I was still fixating.
Meanwhile, important things—like nailing the coffin shut on the Iron Wraiths, the arrangements for Jethro’s wedding in two weeks, Thanksgiving, and preparing for my boar hunt in Texas—required my attention. Not to mention my regular work, various and sundry projects, fund management of my momma’s trust, ensuring Shelly was adequately trained and prepared for Duane’s departure while managing Beau’s temper, and all the other irons in the fire.
I tossed the torque wrench to the toolbox where it made an angry clatter. “We were just visiting.”
“You were visiting with your torque wrench?” Shelly asked deadpan.
“Yes. We’ve been through a lot together.”
She continued to peer at me. This was her way. She didn’t frown much, and she smiled even less. She was cool and collected, and brutally candid.
“There’s something wrong with you.” Her tone was even, but not robotic. She was making an observation, not a judgment.
I nodded, but didn’t answer. Shelly Sullivan’s frankness didn’t agitate me, not like Beau, who seemed to take it personally.
There was still work to do and the big clock above the stairwell told me it was well past closing. My productivity recently had been disappointing and still I’d spent the day clockwatching, anxious for eight o’clock to arrive. Jennifer didn’t know what machinations I had planned for the evening, as I hadn’t given her a heads-up. This was one of those instances where a sneak attack was in order.
“I need to leave.” I stood from where I’d been bending over my workbench. “Can you lock up?”
Shelly nodded, wiping her hands with a cloth. She stepped forward and used the cloth to pick up the torque wrench I’d haphazardly tossed and set it neatly in the toolbox. Then she quickly rearranged the sockets from smallest to largest and placed the wrench attachment at a perfect ninety-degree angle.
I blinked at Shelly and her arranging, then glanced around the shop with new eyes born of suspicion. The garage wasn’t pristine, but it was damn close. Everything was put away in its place, neatly.
My eyes cut back to her, a notion dancing in my forebrain. “Shelly?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you still here?”
Her jaw flexed and she swallowed, her eyes remained fixed on the top of the toolbox she was rearranging. “I was waiting for you to finish.”
“Why?”
Shelly lifted her cool gaze to mine. “No reason.”
She really was a beautiful woman—beautiful and aloof. Not beautiful and sweet, like Jennifer. Shelly was brutally honest and her honesty was armor, a shield to keep others at arm’s length.
Whereas Jennifer’s honesty was kindly meant and came from a place of trust and hope.
Perhaps because I’d been wrestling with my own fixations, I sensed an undercurrent of turmoil in Shelly this evening despite her outward show of detachment.
“Shelly.” I gentled my voice. This made her squint. “You’ve been waiting for me to finish so you can straighten up, right? You need things to be tidy?”
She gritted her teeth. Her eyes fell to the floor, then lifted again. The volume of hostility within her glare startled me.
“I don’t need it.” Her tone reeked of defensiveness and insolence.
I lifted my hands, wanting to communicate that I wasn’t one to judge. Furthermore, I didn’t care. Let her be tidy, if she needed it.
But I was also severely frustrated with myself. I couldn’t believe I’d worked with Shelly for almost two months and had no idea she was suffering from an obsessive-compulsive disorder. How could I miss something so obvious?
What else was I missing? What else was I not seeing? These were things I should know about my future . . .
My well-ordered world was in chaos, undone by a short woman baker.
“I’m leaving now.” I backed away. “So you do what you need to do, then feel free—or don’t—to tidy as you see fit.”
Some of the hostility behind her glare dissipated and she nodded once.
I left Shelly to her cleaning, walking straight out of the garage without checking out of the office first. I was restless and irritable and still in my grease-stained coveralls. There was nothing for it, so I would have to unzip them and tie the arms around my waist. Otherwise I’d be leaving grease smudges all over my car.
On the drive to the bakery, I forced myself to obey the speed limit. I had no reason to rush. No reason at all. Duane and Jess would be meeting us at Big Todd’s, the least sleazy adult shop in Knoxville, at 9:30 PM. I wasn’t nervous. I was . . . anxious, on Jennifer’s behalf.