Chapter 12
There she was, he thought, her canine companion at her side and those eyes of hers so carefully guarded he just knew they held secrets.
She didn’t project annoyance this time, and still she watched every move he made when he climbed out of the truck with the pizza and a six-pack of Rolling Rock.
They kept watching him when he stepped onto the porch, leaned in and kissed her.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” She stepped back, then went through the locking-up routine. “You brought beer. I have wine breathing, but—”
“That’ll work, too. We’ll just put this in the fridge.” He passed her the six-pack, then pulled a rawhide bone out of his pocket. “Something for Bert, if it’s okay.”
The gift touched her. Ploy or not, she thought it showed kindness. “He won’t take it from you.”
“You give it to him, then.”
He handed her the bone, saw Bert’s eyes click between the two of them, the rawhide. But the dog didn’t move a muscle.
“It was very nice of you. He likes them.” She turned to the dog, murmured a command. Bert’s butt hit the floor.
“That wasn’t French.”
“Italian.” She gave Bert the bone, followed it with another command.
“He speaks Italian, too. That’s some sophisticated dog. He’s smiling.”
“Dogs don’t smile.”
“Give me a break, look at those eyes. He’s smiling. Where do you want the pizza?”
“The kitchen’s best. You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m about to have pizza with a pretty woman, one who goes for hot peppers, a personal favorite. And she opened wine. I’m off duty until eight hundred hours. I’d be stupid not to be in a good mood.”
“You’re not stupid.” She got down wineglasses. “And though your job includes a high-stress factor, you rarely appear stressed. That I’ve observed.”
“I like the job.”
“But if your father hadn’t become ill, you’d still be in Little Rock.”
“Yeah, probably. I was meant to come home, take this job and settle back here.”
She shook her head as she got out plates.
It occurred to her she did have more conversation.
“There’s no such thing as predestination or fate or destiny.
Life is a series of choices and circumstance, action and the reaction, and results of other people’s choices.
Your father’s illness influenced you to choose this position at this time.
I think it was a loving and loyal choice, but it wasn’t meant. ”
He poured the wine himself. “I believe in choice, and in fate.”
“How? We can’t have choice and free will and still be fated.”
“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”
He looked so natural in her kitchen, in her space, with his jeans and T-shirt, his high-top sneakers and battered leather jacket. Should she be concerned about that?
“Why don’t we eat out on the back porch? It’s a pretty night.”
That threw her. She never ate outside, and never went outside without a weapon.
“Look at the wheels turn.” He flicked a finger down her temple. “You’ve been cooped up working most of the day, I imagine. I can’t believe you bought this place if you don’t appreciate a soft spring night.”
Just another choice, she thought. “All right.” She opened the drawer, took out her holster. “I don’t go outside without my gun.”
“Okay.” The Glock 19 again, apparently a favorite. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid.” If it was a lie, it was a small one. She considered herself too well prepared and secured for real fear. “I prefer to have a gun when I’m outside.”
“All right.” He waited while she put it on, unlocked the kitchen door. “But when you decide to tell me, I’ll find a way to help you.”
“How do you know I’m not a criminal? A fugitive from justice?”
“Do you believe in instinct?”
“Yes, of course. It’s—”
“You don’t have to explain. Just put it down to instinct.”
She had a little table on the porch, a single chair. Brooks set the pizza down, went inside for her desk chair.
“It’s nice out here, the view, the air. You’ve started your garden.” He took the desk chair, sipped his wine. “What do you have in the greenhouse?”
“Plants. Flowers, some vegetables. I have some small fruit trees. They do very well in the greenhouse environment.”
“I bet.”
At her signal, Bert lay down by her feet and began to gnaw on his bone. “He’s smiling again.”
This time she shook her head but smiled a little, too. “You have a fanciful nature.”
“Maybe it offsets that stress.” He took the pizza she served him, balanced the plate on his lap, then, stretching out his legs, held his silence.
She did the same.
“You’re not going to ask,” he decided. “That’s some control you’ve got there, Abigail.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I had news, but you’re not going to ask about it. Most people wouldn’t have waited three minutes to ask.”
“Maybe it was another ploy.”
“Not this time.” He waited a few beats, sighed hugely. “Now you’re not going to ask because you’re messing with me.”
Her smile bloomed again, and damned if he didn’t feel a sense of victory every time he made those lips curve. “All right, all right, if you’re going to nag about it, I’ll tell you. I took your advice. Rescued a pup from the pound for my mother.”
