Dean followed her. “I unlock it every morning when I get up. For guests.”
They winced in unison as Mrs. Abrams could be heard shrilling, telling Baby to let it go—where it did not refer to the mailbag.
“Were you actually expecting guests?”
“Not really,” he admitted.
The mailman made a run for it.
“I can’t say as I’m surprised.” As she left the office, a wave of her hand indicated the cracked layers of paint on the woodwork and the well-scrubbed but dingy condition of the floor. “This place doesn’t exactly make a great first impression.”
“So what should we do?”
“Do?” Claire turned to face him and was amazed to find him looking at her as though she had the answers. Behind him, Austin looked amused. “We aren’t going to do anything. I’m going to work at sealing this site. You…” About to say “You can do whatever it is you usually do on a Tuesday,” she found she couldn’t disappoint the anticipation in his eyes. “Since it’s not raining, you can get started on repainting that G on the sign.”
With the site journal soaking in a clarifying solution, Claire spent the morning going through the rest of the paperwork in the office. By noon, the recycling box was full, her hands were dirty, and she had two paper cuts as well as a splitting headache from all the dust.
She’d found no new information on either Sara, the hole, or the balance of power maintained between them. Someone, probably Smythe, had scrawled, the Hell with this, then in the margin of an old black-and-white men’s magazine and that was as close as she’d come to an explanation.
“What a waste of time.”
“Some of those old magazines are probably collectible.”
Claire’s lip curled. “They’re not exactly mint.”
“Good point.” Gaze locked on her fingers, Austin backed away. “You’re not planning on touching me with those filthy things, are you?”
“No.” She dropped her hands back to her sides. “You know what the worst of it is? I have to go through Smythe’s suite, too. There’s no telling what he’s crammed in there over the last fifty-odd years.”
“No point in picking the lock if there’s a chance of finding the key,” the cat agreed.
“Spare me the fortune cookie platitudes.” Searching for at least the illusion of fresh air, Claire walked over to the windows. Outside, the wind hurried up the center of the street, dragging a tail of fallen leaves, and directly across the road two fat squirrels argued over a patch of scruffy lawn. It was strange to feel neither summons nor site. Because of the shields, she had to keep reminding herself that this was real, that she shouldn’t be somewhere else, doing something else.
The sound of Dean’s work boots approaching turned her around to face the lobby.
“Hey, Boss, find anything?”
“No more than on the last two times you asked.”
“Would lunch help?”
“Helps me,” Austin declared, leaping down off the counter.
Claire’s stomach growled an agreement Outvoted, she started toward the door to Smythe’s old suite. “Just let me wash up fir…” The sound of her shin cracking against the bottom drawer of the desk drowned out the last two letters. Grabbing her leg, she bit back her first choice of exclamation, and then her second, and then there really didn’t seem to be much point in a third.
“Are you okay, Boss?”
“No, I’m not okay.” Air whistled through clenched teeth. “I’m probably crippled for life.”
A LIE!
AN EXAGGERATION.
CAN’T WE USE IT ANYWAY? Hell asked itself hopefully.
OH, DON’T BE SUCH A GIT.
“And you know what the worst of it is?” The question emerged like ground glass. Claire tugged her jeans up above the impact point “I closed the drawer. I know I closed the drawer.”
Obviously, she hadn’t but Dean knew better than to argue with a person in pain. “Here, let me look at that then.” Ducking under the counter, he dropped to one knee and wrapped his hand around the warm curve of Claire’s calf.
Her first inclination was to pull free. Her second…
NOW THAT WE CAN USE.
Reminding herself of the age difference, she banished the thought.
DAMN.
“You didn’t break the skin, but you’ll have some bruise.” Stroking one thumb along the end of the discoloration, he looked up at her and forgot what he was about to say.
“Dean?”
The world shifted most of the way back into focus. “Liniment!”
“No, thank you. You can let go of me now.”
Feeling his ears begin to burn, he snatched both hands away, then, suddenly unable to cope with six inches of bare skin, lightly stubbled, reached out again and yanked her jeans back down into place.
“Watch it!” One hand clutching her waistband, she grabbed his shoulder with the other to stop herself from falling.
Stammering apologies, Dean stood.
Things got a little tangled for a moment.
When a minimum safe distance had been achieved, Dean opened his mouth to apologize yet again and found himself saying instead, “What’s that noise?”
“It’s a cat,” Claire told him. “Laughing.”
Claire refused to be constrained over lunch. So what if Dean kept his gaze locked on the cream of mushroom soup, that was no reason for her to act like a twenty-year-old. Biting into a sandwich quarter, she swept a critical gaze around the dining room.
“This is ugly furniture,” she announced after chewing and swallowing. “In fact, it’s an ugly room.”
Grateful for a change of subject, even though the original subject hadn’t actually been broached, or even defined, Dean acknowledged the pitted chrome and worn Naugahyde with a shrug. “Mr. Smythe wouldn’t buy anything new.”
“It’s not new we need.” Claire tapped a fingernail thoughtfully against the table. “I’ll deny this if you repeat it, but Mrs. Abrams gave me an idea that could bring in more guests.”
“Is that a good idea?” Austin asked, jumping up onto an empty chair. “You’re a Keeper, remember? You have a job.”
“And I’ll do my job, thank you very much,”
