“You’re going to have to. What time?”
“About seven works best. I’m over the garage. You come around back and take the stairs up.”
“All right. Wednesday. Probably.”
Still letting the dog nuzzle his hand, Xander grinned. “You like keeping the door cracked open.”
“Always. Good night.”
Why was that? he wondered when she drove away. What was it she needed to be ready to run from?
Yeah, she made it hard not to ask questions.
Twelve
Creatively, her week sucked. She had to move her workstation from the bedroom into one of the guest rooms—at least she could try it out as her potential studio—as they wanted to demo her bathroom. And since they were doing that, Kevin opted to have them demo all but one of the other baths on the bedroom floor.
The noise, even with earbuds in and music blaring, was horrendous.
She considered moving downstairs, but the painters held court in the living room, with the library next on the slate. She’d end up playing musical workstations, so she tried her best to stick it out.
By midweek she gave up and drove into the national forest with the intent of hiking with camera and dog.
Fresh air, a dry, sunny day, and lovely green-tinged light whipped annoyance away. She wished she’d brought her laptop, as she’d have found a handy stump, sat right down, and done her updates in the serenity of the forest.
She walked—the leash fixed to her belt, as Tag tolerated it now—through a stand of trees that looked as if they’d stood since time began. Towering columns with branches lifted to catch the sea of wind and send dapples and rays of filtered sun to the forest floor.
Wildflowers danced there through fans of young ferns, around moss-carpeted rocks. Snow-white trillium like fairy brides, and calypso orchids their colorful slippers.
She thought about taking a few days, camping out. How would the dog deal with that, now that she had a dog to consider? Two or three days, on her own again, away from the noise she’d brought on herself.
Maybe.
No question Tag enjoyed the forest, puffing himself up by threatening squirrels or prancing along beside her. He even sat patiently enough when she paused to take pictures, no matter how long she took.
“It could be fun. Just you and me, and all this.”
As they meandered she began to think getting a dog—or being got by one—had been a fine idea after all.
A couple of hikers came her way, leading a handsome little beagle. Before she could give them the fellow-hiker nod of greeting, Tag let out a yip of terror and literally leaped into her arms. And knocked her flat.
The hikers—a couple of guys up from Portland for a few days—rushed to her aid. But the friendly and harmless beagle only had Tag squirming on top of her as if he could worm his way straight through and under her where it would be safe.
Since her camera was cushioned between her body and the dog’s, no damage done. But she’d seen stars—and felt their sharp little points in her ass.
“You’re a disgrace,” she told the dog as she walked stiffly back to the car. “Definitely no camping for you. A teacup poodle might come along and try to rip you to pieces.”
Tag crawled into the back, hung his head, and said nothing.
Since her butt ached, she tried the seat warmer on low and found that it soothed her considerably on the drive back. And with relief she saw only Kevin’s truck in front of the house.
He walked out as she gingerly eased out of the car.
“Hey! I just left you a note. We made some good progress today. How was the hike?”
She watched Tag rush over to greet Molly like a long-lost friend.
“He’s fine with her.”
“Sure.”
“If there’s a cat or a Pom or Pekinese, whatever, in the vet, he shakes like he’s walking into the seventh circle of hell. He runs at squirrels, or barks at them, but we ran into a couple of guys with a damn beagle on the trail, and he freaked. Jumped on me, knocked me flat.”
“You okay?”
Automatically she rubbed her sore ass. “It rang my bell, I’ll tell you that, and he’s all but clawing me open to climb inside, away from the terrifying beagle who licked at my limp hand in sympathy.”
To her shock, Kevin stepped straight up and started running his hands over her head. “You’ve got a little bump. I can run you to the ER.”
“It’s just bumps and bruises. And extreme pissed-off.”
He cupped her chin, looked hard into her eyes, and did something she thought no one could at that moment. He made her smile.
“Bumps and bruises only, Dr. Banner.”
“Headache?”
“No. Ass ache.”
“Ice bag, warm bath, a couple of Motrin. That’ll be two hundred dollars.”
“Put it on my account, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“A good dinner you don’t have to cook over at Xander’s should polish it off.”
“I . . . It’s Wednesday.”
“All day, half the night. You take it easy,” he added, giving her a gentle poke. “And I know it looks torn up in there, but it’s good progress. Tell Xander I’ll see him tomorrow at Loo’s.”
“Right.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. She started in as Kevin got into his truck.
She had a perfect excuse—reason, she corrected—to cancel dinner at Xander’s. Sore, cranky, out of sorts—all for good reason, she thought, and headed straight back for that ice pack.
Then she turned straight around and walked back to stand and stare at the living room.
The painting wasn’t finished—as the ladders and drop cloths attested—and she could see where touch-up was needed.
But oh, it was going to be just lovely.
She’d gone back and forth, around and around on color, and had worried the soft taupe would come off as dull and boring.
It didn’t.
Settled, she thought. For some reason the tone said settled to her.
“I keep thinking I’ve made a mistake with this place.” Sighing, she laid her hand on Tag’s head as he leaned against her leg. “Then I see the next step or stage, and know I haven’t.”
She looked down, smiled. Then narrowed her eyes. “I’m mad at you,” she reminded them both, and went back for the ice bag.
She argued with herself as she soaked her aching butt in the ugly baby blue tub in the single bathroom left to her upstairs. She could call off dinner without a qualm. She’d had an incident.
But calling it off tonight really equaled postponing.
Better to do it—get it done—and work on a way to shift whatever this was with Xander into the kind of friendship she had with Kevin.
The kind where being touched made her smile instead of tense.
And that, she admitted, would never happen.
Too much heat.
She got out of the tub, pleased the ache had lessened—and displeased to see she had a palm-sized bruise on her posterior.
She opted for leggings—softer on the ass—and a pale gray hooded sweater. She considered skipping makeup altogether but deemed it too obvious, so she kept a very light hand with it.
At quarter to seven she started out—though she felt Tag didn’t deserve a second outing. Then she walked back in and grabbed a bottle of wine.
It wasn’t a strawberry torte, but she’d been raised too well to go empty-handed.
She made the drive easily, then let the dog out but gave him the cold shoulder. As instructed, she took the steps up and rapped a knuckle on the door.
“Yeah, it’s open! Come on in.”
Naomi pushed the door open to see Xander in the jut that formed a kitchen, opening a bottle of wine.
Jeans, a chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, at least a day’s worth of scruff on that toughly handsome face.
She’d break down, she thought, and ask him to pose for her. “I could have been a trained assassin with her vicious hellhound.”
“A locked door wouldn’t stop a trained assassin or her vicious hellhound.”
He had a point. Tag strolled right in and wagged his way over to Xander.
And Naomi stared, with wonder and delight, at the living room wall of books. “Wow, the rumors of book lover are true. That’s quite a collection.”
“Part of it.”
“Part? You’re a serious man, Xander.”