AS SUNNY WOUND DOWN THE ROAD TOWARD ABIGAIL LOWery’s cabin, she doubted her son would approve. But she had a habit of doing as she pleased, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone—unless they deserved it. In any case, her son’s visit there the day before gave her the perfect excuse to drop by.
She parked, mentally clucked her tongue at the gas-guzzling SUV.
Still, she approved of the house, the way it nestled right into the landscape. She could see beds were being prepped for spring planting. And the glimpse of a corner of a greenhouse caught her eye and her envy.
It was a fine morning for a visit, she determined, with spring whispering on the air, the leaves a pretty haze of green on the trees, and the hint of wild dogwoods scattered around.
As insurance, she’d baked a huckleberry pie that morning. No one resisted her huckleberry pie.
She got out of her car, went up and knocked on the door.
When it opened a few cautious inches, she beamed out a smile.
“Hi, there. I’m Sunny O’Hara, Brooks’s mama.”
“I know Brooks came out to see you yesterday, and it made me think I should do the same. I thought, why, that girl’s been here for nearly a year now, and I haven’t paid her a call.”
“Thank you, Ms. O’Hara, but—”
“Sunny. I baked you a huckleberry pie.”
“Oh.”
In her life, Sunny had never seen anyone more baffled by a pie.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I have work, so—”
“Everybody can take a few minutes for pie. Do they call you Abby?”
“No, no, they don’t.”
“Well, Abigail’s a sweet, old-fashioned name. Abigail, I ought to tell you straight off I’m a woman who tends to get her way. You’re going to find it’s easier to just invite me in for a few minutes rather than deal with me coming around until you do. Now, I expect you’ve got a gun on you or nearby. I don’t approve of guns, but I won’t lecture you about it. Yet.”
She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”
“I don’t want to be rude, but—”
“Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”
Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.
She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.
Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.
“There, now, that wasn’t so—oh, what a gorgeous dog.” Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost our Thor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”
Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie. “Ami,” she said to the dog. “Ami, Bert. You can pet him now.”
Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “Ami? That’s French. Are you French?”
“No. I speak French.”
“How about that. Bert, you speak French, too? You’re so handsome. He has hazel eyes, a little like Brooks’s. What a good dog you are.”
Her eyes filled, and she sniffled back the tears as she straightened. “Sorry. I’m just not over the loss.”
“Death is difficult.”
“It certainly is.” Sunny flipped back her braid, let out a breath as she glanced around. “You’re very tidy, aren’t you?”
“I … I suppose, yes. I prefer things in order.”
“I guess I like chaos, mostly. Anyway, I can never keep anything tidy for long. I have a painting that would work very well in your living room. It’s what I do. I’m an artist.”
“I see.”
“I paint mainly mythical and mythological studies. Fairies, mermaids, gods and goddesses, dragons, centaurs—that sort of thing.”
“Mythology is fertile ground for artists and storytellers. Ah … did you paint the murals on the house off Shop Street?”
“Yes. That’s our house.”
“It’s very interesting. The work is very good.”
“Thanks. I enjoy it. How about some coffee to go with that pie?”
Abigail stared down at the pie. “Ms. O’Hara.”
“Sunny. I’m not good company.”
“Oh, honey, that’s okay. I am.”
However awkward and unsettling it might be, it had to be easier—and more efficient—to simply let the woman have her few minutes. And that would be that.
“I’ll make the coffee.”
She started back toward the kitchen, thinking for the second time in two days she had someone in her house. Still, the woman meant no harm. Unless …
“Did your son ask you to come here?”
“No. In fact, he’s not going to be pleased with me for intruding on you when he finds out. But I—oh! Oh! I love your kitchen. Look at all your counter space. I have this same cooktop—an older model. And you grow your own herbs. So do I. Look at that, we’ve already found something in common. I love to cook. It’s like painting, only you’re mixing herbs and spices and mixing up sauces instead of paints.”
“I think of it as a science. There’s a formula. If you diverge from the formula, you may create something new or slightly different.”
Sunny only smiled. “However you look at it, you wouldn’t have a kitchen like this unless you liked to cook, and were good at it.”
She walked over to look out the window. “I’m envious of your greenhouse. I have a tiny one Loren and I built. We don’t have room for a larger one. Got your lettuce in, I see. Looks like a nice-sized vegetable garden.”
“I grow most of my own vegetables and herbs.”
