Six
Sunrise Cove, Washington State, 2016
It hadn’t been impulse. Naomi assured herself of that as she roamed the rambling old house on the bluff. A little rash, maybe. A gamble, absolutely. She’d taken plenty of gambles, so what was one more?
But holy shit, she’d bought a house. A house older than she was—about four times older. A house on the opposite side of the country from her family. A house, she admitted, that needed work. And furniture.
And a serious cleaning.
An investment, she told herself, wincing at the grimy kitchen with its dated appliances—surely older than she was—and cracked linoleum floor.
So she’d clean it up, fix it up, paint it up. Then she could put it back on the market, or rent it out. She didn’t have to live there. That was a choice—something else she’d made plenty of before.
It would be a project. Something to keep her busy when she wasn’t working. A home base, she considered, and tried the faucet of the chipped porcelain sink.
It coughed, banged, and then spewed out fits of water.
A home base with bad plumbing.
So, she’d make a list. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to have made a list before buying the house, but she’d make one. Plumber went straight to number one.
Gingerly, she opened the cabinet under the sink. It smelled a little dank, looked dingy, and the ancient bottle of Drano didn’t inspire confidence.
Definitely find a plumber.
And a whole bunch of cleaning supplies.
She blew out a breath, pulled her phone out of a pocket of her cargo pants, opened an app.
Hire plumber went on first.
She added more as she wandered back out, through a dining room with a wonderful fireplace of carved black wood. A chimney sweep. Did people still become chimney sweeps? Somebody must inspect and clean chimneys, and since there were five fireplaces in the old house, chimney sweep definitely went on the list.
Why had she bought a house with five fireplaces? And ten bedrooms? And six and a half baths?
She wouldn’t think about that now. Now she’d work on what to do about it.
The floors were solid. They needed refinishing, but the real estate agent had really sold the wide-planked ponderosa pine. She could do some research, see if she could refinish them herself. Otherwise, flooring guy.
And then there was tile guy—would that be the same person?
What she needed, Naomi thought as she started up the creaky stairs, was a contractor. And bids. And a plan.
What she needed, she corrected, as she stood on the landing where the hallway shot left and right, was her head examined. How the hell could she manage a house this size, and one in this shape?
Why in God’s name had she tied herself to this remote dot of land in Washington State? She liked to travel—new places, new views, new ideas. Just her and her equipment. Free to go anywhere. And now she had this anchor of a dilapidated house weighing her down.
No, it hadn’t been impulse. It had been lunacy.
She walked past dingy walls and, okay, gorgeous old doors, by far too many rooms for one solitary woman, and felt that old, familiar pressure in her chest.
She would not have an anxiety attack because she’d been an idiot.
Breathing slowly, deliberately, she turned in to what the real estate agent had billed as the master.
It was big and bright, and yes the floors needed work, and the walls were an awful faded blue that looked like cloudy pool water, and the old glass slider needed to go.
But she pulled and tugged it open on its rusted runners and stepped out onto the wide, sturdy deck.
And this was why, she thought as all the pressure lifted into sheer bliss. This was why.
The inlet, deep gleaming blue, curved and widened, split around knots of land green with the earliest whispers of spring. Shorelines climbed up, upholstered with trees, as the water traveled out through a narrow channel into deeper blues. In the distance just west, mountains rolled up against the sky to back a thick forest of green shadows.
And straight out, beyond the inlet, the channel, the knots and knuckles of land, spread the deeper blue of the sound.
Her bluff wasn’t particularly high, but it afforded a pure, unobstructed view of water and sky and land, and for her, an indescribable sense of peace.
Her place. She leaned against the rail a moment, breathed it in. She’d known it was her place the moment she’d stepped out here on that breezy February afternoon.
Whatever needed to be done to make the house habitable would be done. But no one could take this view, this sense of hers away.
Since she’d left her equipment downstairs, she took her phone, switched to camera mode. She framed in a shot, checked it, took another. She sent it to Mason, Seth, Harry—what she listed in her contacts as My Guys—with a simple message.
This is why.
She tucked her phone away, thought the hell with lists. She was going into town and buying supplies. She’d figure out the rest as she went.
The little town made most of its living off the water with its marina, dive shop, the kayak and canoe rentals, the fish market. On Water Street—naturally—gift shops, coffee shops, restaurants, and the Sunrise Hotel faced the curve of the marina with its bobbing boats.
