She climbs in, needing the step to make it. “Could you have found something bigger?”
I clench my fists to keep from reaching out and grabbing her, pulling her close to me. “I was actually looking at a Hummer. But decided against it.” I’m out of a job, so even though I have enough money to last me awhile, it won’t last forever. As it is, this is a rental. I’m not ready to commit just yet.
I crank the engine. She plays with the knobs until some heat starts pumping out. “It suits you more than that Acura.”
I finally left that in the covered garage where I was supposed to weeks ago, but not before having it thoroughly detailed and wiping down my prints. The Beretta is still in my boot. I’m not ready to ditch that.
A long, uncomfortable silence fills the truck, and I brace myself for the moment that she moves to leave.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I told the cops?” she asks.
“No.”
“I didn’t tell them anything.”
I know. I’ve known all along that I can trust her. She may hate me now, but I know I can still trust her. Except, I don’t think she hates me. Her mask is on, but she’s never been able to veil her eyes well.
“Can I show you something?” Will she trust me to take her somewhere?
After a long moment, she simply nods.
“A little to the left.”
I put my shoulders into the new chair, shimmying it over a few inches. It weighs a good fifty pounds more than the last one. I know because I loaded it into my truck last night after visiting three wholesale stores for the top-of-the-line client chair—according to the sales guy—complete with hydraulic lifts and a full recline option.
“A little more.”
I follow her instructions.
“Hmm . . . no. That’s not right. Maybe back to the right.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Ivy’s perched comfortably in her chair, legs propped on the new front desk and crossed at her ankles, her slippers tapping the surface. I’m not used to seeing her in anything but boots, but I guess she wasn’t planning on going anywhere besides the front porch when the detective rang the bell.
She flips through a magazine, feigning indifference. “Yeah, I am. I just wanted to make you sweat a little.”
There’s the attitude I’ve missed so much. “You like making me sweat?”
She tries to hide the smirk by adjusting her chair farther away from me, to face the brand-new monitor.
“So? What do you think?”
Her eyes roam the space—the newly hung mirrors to the new, black window shades, to the security system that I had wired, to the floors that I sanded down and varnished in a warm honey finish, with the help of Fez and Bobby.
Black Rabbit is basically ready for business.
“I think your ease with breaking into places makes me very uncomfortable.”
“Besides that.”
She tosses the magazine to the desk. “Why’d you do all this for me?” There’s a hint of vulnerability in her voice now.
“Because I don’t want you to leave San Francisco.”
She snorts. “You don’t even live here.”
“I will. If you’re staying.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then I guess I’m not.” I wander over to lean against the desk, lifting her legs at the ankles and settling her feet on my lap. “I want everything to go back to the way it was before.”
“It can’t go back to that.”
“I know. But we can go to something better.” No more lies.
We simply stare at each other. We’ve gotten good at doing that, of communicating without words. Like, right now, I’m hoping she understands how sorry I am that she went through this, how I did everything I could to protect her, how I can’t stand the idea that this is the end of us.
She nods toward the monitor. “What do you think about these for the waiting area?”
I smile. She’ll probably never be one to talk openly about her feelings, but that’s okay. We seem to manage just fine without words.