“So do we. I came here in the seventies with a group of other free spirits. We formed a kind of commune, an artist community, you could say—and grew our own food, wove our own cloths—sold our wares. A lot of us are still here. Old hippies.”
“You were part of the counterculture.”
“I like to think I still am.”
As Abigail brewed the coffee, got out cups and plates, Sunny glanced over to the office area. And raised her eyebrows at the views of the drive, the back area, sides, on the computer screen.
“Isn’t that something? Nobody’s going to sneak up on you, are they? You work on security systems, isn’t that right?”
“I do.”
“There was a time nobody even locked a door at night around here, and if you had a shop and needed to run out, why you’d just leave a note. People could come on in, and just leave the money on the counter if they wanted to buy something before you got back. Sometimes progress and change is a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.”
“It’s better to be secure.”
Socially awkward, Brooks had said. Yet the girl set out nice plates, put milk in a little pitcher, set out sugar, cloth napkins. She knew how to entertain company, even if the company was unexpected and not particularly welcome.
Sunny took a seat at the counter. She imagined Abigail had two stools only because they’d come as a set. Sunny added milk and considerable sugar to her coffee, then patted the second stool.
“Come on and sit. Tell me about Abigail.”
“There isn’t anything to tell.”
“There’s always something. What do you like to do?”
“I like my work.” Obviously reluctant, Abigail sat.
“I feel for people who don’t. Besides your work?”
“I work quite a lot.” When Sunny just cocked her eyebrows, Abigail struggled to find more. “Bert requires exercise, so we walk or hike. It was part of the appeal of this property, that there was enough land. I work in the greenhouse or the garden. It’s satisfying. I like to read. I like television.”
“So do I, more than they say you should. But what do they know? And you like solitude.”
“I do.”
“When I was raising three kids, I used to think I’d pay any price for a few hours of alone.”
“I didn’t realize your son had siblings.”
“Two older sisters.”
“You’re very young to have children that age, in their thirties, I assume.”
“I was nineteen when I came to Bickford. I’d been rambling around for about two years.”
“You … you left home at seventeen?”
“The day after I graduated high school. I’d put too much time into that to walk away from it. But once that was done, I was gone.” Sunny snapped her fingers. “I didn’t get along with my parents, which is no surprise, as we saw everything, I mean everything, from opposite sides. We still do, mostly, but we’ve made amends. When I came here, I met a young schoolteacher. He was shy and sweet and smart, and had beautiful hazel eyes. I seduced him.”
“I see.”
“That part was easy, I was quite beguiling,” she said with a laugh. “What wasn’t easy was coming to realize I was making love with someone I’d fallen in love with. I was so sure I didn’t want that kind of life. The man, the home, the roots, the family. But he was irresistible. He wanted to marry me. I said no, none of that for me.”
“Marriage as an institution is part of our culture’s fabric, but it remains only a kind of contract, and unnecessary, as it’s easily broken.”
“You might be speaking my own words from that time. When I learned I was carrying Mya, I agreed to a kind of handfasting. I was dabbling in Wicca back then. We had a lovely ceremony by the river, and moved into a tiny cabin, oh, not half the size of this. No indoor plumbing, either, and I was fine with that.”
She sighed into her coffee at the memory. “I had two babies there. And it wasn’t quite so fine. My man wanted a real marriage, a real home. He’d let me have my way for nearly three years. I realized it was time to let him have his. So we loaded up the babies, went to the justice of the peace, made that legal contract. And with the money I’d made from my art—I got a greeting-card contract, and that was reasonably lucrative. And the money he’d saved from teaching, we bought that ramshackle of a house off Shop Street. We started fixing it up, and Brooks came along. I never regretted a moment. Not one.”
Abigail wasn’t sure it was conversation when a virtual stranger imparted a synopsis of her life story. But it was fascinating.
“You’re very fortunate.”
“Oh, I am. How’s that pie?”
Abigail blinked, glanced down. She’d eaten nearly half, as she’d been caught up in Sunny’s story. “It’s wonderful.”
“I’ll give you the recipe.”
“I’ve never made a pie. It’s just me. A pie doesn’t seem practical.”
“There’s nothing practical about a pie. We’ll trade. I’ll give you the recipe for one of yours.”
“I don’t know what you’d like.”
“Surprise me.”
After an internal debate, Abigail walked over to her laptop, called up her recipe file. She printed out her recipe for chicken paprika. “You can adjust the spices to taste.”