She spent a couple nights in the hotel when she’d followed her nose into Sunrise Cove. She’d wanted to add to her portfolio of stock photography, beef up her portfolio of fine photography, and had found plenty of studies for both.
She’d caught sight of the house—just a piece of it—outside her hotel window, and found herself amused and intrigued by the way it angled away from the town, its people, toward the water and the wood.
She’d wanted some photos of it, had asked for directions. Before she knew it, she was heading out to what the locals called Point Bluff with John James Mooney, Realtor.
Now it belonged to her, Naomi thought, and parked in front of the grocery store.
A few hundred dollars later she loaded up food, cleaning supplies, paper products, lightbulbs, laundry detergent—which was stupid, as she didn’t know if the old washer worked—plus a basic set of pots and pans, a coffeemaker, and a vacuum cleaner she’d purchased at the neighboring hardware store.
She’d also gotten the name of a contractor from both places—the same name, so obviously a popular guy. Deciding there was no time like the present, she called him then and there, made an appointment to meet him for a walk-through in an hour.
She headed back, pleased it took a solid ten minutes on winding roads to reach the house. Far enough away for privacy, close enough for convenience.
Then she opened the back of her 4Runner, looked at the haul, and swore the next trip in she’d make a list.
That list, she realized when she started unloading groceries, would have included cleaning the refrigerator before buying food to go in it.
By the time she’d cleaned it, filled it, and started out for the next load, she saw the black truck winding up the road toward her.
She slipped a hand in her pocket, closed it over her pocketknife. Just a precaution.
The truck pulled up. A man in a ball cap and sunglasses leaned out one window. A big black dog with a polka dot bandanna leaned out the other.
“Ms. Carson?”
“That’s right.”
“Kevin Banner.” He said something to the dog that had its head retreating before he got out of the truck.
She judged him early thirties, sandy hair curling out from under the cap. A good strong jaw, a compact build. He held out a hand.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Workingman’s hand, she thought, and relaxed. “Thanks for coming.”
“I heard somebody from back east bought the place. It’s something, isn’t it?”
“It’s something.”
He grinned, shifted his weight. “It’s been sitting empty about ten years now—I guess Mr. Mooney told you—since Mr. Parkerson died, and Mrs. Parkerson had to let it go. They ran it as a B-and-B for more than twenty years. She just couldn’t keep it up, and ended up moving to Seattle to live with her daughter. Rented it out for a while here and there, but . . .”
“A big place, a lot of maintenance.”
He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, rocked back on his heels as his gaze traveled over the long rectangle of building.
“You got that. I threatened to buy it a while back—it’s got history and that view—but my wife threatened to divorce me. Now maybe I’ll get my hands on it, and get to keep my wife.”
“Let’s take a look. Is your dog okay in the truck?”
“She’ll be fine.”
The dog rested her head on the dash, sent Naomi a soulful look.
“I like dogs. You can bring her if you want.”
“Thanks. She’s a good dog, used to job sites. Come on, Molly!”
The dog leaped straight out of the window, landed neat as a gymnast, then pranced over to sniff Naomi’s boots.
“Nice jump, pretty girl.” When Naomi stroked Molly’s head, the dog did a full-body wag.
“Maybe you can give me an idea what you’re looking to do.”
“Bring it into the twenty-first century. I don’t mean the look,” Naomi added. “But the plumbing, the lighting, the kitchen, bathrooms. I’m hoping a lot of it’s cosmetic,” she said as they started inside. “I can paint and handle simple DIY, but there’s a lot of clunking and hissing when you use the water. And I don’t know if it’s safe to use any of the fireplaces. I considered tackling the floors myself—refinishing—but realize that would probably take me two or three years.”
“Windows?”
“What about them?”
“Replacing them with double-paned, low-E glass, that’s going to be more energy efficient, and while it costs now, it saves you in utility bills. It gets drafty in here during the winter.”
“That can go on the list, and we’ll see.”
“I’m going to want to take a look at the wiring, make sure it’s safe and up to code. We can look at the chimneys, make sure you’re good there. You want to keep them wood burning?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
The dog wandered around, sniffing, exploring. It struck Naomi that Kevin did nearly the same.
