apologize to you, too, but he was afraid he’d scare you if he just showed up.”
“Oh. It’s not his fault. What’s a nice guy who’d apologize for something that’s not his fault doing with someone like her?”
“It’s impossible to love and be wise.”
“Who said that?”
“Francis Bacon. Anyway, I told him I’d tell you he was sorry.”
Maxie brought their drinks and took their order.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad, coming out, Naomi thought. The place was noisy, but in a good, happy way. And the calamari would’ve met with Harry’s approval.
“I hear you met Loo.”
“I did?”
“At the bar last night. The bartender.”
“Is that Loo?” Sharp-looking brunette with sexy magenta streaks. “I expected her to be older, sort of businesslike, sitting in some back office with ledgers.”
“Loo likes to keep her hand in. She liked you.”
She caught a bright peal of laughter, noted that the comfortably built brunette behind the counter let out another as she rang up an order.
“That’s flattering, since we talked over the bar for about two minutes.”
“She knows what she knows, as she likes to say.”
“She mentioned her ex-husband used to be the groundskeeper when my house was a B-and-B.”
“Right, the stoner. He’s long gone. But it reminds me I could give you a hand with some of the heavy yard work. Kevin said you didn’t want to hire a landscaper, at least not yet, but if you decide otherwise, you might talk to Lelo.”
“From the band?”
“His family runs the local nursery. He’s actually pretty good at the whole lawn-and-garden thing.”
“And having a stoner is tradition up there?”
After a gesture with his beer, he took a drink. “A former stoner in Lelo’s case. You can size him up tomorrow for yourself.”
“Maybe I will.” More, maybe she’d just have to. “I wanted to deal with it myself, but so far I’ve managed to hack away the worst, plant a couple of pots and some kitchen herbs.”
“No landscaping in New York?”
“Not like this. We’ve got a pretty back courtyard garden, simple and easy to maintain. And that’s mostly Seth anyway. So maybe I’ll think about getting some help with it.”
“We could barter some labor for the photo shoot.”
“Hmm. Let’s see how the shoot goes. That could work all around.”
“Why don’t you come by, take a look at the garage?”
“I’ve got to get back for the dog.” Ace in the hole, she reminded herself.
“Ten minutes won’t matter. It’s basically on the way. You take a look tonight, get that sense you wanted.”
It would help, she thought. And she still had the dog for her ace in the hole. No matter how tempting, she couldn’t end up in Xander’s bed—not with a dog pining away at home.
“All right. Let’s do that.”
Of course, night had fallen so she couldn’t judge the light, but she could get a sense of the space, a feel for what she’d have to work with if she shot in their practice area.
Floodlights popped on as she pulled around back behind Xander.
She saw now he had the bays locked and secured with some sort of keypad alarm as well as the motion lights.
“I hadn’t thought about the security you’d need.”
“A lot of tools, cars, car parts, and sometimes the band equipment.”
He opened the bay door and hit the lights.
A good-sized space, she mused, stepping in. The place smelled of oil, and the concrete floor was stained with it. It held a lift, bright orange. She scanned tools: compressors, grease guns, hydraulic jacks, rolly boards, a couple of enormous tool chests—one black, one red.
Yes, she could make this work.
“Where do you set up?”
“Pretty much like we do onstage. If the weather’s good, and we start early enough, we set up outside on the pad. It’s nice.”
Maybe, but she wanted them inside, with those clashing colors, those big, bulky tools.
“I’m going to want your motorcycle in here.”
“For the shoot?”
“Yeah, maybe. I want to try that.”
And parts, she thought. An old engine would be great, maybe a broken windshield—all those spiderwebs. A steering wheel. Tires.
Yes, she could make this work.
She stepped back out, looked at the space, walked back in, studied it.
“Okay, I want some wardrobe choices—things you’re all comfortable in, but like I said, not just black. Get some ball caps, bandannas. Cowboy hat, maybe a duster. Leather. Definitely leather.”
“Okay.”
She heard the doubt in his voice and smiled. “Trust me. You’re going to like what I do here.”
But it was a big garage, and maybe there were other possibilities.
“What’s in the next bay?”
“The love of my life.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. Do you want to see her?”
“Absolutely.”
He went out, left the first bay open in case she wasn’t done, opened the next. Hit the light.
He’d heard her gasp like that before, he realized. When he’d been inside her.
“This is yours?”
“It is now.”
“You have a sixty-seven GTO convertible, in factory red.”
He stood in reverent silence for ten full seconds. “I think you have to marry me now. You’re the first woman besides Loo who’s seen her and known what she is. I’m pretty sure we’re engaged.”
“It’s beautiful.” She moved closer, skimmed her fingertips lightly over the hood. “Absolutely pristine. Did you restore it?”
“Maintain’s more like it. My grandfather bought her right off the showroom floor, treated her like a baby. The mechanic gene skipped my father, so Grandpa showed me the ropes, and when I turned twenty-one, he gave her to me.”
She reached for the door, glanced at him. “Can I?”
“Sure.”
She opened it, brushed her hand over the seat. “It still smells new. That’s some detailing. Oh, it has the push-button radio.”
“My dad talked about getting an eight-track put in, in his day. My grandfather nearly disinherited him.”
“Well, it’s blasphemy, isn’t it? Your grandfather would be pleased at how well you’ve kept it.”
“He is.”
“Oh, he’s alive?”
“And well, and living with my grandmother—well, stepgrandmother technically, but they’ve been married close to forty years—in Florida. Sanibel Island.”
“Gorgeous place.”
“How do you know about classic cars?”
“I only know some. I did a shoot—one of my first on my own. A friend of a friend of Harry’s and Seth’s.”
She circled the car as she spoke. It really was absolutely perfect. And if Xander maintained it, she imagined it ran just as beautifully.
“He had classic cars and wanted photos of them,” she continued, “inside and out. I was so nervous about the shoot, especially since I didn’t know anything about cars, especially classic cars. I got a list of the cars he had, studied them—actually had Mason quiz me. And one of them was a sixty-seven GTO—not the convertible—but factory red, like this. A beauty.”
“Want to take a ride?”
“Oh. I would.” She sighed it. “I really would, but I have to get back for the dog.”
He recognized lust, and knew how to use it.
“How about this? We take a ride in it to your place. You leave your car here, I stay there. Tomorrow, we load your equipment in her, come back so you can do what you do.”
She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. Shouldn’t sleep with him two nights in a row. It was the next thing to a commitment.
And the car shined under the garage lights, luring her.
Xander stood, hipshot and sexy, finishing her off.
“I can agree to that, but only if you put the top down.”
“Deal.”