“This looks great. I think I’ll stop at the market on the way home, pick up what I don’t have, and try this tonight. Here, let me write out the recipe for the pie.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse.
“You have it memorized?”
“I’ve been making this pie for too many years to count. It’s Loren’s favorite.”
“You smile when you say his name.”
“Do I? We’ve been married—I count from the handfasting—for thirty-six years. He still makes me happy.”
That, Abigail thought when she was alone again, was the most vital and compelling statement on a relationship. That happiness could last.
She studied the recipe in her hand. She’d transcribe it onto the computer later. Dutifully, she gathered up the plates and cups, and with some surprise noticed the time.
Somehow she’d just spent more than thirty minutes in her kitchen, having pie and coffee and fascinating conversation with a stranger.
“I suppose that means she’s not a stranger now.”
She couldn’t decide how it made her feel, couldn’t decipher it. She looked at her work, looked at her dog.
“Hell. Let’s go for a walk.”
“YOU DID WHAT?” Brooks gaped at his mother.
“You heard me very well. I took a pie over to Abigail’s. We had a nice chat over pie and coffee. I like her.”
“Ma—”
“I think socially awkward’s a good term for it. She’s not shy, just rusty when it comes to interaction. Once we got going, we did just fine. We exchanged recipes.”
“You …” At his desk, Brooks dropped his head in his hands. “Did you hear me last night?”
“Of course I did.”
“It may be she’s on the run. It may be she’s in trouble. It may be, if that trouble finds her, dangerous. And you just breeze on over with pie?”
“Huckleberry. I had to make two so your father wouldn’t get his feelings hurt. She’s got a wonderful kitchen. And looking at the recipe she gave me, I’m betting she’s quite a cook. She also has cameras or some such thing set up all over the property. I saw on her computer screen. She has views of the drive, and the back and so on.”
“Christ.”
“She spoke French to the dog.”
That had him lifting his head again. “What?”
“I just wonder why somebody would teach their dog French, is all. She has very nice manners. She listens to you with her whole body. Something about her just pulled at me. I swear, I wanted to pet her like I did the dog.”
“You … you petted that big-ass monster dog?”
“She told it in French it was all right. He was very sweet. He’s devoted to her, I could see that. Never strayed more than two feet away. He’s a very good dog, and I’m sure a fine companion. But that girl needs a friend. Now, I’ve got to run by the store and pick up some things. I want to try this recipe she gave me.”
“Ma, I don’t want you going over there until I know more.”
“Brooks.”
He was thirty-two years old, and that tone, that look, could still make his balls shrink to marbles.
“You’re a grown man, but it still hasn’t come to the point where you tell me what to do. If you want to find out more about her, why don’t you go out there and be friendly, like I did?”
“And take her pie?”
“You might try a bottle of wine.”
HE WENT WITH A NICE, mid-range pinot grigio. It seemed reasonable, friendly without too many overtones. It also seemed like it was overthinking the whole thing, so he stopped thinking and just drove out there.
The rain that had blown in the night before teased out a little more green. Now, early-evening sun shimmered through those greening branches, splashed on the road, flickered on the busy water of the little stream that wound through.
He bumped his way up her drive, caught a glimpse of the smoke curling out of her chimney.
She stood, the big dog at the heel of her knee-high black boots. She wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and a gun on her hip.
He decided not to overthink the fact that everything about her at that precise moment struck him as grab-your-balls sexy.
It just was—right down to the edgy annoyance on her face.
He snagged the wine, slid out of the car.
“Evening.” He strolled toward her as if she wasn’t packing a Glock, didn’t have a dog who could probably sink its teeth into the jugular before he cleared his own weapon from its holster.
She eyed the bottle he carried. “What’s that?”
“It’s a couple of things, actually. One, it’s a pretty nice wine. Second, it’s an apology.”
“For what?”
“My mother. I was over there for dinner the other night, and mentioned I’d been out here. She hopped right on that. So … sorry for the intrusion.”
“So you’re intruding to apologize for an intrusion.”
“Technically. But it’s a pretty nice wine. So, been out for a walk?”
“Why?”
“You got some mud on your boots. Some rain last night. It gets things greening up, but it brings the mud, too. Do you always carry a gun when you walk your dog?”
She always carried a gun, period, but that wasn’t any of his business. “I was target shooting. The wine isn’t necessary.”