“Is she pleased?”
“She cried, in a good way. My sister texted me today that I was a suck-up, and Ma still likes her better. That’s the middle of us.
She was kidding,” he added, when Abigail frowned.
“We like to rag on each other. After an intense debate, during which I ate my burger and kept my mouth shut, the happy parents named their new child, because, believe me, he’ll be treated like one, Plato.
My dad wanted Bob or Sid, but my mother claims the puppy looked philosophic and very bright, and deserves an important name. ”
“It’s a good name. Names with strong consonant sounds are easier to use in training. It’s good news. Happy news.”
“I think so.” He pulled his phone off his belt. “Got a picture of him.” He scrolled through, offered it.
“He’s very handsome, and has bright, alert eyes.” And it softened her to look into them, imagine him in a good, loving home. “You’re a good son.”
“They make it easy to be. How about your parents?”
“There’s only my mother. We’re estranged.”
“I’m sorry. Where is she?”
“We haven’t communicated in several years.”
Off-limits, Brooks deduced. Way off-limits. “I end up communicating with my parents damn near every day. One of the ups, or downs, depending on your viewpoint, of living in a small town.”
“I think in your case it must be an advantage, and a comfort.”
“Yeah. I took it for granted when I was growing up, but that’s what kids do. Take for granted. When I lived in Little Rock, I talked or e-mailed a lot. And I came up every month or so, to see them, my sisters, my friends who still live here. But I never thought about moving back.”
“You were happy in Little Rock, and with your work there.”
“Yeah, I was. But when my father got sick, I not only felt I had to come back, I realized I wanted to.”
He pointed a finger at her. “Fated.”
She gave that little head shake and smile he was growing very fond of. “You have a close nuclear family.”
“You could say that. How’s the pizza?”
“It’s very good. When I make my own, I make a whole wheat crust, but I like this better.”
“Make your own? Like from a box?”
“If it’s in a box, it’s not making your own.”
“Most everything I make’s out of a box. You make pizza from scratch?”
“Yes, when I want it.”
“Even my mother doesn’t do that.” He put another slice on her plate, one on his, then topped off their wine. “Maybe you’ll show me the greenhouse later.”
“I’m not growing marijuana.”
He laughed, so quick, so delighted, it made her jump a little.
“Wouldn’t that be interesting? But it’s not what I was thinking.
I grew up with gardeners, so I’m interested.
Not to say we don’t have a few around these parts growing some weed, for personal use or as a second income.
My own mother did until she started having kids.
And she’d still argue at the blink of an eye for legalizing it. ”
“Legalizing, inspecting and taxing marijuana would eliminate the funds spent on the attempt to enforce the current laws, and generate considerable revenue.”
“There’s that viewpoint thing again.”
The dog shifted, sat up, stared at Abigail. “Allez,” she said, and he climbed off the porch, headed for a tree.
“Back to French. Did that dog just ask permission to pee?”
“He wouldn’t leave the porch without my permission.” She shifted herself, took a sip of wine. “I’ve reconsidered.”
“Too late, you’re already into your second slice.”
“Not the pizza. I’ve reconsidered having sex with you.”
He was grateful he’d just swallowed or he’d have choked. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes. After weighing the pros and cons, I’ve decided sex with you would be mutually satisfying.
You’re attractive and pleasant. And clean.
You kiss very well, and while I’ve found that’s not always a reliable gauge for skill in bed, it often follows.
If you’re agreeable, we can finish dinner, I’ll show you the greenhouse, then we can go in and have sex.
I’m on birth control, but I would require you wear a condom. ”
He was damn near speechless. “That’s an offer, all right.”
“You don’t accept?” She hadn’t factored in a refusal. “I thought you wanted me, physically. You don’t?”
He put his plate down, got to his feet. Too wound up to give a damn what the dog thought—or did—Brooks pulled Abigail up, gave her a good, hard yank against him.
No soft kiss this time, no easy exploration. This exploded, firebombing shrapnel through her senses. Her balance swayed, crumbled. She had to cling to him or fall.
“Wait. Wait.”
Perhaps it was the tremble in her voice—or the low, warning growl from the dog—but though he didn’t let her go, he eased up.
“Ami. Ami.” Her hand trembled like her voice as she laid it briefly on Brooks’s cheek. Then she added a hand signal for the dog. “Ami, Bert. Pillow.”
When the dog sat, Abigail let out a shaky breath. “He thought you were hurting me.”
“Was I?”