asked to adjust the design four times before he hit the mark for her.
To ensure she didn’t adjust it again, he’d put aside other work to focus on the cabinet. It was a big, beautiful bastard, Simon thought, and would be the showpiece of Meg’s dining room. Another few days, and he’d be done with it, and between the staining and varnishing, he could get serious about the sink base. Maybe work in a few pieces for Syl and have them done when she got back from the spa deal.
If he delivered the stock while she was gone, she couldn’t drag him into talking with her customers. That added motivation.
Starting the day earlier meant he got a jump on things, which almost offset quitting at specific times each day instead of going until he’d had enough.
Stopping, even though he might be on a solid roll, went against the grain, but knowing Fiona would be alone if he didn’t would only screw with his concentration anyway.
But the arrangement had benefits—and not just the sex.
He liked hearing her talk, and listening to the stories she told him about her day. He didn’t know why she relaxed him, but she did. Most of the time.
Then there was the dog. He still chased his tail like a maniac, and stole footwear—and the occasional tool if he could get to it. But he was so damn happy, and a hell of a lot smarter than Simon had given him credit for. He’d gotten used to having the dog curled up under the workbench snoozing or running around outside. And the sucker could field a ball like Derek Jeter.
Simon stood back, studied the work.
Somehow he’d gotten himself a dog and a woman, neither of which he’d particularly wanted. And now he couldn’t imagine his days, or his nights, without them.
He’d gotten more done than he’d expected, and glanced at the clock he’d hung on the wall. Funny, it felt like more than a couple hours since he’d started back up after the grab-a-sandwich, throw-the-ball break he’d taken.
Frowning, he pulled out his phone, read the time on the display and swore.
“Damn it. Why didn’t you remind me to change the batteries in that thing?” he demanded as Jaws trotted through the open shop door.
Jaws only wagged his tail and dropped the stick he’d brought in.
“I don’t have time for that. Let’s move.”
He tried to time his trip to Fiona’s so he arrived long enough after her final class to avoid the inevitable stragglers. Otherwise, she’d start introducing him to people, and there had to be conversations. But he aimed for timing it so she wasn’t alone more than fifteen or twenty minutes.
It was, for him, a delicate balance.
Now, he was nearly two hours behind.
Why hadn’t she called? Wouldn’t any normal woman call to say, Hey, you’re late, what’s going on? Not that they had a formal sort of arrangement. He said see you later every day, left, then he came back.
Nice and easy, no big deal.
“Women are supposed to call,” he told Jaws as they got in the truck. “And nag and bug you. It’s the way of the world. But not her. There’s never any Are you going to be here for dinner? or Can you pick up some milk? or Are you ever going to take out that trash?”
He shook his head. “Maybe she’s lulling me into complacency, stringing me along until I’m... more hooked than I already am. Except she’s not, which is one of the reasons I’m hooked, and I’m already taking out the trash because it’s just what you do.”
The dog wasn’t listening, Simon noted, because he had his head out the window. So he might as well save his breath.
No reason to feel guilty because he was a couple hours later than usual, he told himself. He had his work; she had hers. Besides, he thought as he turned into her drive, if she’d called, he wouldn’t be later than usual.
Maybe she hadn’t been able to call. His stomach knotted. If something had happened to her...
He heard the gunshots as he drove across the bridge where dogwoods bloomed snowy white.
He floored it, then fishtailed to a stop even as Fiona’s dogs charged around the side of the house. Gunshots ripped through the fear that buzzed in his head as he leaped out of the truck. He left the door swinging open as he ran toward them. When they stopped abruptly, he heard his own heart roaring in his ears.
He pulled in the breath to shout her name, and saw her.
Not lying on the ground bleeding, but standing, coolly, competently shoving another clip into the gun she held.
“Jesus Christ.” The anger flew through him, stampeding out the fear. Even as she started to turn, he grabbed her arm, spun her around. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Careful. It’s loaded.” She lowered the gun, pointing it toward the ground.
“I know it’s loaded. I heard you blasting away like Annie fucking Oakley. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Let go. Earplugs,” she said. “I can barely hear you.” When he released her arm, she pulled them out. “I told you I had a gun, and I told you I’d be practicing. There’s no point getting pissed off that I am.”
“I’m pissed off about the five years you shaved off my life. I had plans for them.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send out a notification I’d be getting in some target practice.” Her movements as testy as her tone, she shoved the gun into the holster on her belt, then stalked over to set up a variety of cans and plastic water bottles she’d obviously killed before his arrival.
“We can argue about that, seeing as you knew I’d be coming by and might have a strong reaction to gunfire.”
“I don’t know anything. You just show up.”
“If you have a problem with that you should’ve said so.”
“I don’t.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Go ahead and take the dogs inside if you want. I won’t be much longer.”
“What crawled up your ass? I know your face, so don’t tell me about not getting pissed when you’re already there.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. You should take Jaws inside. My dogs are used to the sound of gunshots. He’s not.”
“Then we’ll see how he deals.”
“Fine.”
She took out the gun, shifted into the stance he’d seen cops use on TV and in movies. As she fired away, Jaws moved closer to his side, leaning against him, but cocked his head and watched—as Simon did—the cans and bottles fly.
“Nice shooting, Tex.”
She didn’t smile, but walked over to set up fresh targets. Behind her a few big-leaf maples, boughs heavy with clusters of blossoms, shimmered in the sunlight.
It made, to his mind, an odd contrast of violence and peace.
“Do you want to shoot?”
“What for?”
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
“Why would I?”
“There are a lot of reasons. Hunting, sport, curiosity, defense.”
“I don’t hunt. My idea of sport is more in line with baseball or boxing. I’ve never been especially curious, and I’d rather use my fists. Let me see it.”
She put the safety on, unloaded it, then offered it to him.
“Not as heavy as I figured.”
“It’s a Beretta. It’s a fairly light and very lethal semiautomatic. It’ll fire fifteen rounds.”
“Okay, show me.”
She loaded it, unloaded it again, showed him the safety. “It’s double-action, so it’ll fire whether the hammer’s cocked or not. The recoil’s pretty minor, but it’s got a little kick. You want to stand with your feet about shoulder-distance apart. Distribute your weight. Both arms out, elbows locked, with your left hand cupped under your gun hand for stability. You lean your upper body toward the target.”
