environment.”
“I bet.”
At her signal, Bert lay down by her feet and began to gnaw on his bone. “He’s smiling again.”
This time she shook her head but smiled a little, too. “You have a fanciful nature.”
“Maybe it offsets that stress.” He took the pizza she served him, balanced the plate on his lap, then, stretching out his legs, held his silence.
She did the same.
“You’re not going to ask,” he decided. “That’s some control you’ve got there, Abigail.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I had news, but you’re not going to ask about it. Most people wouldn’t have waited three minutes to ask.”
“Maybe it was another ploy.”
“Not this time.” He waited a few beats, sighed hugely. “Now you’re not going to ask because you’re messing with me.”
Her smile bloomed again, and damned if he didn’t feel a sense of victory every time he made those lips curve. “All right, all right, if you’re going to nag about it, I’ll tell you. I took your advice. Rescued a pup from the pound for my mother.”
“Is she pleased?”
“She cried, in a good way. My sister texted me today that I was a suck-up, and Ma still likes her better. That’s the middle of us. She was kidding,” he added, when Abigail frowned. “We like to rag on each other. After an intense debate, during which I ate my burger and kept my mouth shut, the happy parents named their new child, because, believe me, he’ll be treated like one, Plato. My dad wanted Bob or Sid, but my mother claims the puppy looked philosophic and very bright, and deserves an important name.”
“It’s a good name. Names with strong consonant sounds are easier to use in training. It’s good news. Happy news.”
“I think so.” He pulled his phone off his belt. “Got a picture of him.” He scrolled through, offered it.
“He’s very handsome, and has bright, alert eyes.” And it softened her to look into them, imagine him in a good, loving home. “You’re a good son.”
“They make it easy to be. How about your parents?”
“There’s only my mother. We’re estranged.”
“I’m sorry. Where is she?”
“We haven’t communicated in several years.”
Off limits, Brooks deduced. Way off limits. “I end up communicating with my parents damn near every day. One of the ups, or downs, depending on your viewpoint, of living in a small town.”
“I think in your case it must be an advantage, and a comfort.”
“Yeah. I took it for granted when I was growing up, but that’s what kids do. Take for granted. When I lived in Little Rock, I talked or e-mailed a lot. And I came up every month or so, to see them, my sisters, my friends who still live here. But I never thought about moving back.”
“You were happy in Little Rock, and with your work there.”
“Yeah, I was. But when my father got sick, I not only felt I had to come back, I realized I wanted to.”
He pointed a finger at her. “Fated.”
She gave that little head shake and smile he was growing very fond of. “You have a close nuclear family.”
“You could say that. How’s the pizza?”
“It’s very good. When I make my own, I make a whole wheat crust, but I like this better.”
“Make your own? Like from a box?”
“If it’s in a box, it’s not making your own.”
“Most everything I make’s out of a box. You make pizza from scratch?”
“Yes, when I want it.”
“Even my mother doesn’t do that.” He put another slice on her plate, one on his, then topped off their wine. “Maybe you’ll show me the greenhouse later.”
“I’m not growing marijuana.”
He laughed, so quick, so delighted, it made her jump a little. “Wouldn’t that be interesting? But it’s not what I was thinking. I grew up with gardeners, so I’m interested. Not to say we don’t have a few around these parts growing some weed, for personal use or as a second income. My own mother did until she started having kids. And she’d still argue at the blink of an eye for legalizing it.”
“Legalizing, inspecting and taxing marijuana would eliminate the funds spent on the attempt to enforce the current laws, and generate considerable revenue.”
“There’s that viewpoint thing again.”
The dog shifted, sat up, stared at Abigail.
“Back to French. Did that dog just ask permission to pee?”
“He wouldn’t leave the porch without my permission.” She shifted herself, took a sip of wine. “I’ve reconsidered.”
“Too late, you’re already into your second slice.”
“Not the pizza. I’ve reconsidered having sex with you.”
He was grateful he’d just swallowed or he’d have choked. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes. After weighing the pros and cons, I’ve decided sex with you would be mutually satisfying. You’re attractive and pleasant. And clean. You kiss very well, and while I’ve found that’s not always a reliable gauge for skill in bed, it often follows. If you’re agreeable, we can finish dinner, I’ll show you the greenhouse, then we can go in and have sex. I’m on birth control, but I would require you wear a condom.”
He was damn near speechless. “That’s an offer, all right.”
“You don’t accept?” She hadn’t factored in a refusal. “I thought you wanted me, physically. You don’t?”
He put his plate down, got to his feet. Too wound up to give a damn what the dog thought—or did—Brooks pulled Abigail up, gave her a good, hard yank against him.
No soft kiss this time, no easy exploration. This exploded, firebombing shrapnel through her senses. Her balance swayed, crumbled. She had to cling to him or fall.
“Wait. Wait.”
Perhaps it was the tremble in her voice—or the low, warning growl from the dog—but though he didn’t let her go, he eased up.
When the dog sat, Abigail let out a shaky breath. “He thought you were hurting me.”
“Was I?”
“No. But I’d like to sit down.”
“Look at me.”
She took that breath again, then lifted her gaze to his. “You’re angry.”
“No, I’m not. I’m not sure what I am, but I’m not mad.”
“You don’t want me.”
“Do I have to answer that question again, and if so, will I need an ambulance when your dog gets done with me?”
“I … oh. Oh.” He heard the humiliation in the sound as she closed her eyes and nodded. “I understand. I was too blunt, too matter-of-fact. I should have waited for you to approach the subject, or, failing that, I shouldn’t have been so calculating. I’d really like to sit down.”
He let her go, sat beside her. “First, I’ve got nothing but good feelings about the idea you’re willing to go to bed with me. The problem, on my side, is having the feeling you’re handling it like a chore you want to cross off your to-do list.”
Exactly true, she thought, in delivery and intent. “I’m sorry. I thought it was the right approach. You’re not angry, but you’re at least a little insulted. I am sorry.” She gathered enough courage to look at him. “I know