“You’ve got some fireplaces upstairs, right? If you don’t want to haul wood upstairs, you could think about gas logs on the second floor.”
“That is a thought—cleaner.”
“You thinking of a B-and-B?”
“No, I’m not. Not right now.”
He nodded, made notes, muttered a little to himself as they toured the first floor. When they came to the kitchen, he took his cap off, scratched his head, fixed it back on again.
“I’m going to tell you straight, this kitchen’s a pure gut job.”
“If you’d said different, I’d wonder why everybody I asked recommended you.”
“All right then. Now I’m betting the hardwood runs right on through, under this ugly-ass linoleum.”
“Really? Do you think so?” The idea balanced out against the notion of needing to replace a zillion windows. “Can we check?”
“If you don’t mind me messing up a corner.”
“You can’t make ugly-ass more ugly.”
He chose a corner, pried it up with his own pocketknife. “Oh yeah, got your ponderosa pine.”
“Hot damn. Take this crap up, sand, refinish, seal, right?”
“That’s what I’d do.”
“That’s what I want.”
“All right then.” With his sunglasses hooked on the breast pocket of his T-shirt, Kevin ran steady hazel eyes over the space. “I can work up a couple designs for you in here.”
“I’ll take a stab at it. I haven’t designed a kitchen, but I’ve shot plenty of them. Photography,” she explained. “For catalogs, websites, stock photos.” Hands on hips, she walked the room, imagined it down to the bare walls and floor.
“It’s roomy, and that’s a plus. I’d want an island, good size, for prep and for eating. I don’t want sleek, but I don’t want country either. More contemporary rustic, so dark cabinets, glass-fronted, go light on the countertops, figure out an interesting backsplash, and have fun with the lighting. There’s room for double wall ovens there—I don’t know what I’ll do with double ovens, but my uncles swear by them. Gas cooktop and a snappy exhaust—like a focal point. Farm sink under that window, and that bathroom’s awkward anyway. Take that out, make it a walk-in pantry. And get rid of this poky little back door. Open it up to that deck, that view. Big-ass double doors—full glass, no panes.”
He’d been making notes, nodding, but looked up now.
“Ms. Carson?”
“Naomi.”
“Naomi. I love my wife.”
She sent him a careful smile as she turned. “That’s good.”
“I fell for her when I was sixteen, and didn’t get up the courage to ask her out for nearly a year. I might still be thinking about kissing her for the first time if she hadn’t taken that bull by the horns, so to speak. I was twenty-three when we got married—she took that over, too, or I’d be working up the nerve to ask her. We got two kids.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m just saying I love my wife, and I tend to move slow in some areas. But if you and I had a longer acquaintance I’d kiss you right on the mouth.”
“Should I anticipate that for later?”
He grinned again. “It could happen if you keep realizing my hopes and dreams. It was taking out that skinny door there that did it. It needs the view. Why have that view, and keep it outside? If you let me take out that wall there, I’d give you open concept into the dining room. It would make it more of an entertaining space. Living room’s at the other end of the house, but you’d have this area here so people could gather when you’re cooking.”
“It could go on the list.”
They went through, bottom to top, and then Kevin went out for his tape measure and went through it again.
By the time he’d finished, she’d put her supplies away and poured them both Cokes. They drank them on the front porch, watching the sun burn its way down through the trees.
“I’ll work up an estimate. You might want to be sitting down when you read it over.”
“I already got that picture.”
“Once you do, we can talk about priorities, what you want done right off, what can maybe wait some. I can give you the name of a good landscaper while you’re reeling from estimates.”
“I’ll take it, but I’m going to tackle some of that myself.”
“All right. Thanks for the Coke.” He handed her the empty glass. “I appreciate the chance to look the place over. If you give me the job, I’ll do good work for you.”
“I believe you would.”
“I’ll be in touch. Let’s go, Molly.”
She watched him drive off, felt the silence fall just like the sun behind the trees.
She’d do good work here, too, she thought. And went inside to make herself a temporary nest and work space.
She spent mornings taking pictures: sunrises—all those holy colors blending—the water, trees, birds. In the afternoons she hunted up secondhand stores, flea markets. She bought a desk and chair, a couple of lamps, and the happy prize of an old metal glider and matching chair.