“Wine’s not necessary, but it’s one of those enjoyable perks that comes along.” He turned it so the pretty straw-colored wine caught the light. “Where are you set up, for target practice?”
“Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you keep coming here, with your wine and your pie? What is wrong with you people? What are you grinning at?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?” When she merely gave him a stony stare, he shrugged. “In order, then. I’m a naturally curious sort of man, plus cop. So questions are part of it. It’s likely I got some of that curious from my mother, who came out here, with pie, because she was. And because she’s a friendly sort of woman. I already explained about the wine. From my point of view, nothing’s wrong with us. We just are what we are. Your point of view might come in different. I was grinning because I’d wondered if there was any temper in there. It lights you up. It’s nice to see the light. Did I cover it?”
His eyes were amber in the late-afternoon sun, and his smile appealing. She thought he owned that easy, conversational style the way other men owned socks. “You think you’re charming.”
“Yeah. That’s probably a flaw, but who wants perfect? I answered your questions, but you didn’t answer mine. Where are you set up?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“A couple of reasons. One, that curiosity again. Second, as a cop, knowing I’ve got a woman who carries habitually? I’d like to know if she can handle what she carries.”
“I’m an excellent shot.”
“So you say. I could tell you I can tango like an Argentinean, but unless I demonstrate, I might be lying—or exaggerating.”
“It’s doubtful every Argentinean can tango.”
“Like one who can, then.”
“If I demonstrate my shooting skills, will you leave me alone?”
“Well, now, Abigail, I can’t make a deal like that. I may have to come back. What if a gang of extremists tried to abduct you? Or aliens. We’ve got any number of people around here who’ll swear about those aliens—the E.T. kind, I mean. In fact, Beau Mugsley claims he gets abducted twice a year like clockwork.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Not according to Beau Mugsley. Don’t get him started on anal probes. And putting that aside, you’re an intriguing woman.”
“I don’t want to be intriguing.”
“And see that? Now you’re just more intriguing.”
“And if there’s intelligent life on other planets, I hardly think they’d spend their time attempting an abduction on someone who’s minding her own business.”
“You never know, do you?”
She simply didn’t know how to argue with someone like him, someone who made no sense and was so damn affable about it. Add in the tenacity and the cop curiosity, she determined she was stuck.
“I’ll satisfy your misplaced concern about my target-shooting skills. Then you can go.”
“That’s a good place to start.” He noted that she laid a hand on the dog’s head before she turned. “Ma tells me your dog speaks French,” Brooks said as he fell into step beside her. “I took two years in high school, mostly—okay, completely—because the French teacher was hot. Smoking. Not a lot stuck with me, but I had two years of gazing at the hotness of Ms. Gardner.”
“Studies show adolescent males often make decisions based on sex. Many fail to grow out of it.”
“Can’t really blame us for genetic makeup. That’s an impressive setup.” He paused to study her target area.
Where he’d expected a couple of circle targets, she had a trio of police-style silhouettes on draw pulleys backed by thickly padded boards. Ear and eye protection sat on a wooden bench along with spare clips. By his gauge, she had them set at a good fifty feet.
“I don’t have a second pair of ear protectors or glasses,” she said as she put them on.
“No problem.”
He stepped back, pressed his hands to his ears as she took position.
Cop stance, he noted, and she took it in a smooth, practiced motion. She fired six rounds without a flinch, then holstered her weapon before pulling the target in.
“Nice grouping,” he commented. All six center mass, in a tight, damn-near-perfect pattern.
“As you can see, I’m an excellent shot. I’m capable.”
“No question of that,” he said as she picked up her brass, dropped them in a bucket. “Mind if I try it out?”
She didn’t answer, but took off the ear protectors and glasses, passed them to him.
She looked back to where the dog sat, patiently waiting. “Pillow.”
“What?”
“I was speaking to my dog. Otherwise, he’d … object when you draw your weapon.”
“Wouldn’t want that.” Brooks passed Abigail the wine, put on the glasses and the ear protectors.
“You use a Glock 22,” she noted. “It’s a good weapon.”
“Gets the job done.” Now he took his stance, loosened his shoulders, fired six rounds.
He glanced back at the dog as he holstered the weapon. Bert hadn’t moved.
Abigail drew in the target, stood a moment, studying the grouping that was a near twin of hers.
“You’re also an excellent shot.”
