network, the virus that followed, spreading through those openings, would devastate.
To accomplish everything she needed, it had to be very fast, very complete, and trigger no alerts.
She’d always considered the project a kind of hobby, one she’d hoped would one day pay off.
Now it was a mission.
If she had time to build more equipment, or the luxury of hiring another skilled tech, or two … But she didn’t, so speculating proved useless. This was only for her.
In any case, over time she’d developed her own programming language—the better to thwart anyone who attempted to hack into her files—and even if she could hire on, she’d have to teach someone her language and techniques.
Faster, more efficient, to do it herself.
She ran the next test, watched her codes fly by, and thought, No, no, no. It remained too unwieldy, too separate, took too long.
She sat back, her hair twisted up off her neck and secured with a pencil. As she studied the screen, she drank iced green tea for clarity of thinking.
The tea, the two yoga breaks she’d made herself take, the absolute quiet, didn’t appear to help.
When her alarm sounded, and Bert went on alert, she checked her monitor. She hadn’t expected Brooks so early, she thought, as she spotted his cruiser, then glanced at the time.
She’d worked straight through the morning and into the middle of the afternoon.
Six hours, she thought, with no appreciable progress.
Maybe it was beyond her after all.
She started to get up, to unlock the doors for him, then remembered she’d given him keys and the security codes. An uneasy step, she admitted, but the advantage right that moment was she didn’t have to stop to let him in.
Still, there would be someone in the house, in her space. How was she supposed to concentrate on something this complex, this delicate, unless she was alone?
Which tore apart her fantasy of a state-of-the-art computer lab and a team of highly skilled techs. But that was only fantasy, because she always worked alone, until—
“Hey.” Brooks walked in, set a bag on the counter. “How’s it going?”
“Not as well as I’d like. I need to try another sequence, test again.”
“How long have you been at it?”
“It doesn’t matter how long. It’s not done.”
“Okay. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I put this stuff away. I brought some of my things over, so I’ll deal with that upstairs. If you’re not done when I am, I’ll find something to do.”
“Mmm” was her only response. She tried not to tense up at the sound of the refrigerator, the cupboards opening and closing. When silence returned, she let out a cleansing breath and dived in again.
She forgot he was there. Over the next two hours, she lost herself in the codes and sequences. When the headache and eyestrain finally stopped her, she rose for medication, for fluids.
And remembered him.
She went upstairs. The quiet held so absolute she thought he must be napping, but she didn’t find him in the bedroom. Curious, she opened the closet.
There were his clothes, hanging with hers. Shirts, pants. A suit.
She’d never seen him in a suit. She trailed her fingers over the sleeve as she studied the shoes and boots on the floor of the closet.
They shared a closet, she thought. So much more intimate and vital somehow than sharing a bed. Crossing over, she opened drawers in the bureau. She’d meant to reorganize to give him space, but had forgotten in the work.
He’d seen to it himself. She’d need to alter some of his choices, but that was a small thing.
Closing drawers, she stepped back, took a turn around the room. Should she buy another dresser, a chest of drawers?
Would they need one?
Would he stay?
A movement out the window caught her eye, and stepping closer, she saw him, hoeing at weeds in her vegetable patch. He’d mounded up her potato plants, something else she’d meant to do that day.
Sweat dampened his shirt, gleamed wetly on his arms, and a ball cap shaded his face.
And, oh, the thrill of it. The unexpected and staggering thrill of it. His clothes hung in the closet with hers as she stood at the bedroom window and watched him work the garden under a sky like bleached denim.
She spun away from the window, hugging herself, then ran downstairs.
In the kitchen, she found the food he’d brought in the fridge and the dozen lemons she’d bought a few days earlier.
She made fresh lemonade, filled two tall glasses with cracked ice and poured. She put the pitcher and glasses on a tray and carried it all outside.
“It’s too hot to hoe,” she called out. “You’ll be dehydrated.”
“Nearly done.”
She walked out to him with the glasses as he finished the last row. “It’s fresh.”
While sweat tricked down his temples, he downed half the glass without pause. “Thanks.”
“You’ve done so much work.”
Leaning on the hoe, he studied the garden. “I’m hoping to sample those butter beans, come harvest. I’m fond of butter beans.”
“Those are lima beans.”
“You’re standing in the South, honey.” After a roll of his shoulders, he downed the rest of his lemonade. “I haven’t worked a garden since I headed down to Little Rock. Didn’t know I missed it.”
“Still, it’s hot and close.” She touched his hand to bring his gaze back to her. “I wasn’t very welcoming before.”
“Work’s allowed to get in the way now and again. Mine does, and will.”
“Mine, in this case, is frustrating. I thought I’d be closer.”
“Can’t help you on that. I don’t understand a damn thing you’re doing. But I can work a garden, and I can grill up those steaks I picked up, so you can have more time at it.” He cocked his head as he studied her. “But I’d say it’s time for a break all around, and I sure as hell need a shower.”
“You’re very sweaty,” she agreed, and took the hoe from him to carry it to her little garden shed. “I can pick some of the lettuce, and a few other things, for a salad when you’re done.”
“I’m thinking ‘we.’”
“You’ve already done more than your share in the garden.”
“Not we in the garden.” He took her hand, pulling her along toward the house. “We in the shower.”
“I really should—”
“Get wet with me.” He paused to take off his dirty boots, sweaty socks. “Did I ever tell you about this swimming hole we used to frequent?”
“No.”
“It’s not that far from here, a little higher in the hills. Really more a bend in the river than a pool, but it worked fine.”
Taking her glass, he set them both down on the counter as he moved her through the kitchen.
“Water’s cool. The color of tobacco, I’d say, but clear. Russ and I and some others used to ride our mountain bikes up there on those long, schoolless days of summer, strip down and cool off. The first time I skinny-dipped with a girl was there, at what we locals call Fiddlehead Pool, because there’s fiddlehead ferns thick as thieves up there. I’ll take you sometime.”
“That sounds very interesting, but right now—”
He’d managed to get her into the bedroom, began to back her toward the bath. “You need to get naked and wet. Let me help you with that.”
“You appear to be very determined,” she commented, when he pulled her shirt over her head.
“Oh, I am. I am.” And flicked open the catch of her bra.