Evenings, she’d put together a sandwich or scramble some eggs, pour some wine, and work on the photos she’d taken that morning.
She could and did sell some fine photography through her website and through a gallery in New York, but her real bread and butter came from the royalties on stock photos.
She’d learned she could work anywhere—in her car, in a campground, in a motel room. But this, working in her own house, with the quiet everywhere and the light playing on the water, felt like a gift, one made possible by her grandparents and the trust funds they’d set up for her and Mason.
Grateful, she sent them regular emails with photos. Since college she’d called them every week, no matter where she’d been, what she’d been doing.
They’d lost their daughter—twice, to Naomi’s way of thinking. She’d made certain they never lost their granddaughter.
She took before photos of the glider and chair, playing up the texture of the rust, the peeling paint, the square lines—and the pop from the bucket of purple pansies she’d planted and set on the deck with them. She’d take after shots, too, send both home—but she’d play with the before shots on her computer, put them up on her website for sale.
It took nearly a week for Kevin to bring the estimate. This time he had his six-year-old son, Tyler, as well as Molly. The boy was a mini version of his father, and so cute Naomi wished she had cookies.
“We’re on our way to pick up pizza, and figured we’d drop this off. You might want to have a stiff drink and sit down before you read it over.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. Well. Like I said, you can figure out priorities. I gave you my mind on that in there. And if you want to take on some DIY, we can save you some money. Take some time, think about it. Just let me know. I got another name in there, too. You might want another bid, and I know that company does good work. They’re out of Hoodsport.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s go, team.” The boy raced back to the truck with the dog. Kevin paused. “Don’t forget that stiff drink.”
Naomi tapped the manila envelope on her palm, took it back inside to the kitchen. A glass of wine couldn’t be wrong, she thought, and poured one, and since other than her desk chair it was her only option, she went out on the deck and sat in the half-sanded glider.
She sat a moment, drinking wine, watching the water and the bright red kayak that slid along it toward the shore.
She set the wine down on the drop cloth, opened the envelope.
“Holy shit. Oh hello, six figures.” She wished she’d gone for stronger than wine. Like a few tequila shots. She hadn’t bought any tequila as yet, but that would be rectified.
She took another deeper drink of wine, blew out a breath, and read over the estimate.
So much work. The kitchen—she’d expected that price tag. And in fact, he’d bid a little under what she’d been braced for. The windows—there were so many windows, and replacing them added up. She’d done some research there, and his price was, again, slightly under what she’d calculated.
Contractor’s discount, she mused. He was passing some of that on, and that was more than fair.
She got up, walked up and down the deck, sat down. Read on.
The plumbing, the electrical, spray insulation in the attic. Nothing sexy there, but necessary. God, the floors. So much square footage. Why had she bought such a big house?
To answer her own question, she looked up at the view. The sun hung low, sparkling over the blue. A bird, white and wide-winged, just sailed over it.
She read through the estimate again. She could take on at least some of the painting. She wasn’t afraid of hard work. There was bound to be something else she could handle. And corners she could cut.
But she didn’t want to cut corners.
She leaned back, gliding slowly. She could get a lot of photos out of the demo, the rehab. Photos of workers, of broken tiles, of tools and lumber. If she played it right, she could pull in some income even while coughing up the outlay.
She had savings, she reminded herself. She’d lived carefully, didn’t need a lot to live. Her biggest expenses before the house had been her Hasselblad and her 4Runner. She could do this.
She looked out over the water again. She needed to do this. She’d been to every state, working her way. She’d been to Europe twice, working her way.
And nowhere had ever drawn her like this spot, this place.
She took out her phone, called Kevin.
“Do you need an ambulance?”
He made her laugh. She didn’t make friends easily, but he made her laugh. “I wished for tequila shots, but I toughed it out. When can you start?”
“What? Sorry, what?”
“Let’s go for it. When can you start?”
“I might need an ambulance. Wow. Wow. Listen, I’m kicking myself as I say this, but don’t you want to get that other bid?”
“I bought this place because it spoke to me, it said words I needed. You get that. I’m going to try to do some of this—like the painting. I might be able to help with demo or something, to cut it down a little. But I’m going for it. When can you start?”