“I always figure if you carry, you’d better hit what you aim at. I got a good hand with a long gun. My mother’s got a flower child’s objection to guns, could be why I honed a skill with them. Standard rebellion, I suppose.”
“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Have you shot anyone?”
“Not so far. I’d like to go on saying that. I had to draw my weapon a few times, but it never came to firing it.”
“Could you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know if you never have?”
“Protect and serve.” He looked at her, those changeable eyes sober now. “Protect comes first. I’ve got no business having a badge if I can’t protect. But I’d be happy if it never came to putting a bullet into anyone.” He, too, picked up his brass. “Have you?”
“Shot anyone? No. But then, I’d say that even if I had, to say I had would only lead to more questions.”
“You’re not wrong. Could you?”
“Yes. I could.” She waited a moment. “You don’t ask how I know.”
“I don’t have to. Have you got any of that pie left? And before you ask why, I’ll tell you. Now that we’ve shown each other what good shots we are, I thought we could crack that bottle open, have a glass of wine and a piece of pie.”
“The wine was a ploy.”
“In part, but it’s still a pretty good wine.”
He had his mother’s charm, she decided, and very likely the same skill in getting his way. There was no point denying she found him physically attractive. Her hormonal reaction to his looks, his build, his demeanor, even his voice? Completely natural.
“I can’t eat all the pie. It’s too much for one person.”
“Shame to waste it, too.”
She stowed the protective gear in the seat of the bench. “All right. You can have the pie and the wine. But I won’t have sex with you.”
“Now you hurt my feelings.”
“No, I haven’t.” Deciding to make her position clear, she started for the house. “I like sex.”
“See there, we just keep finding common ground. If this keeps up, we’ll be best friends inside a week.”
“If I wanted friends, I’d join a book club.”
Loosening up, he thought, delighted with the sarcasm. “I like to read, which is another check mark on common ground. But we were talking about sex.”
“The act of sex is a normal physical function, and a pleasant experience.”
“So far, we’re on the same page.”
She took out her keys, unlocked the door. Once inside, she reset the alarm. “It may be you find me physically attractive on some level.”
“All of them, actually.”
“And that may be the reason you came here, with wine. I’ll have a glass of wine with you, but I won’t have sex with you.”
“Okay.” Absolutely delighted with her, he followed her to the kitchen. “Any particular reason why not, other than the fact we haven’t even shared huckleberry pie yet?”
“You ask too many questions. Answering them is annoying and tiresome.”
“Damn that curiosity. Jesus, Abigail, did you smile?”
“It was probably a grimace.”
“Now you made a joke. Any minute you’re going to put on a party hat and dance on the table.”
“You’re funny. I’m not, so I can appreciate someone with natural humor.” She took off the jacket, opened a door to what he assumed was a small utility room and hung it on a peg. “And you’re physically attractive and fit. I prefer having sex with someone who keeps physically fit.”
She got out a corkscrew, and though he would have taken it, opened the wine for her, she set about doing so briskly and efficiently.
What the hell, he thought, and sat. “So far the only strike against me is curiosity?”
“There are others. Proximity, for one, which would make it awkward and problematic when I no longer want to have sex with you.”
“What makes you think you’re going to want to stop having sex with me?”
She got out two glasses, two small plates, two forks. “The law of averages.”
“Oh, that. I defy the law of averages.”
“A lot of people believe they do. They don’t.” She poured the wine, studying him as she offered a glass. “I like your nose.”
“Abigail, you fucking fascinate me. Why do you like my nose?”
“It’s been broken at some point. The lack of symmetry adds character and interest to your face. I like character.”
“And still, no sex for me.”
She smiled again, fully this time. “I’m sure you have other options.”
“That’s true. I make them take numbers, like at a deli.” He waited until she got out the pie, uncovered it. “Do you want to know why I’m not going to have sex with you?”
He’d surprised her, he noted. Stirred her curiosity. “Yes, I would.”
“You’re attractive, and you look pretty … physically fit to me. You’ve got a way of looking at me that feels like you’re looking right through to the back of my brain. I don’t know why that’s sexy, but it is. You need help.”
“I don’t want any help.”
“I didn’t say anything about want. You need help, and I’ve got a weakness for people who need help. I like your dog even though I figure he’s as dangerous, or damn near, as that Glock on your hip. I like the way you talk, like you’re just a little rusty at it. I’d like to feel the shape of your mouth under mine. I’d like that more than I’d considered. But.”
