“Only my pride.”
She smiled and held her fingers there on him, caressing his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and he looked at her in a way that made her heart flutter. Nikki stepped away before the magnet pull gained real force, suddenly worried that deep down she might be some sort of freak who got turned on at crime scenes. First on Matthew Starr’s balcony and now here in her own kitchen. Not the worst thing, to be a bit of a freak, she thought, but crime scenes? That was sure the common denominator. Well, that and, um, Rook.
He shook the ice out of the towel and into the sink, and while he was occupied, her mind raced to figure out just what the hell she was thinking, asking him up there. Maybe she was loading too much meaning into this visit, projecting. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, right? And sometimes coming up for ice was just coming up for ice. Her breath was still high in her chest, though, from being close to him. And that look. No, she said to herself, and made her decision. The best course was not to force this. He had his ice, she’d kept her promise, yes, the smart thing would be to stop this now and send him on his way. “Would you like to stay for a beer?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said with a grave tone. “Is your iron unplugged? Oh wait, there’s no electricity so I don’t have to worry about my face getting pressed.”
“Funny man. Guess what? I don’t need no stinking iron. I’ve got a Bagel Biter over there and you don’t want to know what I can do with that.”
He took a moment and said, “I’m good with beer.”
There was only one Sam Adams in the fridge so they split it. Rook said he was fine with sharing hits off the bottle, but Nikki got them glasses, and while she got them down, she wondered what had made her ask him to stay. She felt a naughty thrill and smiled about how blackouts and hot nights brought on a certain lawlessness. Maybe she did need guarding—from herself.
Rook and his virtual lighter disappeared into the living room with their beers while she scrounged a kitchen drawer for some candles. When she came into the living room, Rook was standing at the wall adjusting the John Singer Sargent print. “This look level to you?”
“Oh…”
“I know it’s kind of forward. We know about my boundary issues, right? You can hang it somewhere else, or not, I just thought I’d swap it for your Wyeth poster so you could get the effect.”
“No, no, it’s good. I like it there. Let me get some more light going for a better look. It might have found its home.” Nikki struck a wooden match and the flare-?up anointed her face with gold. She reached down into the curved glass of the hurricane lamp on the bookcase and touched the flame to the wick.
“Which one are you?” said Rook. When she looked up, he gestured to the print. “The girls, lighting the lanterns. I’m watching you do the same thing and wondering if you see yourself as one of them.”
She moved to the coffee table and set out a pair of votives. As she lit them, she said, “Neither, I just like the way it feels. What it captures. The light, the festiveness, their innocence.” She sat on the sofa. “I still can’t believe you got it for me. It was very thoughtful.”
Rook came around the other end of the coffee table and joined her on the couch, but putting himself at the far end with his back against the armrest. Allowing some space between them. “Have you seen the original?”
“No, it’s in London.”
“Yes, at the Tate,” he said.
“Then you’ve actually seen it, show off.”
“Mick and Bono and I went. In Elton John’s Bentley.”
“You know, I almost believe you.”
“Tony Blair was so pissed we invited Prince Harry instead of him.”