“Monday. I’m going to draw up a contract, and I’ll put in that you’re taking on the painting. That doesn’t work out, we’ll sub it for you. I drew up the kitchen design you outlined, but—”
“Yeah, I saw it. We’ll go with it, and you can tell me where I look for the countertops, the cabinets, and all that so I can figure out what I want.”
“It’s a lot to figure.”
“Yeah, so let’s get started.”
“Naomi, I might have to kiss you on the mouth. My wife will understand.”
She hoped his wife was as, well, adorable as he was. “We’ll cross that bridge.”
“I’ll come by with the contract tomorrow.”
“And I’ll give you a check for materials, like it says here.”
“I’d appreciate it. You got a favorite color?”
“Sure. All of them.”
“Good enough. See you tomorrow. And thanks, Naomi.”
She went inside, topped off her wine. And toasted herself in her soon-to-be-gutted kitchen.
He brought the contract, along with his wife—the very pretty Jenny—Tyler, and four-year-old Maddy, a sweet, towheaded version of her father.
And he handed her a pot of rainbow tulips along with the contract.
“You said all of them. Favorite color.”
“They’re great.”
Then he took her by the shoulders, kissed her. Tyler covered his eyes; Maddy giggled. Jenny just beamed.
“He’s had ideas about what needed to be done to this place longer than I can remember. And he said yours ran right down the same lines. Kevin’s the best. He’s going to make it beautiful for you.”
“Jenny’s biased.” Kevin wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “But honest. I’ve got a Dumpster coming first thing Monday morning. The crew will be here by seven thirty. We’re going to be loud.”
“I’ll deal.”
“See you Monday then.”
They piled into a minivan, and like the dog, Kevin stuck his head out the window. “We’re going to rock this place!”
Naomi put the coffeemaker in her bedroom on the desk, filled her cooler with soft drinks, lunch meats, some fruit. She could set her Coleman stove on the deck. She’d put meals together in much less cozy circumstances.
Monday, she gave herself the day off and joined in gutting the kitchen and adjoining bathroom. She swung a sledgehammer, wielded a pry bar, helped haul out old counters, old cabinets.
And exhausted, aching, fell dead asleep before the forest swallowed the sun.
Every morning the hammering started. She’d get coffee, a granola bar, her camera. The crew got used to her, stopped posing.
She took pictures of callused hands, hands bleeding at the knuckles. Of sweaty torsos, steel-toed work boots.
Evenings, in the blessed quiet, she ate sandwiches and worked. She cropped a study of the kitchen floor, the linoleum jagged against the exposed hardwood. She played with filtering, considered other compositions, spent time updating her site, punching up her marketing.
She chose which studies belonged on her site, which should be exclusive to the gallery, which should be put up as stock.
There were dozens of decisions to be made, and she would have sworn not as many hours in the day as there’d been a week before.
She took more time off to look at slabs of granite, and ended up spending more than an hour taking pictures—those raw edges, the graining, the dapples and colors. Tired of cold meals or soup over the Coleman, she stopped and picked up pizza in town on the way home.
She’d sit on her pretty slate blue glider, breathe in the quiet, and eat loaded pizza on her bedroom deck. Then she’d treat herself to a movie on her laptop. No more work that day. And thank God the king-size mattress she ordered would be delivered in the morning. She’d spend her last night on her air mattress.
Twilight shimmered in the west as she followed the snaking ribbon of road.
The deer leaped out of the trees. She had time to see that it was a massive buck before she cut the wheel to avoid the collision. She hit the brakes, fishtailed.
She felt more than heard her tire blow, and cursed as she tried to fight the wheel back.
She ended up thudding into the shallow ditch alongside the road with her heart pounding between her ears.
The buck merely turned his head, gave her a regal stare, and then leaped into the shadows.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it. Okay, okay. Nobody’s hurt, including fricking Bambi.” She shoved open the door to see the damage.
Tire shot, she noted, but she didn’t think she’d damaged the wheel. She could change a stupid tire, but it was going to be tricky with the way she’d angled into the ditch. And dusk was falling fast now—with her on the curve of the switchback.
She opened the back, pulled out the emergency kit, lit a flare, set it several feet behind the truck, set another several feet in front, eased into the car, turned on her flashers.
Resigned to the annoyance, she hauled the jack out of the trunk.