On an exaggerated sigh, he lifted his hands, let them fall. “I’m always going to have questions. So that’s a problem. And while I’m a man, so I’m fairly up for sex if a woman sneezes in my direction, I generally like to get to know her first. Dinner, conversation, that sort of thing.”
“A date. I don’t go on dates.”
“You know, hearing you say that doesn’t surprise me. Now, we’ve shared an activity, shooting at targets. We’ve shared conversations and viewpoints. Now we’re sharing wine and pie. If I stretch that, I could ease it over the line into a date.”
The look she gave him was the definition of flustered. “It’s not a date.”
“By your gauge.” He gestured at her with a forkful of huckleberry pie. “I’ve got my own. That means the only thing stopping me from having sex with you is my naturally curious nature. I can work around that. I can decide it’s not a problem for me; then the only thing stopping me from having sex with you is you being willing.”
“I’m not, so if we’re going to talk, it should be about something else. That wasn’t a challenge,” she added, when it occurred to her. “I didn’t mean to pose a sexual challenge.”
“No, I got you didn’t mean to, but it sure has that flavor. And it’s tasty. Like the pie.”
He scooped up a bite. “Did you design the security system here?”
She looked wary again. “Yes.”
“Cameras, too?”
“Yes. Obviously, I don’t actually manufacture the hardware.”
“Obviously.” He angled to study her computer station. “It’s quite a setup.”
“It’s my work.”
“I’m okay on a computer. I can get done what I need to get done, usually find what I need to find. My father, now, he’s amazing. I get a glitch, he’s my man. It must be the math nerd in him. Were you a math nerd?”
At one time, she remembered, she was an everything nerd. Perhaps she still was. “I enjoy math. Its logic.”
“I coulda figured.” He angled back to her, drank some wine. “I like your place. My mother wants your kitchen.”
“You should get her a dog.”
“What?”
“She says she isn’t ready, but it was clear by the way she behaved and reacted to Bert she is. She misses having a dog in her life. She—I’m sorry.” Color rose up to her cheeks. “It’s not my place.”
“We don’t stand on place so much around here. She loved that dog. We all did. It just about flattened us when we had to have him put down.”
He looked down at Bert, resisted—because he liked having his hand—reaching out to pet the dog. “You really think she’s ready to start with another?”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You did. I’m asking your opinion.”
“Then yes. It seemed to me she felt it would be disloyal if she herself got another dog. But a gift, from one of her children. That’s different, isn’t it?”
“It is. Thanks. She liked you, my mother.”
“I liked her. You should take the rest of the pie, and her dish.” Abigail rose to cover the remaining pie.
“Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry?”
“You weren’t wearing a hat.”
“It’s an expression. Like, say, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”
“Oh. Then yes, you have to go. I need to feed my dog, and I have work waiting. Please tell your mother I enjoyed the pie.”
“I will.” He rose, picked up the dish.
“And thank you for the wine. I’ll let you out.”
At the front door he waited for her to unlock, turn off the alarm. Then he set the pie on the little table.
“Tell your dog to relax.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to put my hands on you, and I’m going to need them to drive after I do. I don’t want him biting one off at the wrist.”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“You like sex. A kiss is somewhere between being touched and having sex. Aren’t you curious, Abigail?”
“A little.” She studied his face in that X-ray manner, then looked to the dog. “Ami,” she said, laying a hand lightly on Brooks’s arm. “Ami, Bert.”
Still, she stiffened when Brooks took her hand—her gun hand.
“Ami,” he murmured. “That one stuck with me. So let’s be friendly.”
He laid his other hand on her cheek, eased his way in. And she watched him. That ready, steady look in her eye just hit some chord in him. He kept it light, maybe a little over the friendly line, but light and soft. Lips meeting, eyes locked.
He pressed, just a bit more, body to body, until her hand came to his shoulder. Until it slid around to the back of his neck, up into his hair. Until her tongue teased his, and those watchful eyes went a deeper green.
As he stepped back, he released her hand. With a shake of his head, he picked up the pie. “You know I’m going to have to come back.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“For who?”
“For both of us.”
“Different points of view, remember.” He leaned in, quick—and this time friendly—touched his lips to hers. “I’ll be coming back. See you, Bert,” he added as he walked out and to his car.
Abigail closed the door, locked it before she heard his engine turn over. She let out a huff of breath, looked down at the dog.
“It’s a mistake,” she repeated.