Chapter Fifty-Two
Eliot
There are thirty-six steps between the parking lot and Parker’s front door. I’ve never counted them before, but tonight my knee is definitely doing the math for me.
By the third landing, I consider sitting down. Maybe even sleeping right here. Six hours in a hundred-year-old sanctuary attic will do that to a man. Especially one whose body is already falling apart.
I had just enough time after inspecting the church and giving it the all clear to run home and take a shower, stare at the mess in my bedroom, and wonder when and how the hell I’m supposed to finish putting up the acoustic tiles when I’m underwater with inspections by day and can barely lift my arms over my head at night.
I did stop to buy a small bouquet of flowers. Though I doubt she’s gotten around to buying that vase yet.
I lean against the wall next to her door, working up the energy to knock. When I finally do, the deadbolt clicks a few seconds later.
Fuck. The sight of her—hair falling in messy waves to her shoulders, no makeup, bare feet, in a pair of loose shorts and a tank top—sends the exhaustion running for the hills.
“Hey,” she says with a small smile. “Come on in.”
“Brought you somethin’.”
Parker’s eyes light up, and she pulls the bouquet to her nose for a quick inhale. “Guess it’s a good thing I stopped at the Dollar Mart on the way home.”
Locking the deadbolt behind me, I follow her through the living room. The scent of fried tortillas hits me, and my stomach makes a noise that doesn’t sound human. “God, that smells amazing.”
“Don’t get too excited. Quesadillas are about all I’ve got the energy for tonight. And the tortillas are store-bought.” She hunches her shoulders slightly, like working a case this size and cooking an elaborate meal is somehow the bar for a successful day.
“Parker, you could have nuked a frozen burrito and I’d still think you were amazing. Hell, I’d take a bowl of cereal if it means I get to do this.” Taking the flowers from her hand, I lay them on the counter before wrapping my arms around her.
Parker rests her cheek against my chest. “Sorry. I… My mom cooked these elaborate meals every night when I was a kid. Perfectin’ her recipes before she landed the sous chef job at Comfort Food. So, sometimes I feel like that’s the only way to be…” She shrugs in my arms. “I don’t know.”
No, she really doesn’t. But I do. Parker needs to feel like she’s givin’ more than she gets.
We stay fused together for another few seconds before my stomach betrays me again.
Parker laughs softly against my chest. “I should probably feed you. Don’t want you dyin’ from starvation.”
“I don’t remember eating lunch. Unless cobwebs and dust count as a meal.”
“Ugh. Hardly.”
She pulls away, and the loss of her warmth is almost enough to hurt.
Watching her move through the small space soothes some of the day’s rough edges. Pulling a vase out of the cabinet for the flowers, crisping the tortillas, flipping them onto plates…
But she’s only holding the tongs with the first three fingers of her right hand. The other two shake slightly. One of these days, I hope she’ll tell me about those scars—and what caused them.
Not tonight. Tonight, she’s making me dinner after a long day, and all I want is to be close to her.
“Need any help?” I brace one hand on the closest kitchen chair. My legs are reminding me they’ve had a long damn day, too. But I’m not asking just to be polite. She’s as tired as I am.
“You can get us a couple of Shiners. Then sit. These’ll only be another minute.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She carries two plates to the table, I twist the caps off the bottles, and for a little while, there’s no arson investigation. No missing inspector. No questions we don’t have answers to yet. Just the two of us, and the quiet relief of being somewhere neither of us has to hold everything together.
Parker
The dishwasher swishes softly in the background, and we settle together on the couch. Eliot drapes his arm around my shoulders, my legs are curled under me, and This Old House plays on the TV.
“How far through Nate’s list are you?” I ask, my fingers twisting in the hem of his long-sleeve t-shirt.
“We’ve checked forty-eight properties. Five of those had violations serious enough to issue an order to vacate.
Two more had minor issues that could’ve been laziness or lack of training on the inspector’s part.
Ain’t sure yet.” He presses a kiss to my temple.
“I spent the afternoon at the Lutheran church on Laredo. The attic access was designed for a younger man half my size, and I had to squeeze through it multiple times.”
Shit.
My first instinct is to ask what I can do to make his life easier. Take something off his plate. Fix a problem before he even realizes it needs fixing. The thought comes so naturally, I almost say the words.
But then I hear Grace’s voice in my head.
“You don’t need to be useful to earn your place in someone’s life.”
Eliot shifts, pulling me closer against him. On screen, the host is walking through the kitchen renovation, explaining why they’re keeping the original cabinets instead of tearing everything out.
“I’m in the office most of tomorrow,” he says. “We’ve knocked out most of the larger buildings. But that means the crew’s gonna be sendin’ in a fuckton of photos, and I want to check all of ‘em.”
On the TV, the cabinet doors come off one by one, heading into the workshop for refinishing.
“What about your day? Got Kessler in protective custody?”
I fill him in. The drive. The cabin so clean, you could eat off the floor. The scent of bleach.
“He’s either gone to ground, or someone got to him.” I run a hand through my hair, wondering if Denise will ever find out that Kessler really did love her.
We return our focus to the show. Eliot shakes his head when the contractors accidentally punch through a section of lath and plaster while installing a bathroom vanity. His thumb moves slowly along my shoulder.
Five minutes later, the vanity has to come out again because no one bothered to level it before bolting it to the wall. Eliot stills, his body tensing briefly before he chuckles, almost to himself.
“A few months after Zack started, we got new lockers,” he says, his voice rough. “The kid was actually pretty good with power tools, so our captain said he could install them.”
His eyes unfocus. He’s not here with me anymore. He’s ten miles and seven years away.
“He didn’t level ‘em.” A smile tugs at his lips. “Half the doors wouldn’t close unless you lifted and shoved them at the same time. One was so bad, we took it off completely and turned that locker into a first aid station.”
I laugh softly. “Did he try to fix it?”
Eliot’s smile deepens, and he meets my gaze. “For about an hour. Then he decided opening those doors counted as a training exercise.”
On TV, the host sets a level on the vanity, gives it a nod, and tells the contractors to bolt it down. Eliot presses a kiss to my hair. “The other night? I’m glad you asked about him.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I’m glad you told me.”
The credits roll. Eliot gets to his feet with a wince, stretches gingerly, then offers me his hand. “Want to get naked?”
My laugh is loud enough to shock me. “I was fixin’ to ask you the same thing.”
I turn off the television and lay my fingers in his palm. “You know the way, hot stuff.”
“Christ. I’m never gonna live that down. Nate sent me three messages about his spreadsheet today and signed them all ‘Pookie.’”
“In his defense, you started it.”
Eliot chuckles. “Fair.” His hand tightens around mine, and we leave the rest of the world behind us for a while.