She caught the headlights, worried they came too fast. But the truck—she made out the shape of a truck—slowed, then swerved gently to the shoulder between her car and the back flare.
Naomi set down the jack and took a good grip on the tire iron.
“Got some trouble?”
“Just a flat. I’ve got it, thanks.”
But he sauntered forward, in silhouette with the headlights glaring at his back.
“Got a spare?”
Deep voice, deeply male. Tall—long legs and arms.
“Of course I have a spare.”
“Good. I’ll change it for you.”
“I appreciate that.” Her hand tightened on the tire iron. “But I’ve got it.”
He just hunkered down to take a closer look. She could see him better now—a lot of dark, windblown hair, a sharp-boned profile under some scruff. A battered leather jacket, big hands on the knees of long legs.
“You’re at a bad angle for the jack, but it’s doable. I’ve got emergency lights in the truck.”
He looked up at her now. A hard and handsome face, a tough-guy face with the scruff, with the thick, windblown hair, a firm, full, unsmiling mouth.
She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but didn’t detect any mean in them. Still . . .
“I’ve changed a tire before.”
“Hey, me, too. In fact, you can make a living. Xander Keaton. Keaton’s Garage and Body Works—name’s on the side of my truck. I’m a mechanic.”
“I didn’t call a mechanic.”
“Aren’t you lucky one just came along? And I’d appreciate the hell out of it if you didn’t smack me with that tire iron.” He goose-stepped over, picked up the jack, got to work. “Killed this tire good. You’re going to need a new one. I can order one for you.”
He picked up the lug wrench. “How’d it blow? It doesn’t look worn.”
“A deer—it jumped out in front of me. I overcompensated.”
“That’ll happen. Heading home? Just making conversation,” he said when she remained silent. “I can smell the pizza. You’re coming from town, so you’re not staying in town. I haven’t seen you before, and given you’re a serious looker, I’d remember if I had.”
“Yes, I’m going home.”
“New around here—because I know everybody—heading home on this road. Killer blonde. Are you Naomi?”
She stepped back.
“Settle down.” He said it calmly as he got up to get the spare. “Kevin Banner. He’s rehabbing the old Parkerson place up on Point Bluff for you. Best pals, birth to earth. Well, earth’s a ways off, unless you kill me with that tire iron, but we’ve known each other since before we could walk. You can call him, get my bona fides if it’ll loosen the grip you’ve got on that thing.”
“He never mentioned you.” But her grip did loosen, a little.
“Now that hurts. He was my wingman, I was his best man. I’m Tyler’s godfather. His cousin Mark’s doing your plumbing, and Macie Addams—who I was madly in love with for about six weeks in junior year—is one of your carpenters. Does that clear me?”
“I’ll know when I ask Kevin tomorrow.”
“That’s a cynical and suspicious nature you’ve got. I have to like it.” He tightened the lug nuts on the spare, gave it a testing spin. “That’ll do.”
As he lowered the jack, he looked up at her again. “How tall are you?”
“Five-ten. And a half.”
“You know how to wear it.” He rose, fitted the jack and the tools back in their compartments.
“Do you want me to take the tire with me, order you another?”
“I . . . Yes, actually, that would be great. Thanks.”
“No problem. Hold on a minute.” He took the tire to his truck, got out a bucket of sand, picked up the flare. “Wanna get the other one?”
“You’re prepared.”
“Part of the job.” He doused the flares in the sand, shook his head as Naomi dug in her pockets. “You want to pay me? Give me a slice of that pizza.”
“What? Seriously?”
“That’s Rinaldo’s pizza. I’ve got a weakness.”
“You want a slice of pizza?”
“It doesn’t seem like much to ask after I risked a concussion and possible brain damage to change your tire.”
She opened the door, opened the box. “I don’t have anything to put it on.”
Xander held out a hand. “How about this?”
With a shrug, Naomi set the slice of pizza on his wide palm.
“Thanks for the assist.”
“Thanks for the pizza. You drive safe now.”
She got in, strapped in, watched him saunter away—that was what he did. Saunter. She eased out of the ditch, bumped back onto the road.
He gave his horn a friendly honk as she drove away.
He sat a moment, getting in a couple bites of pizza so he could drive one-handed. He found it, as always, delicious.
But it didn’t hold a candle to the leggy blonde with suspicious eyes.