At close range, Paul saw the red eyes and glazed expression of a user. He wondered if she’d ingested something in the bathroom. Maybe, although she’d already been stumbling a little when she’d gone back there.
“Do you need a ride home?” he asked Amber. He didn’t like the idea of her hanging out with some druggie.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Paul, this is Imogene. She’s in town for a bit and I’m showing her a good time, as best I can.”
“Like to party, handsome?” she asked Paul.
Heat climbed his face. Maybe he was a prude, but he got uncomfortable when women came on to him, even as a joke. “Not much of a partier,” he said. “I’m a single dad.” He looked at Amber. “And you shouldn’t be partying, either, given your health.”
She raised her eyebrows, staring at him. “What did you just say?”
“It’s getting late. You need your rest.” The minute he said it, he knew he’d taken the wrong approach. He just wanted to get her away from Imogene, and he’d said the first thing that came to mind.
“We all do, big boy,” Imogene said. “But resting alone’s not much fun.”
“And we’re all adults who mind our own business.” Amber’s tone was icy. “I think I will take off, not because I’m sick, but because I’m sick of being told what to do.” She gave him a glare. “Are you staying, or heading out?” she asked Imogene.
“Think I’ll stay. See if any of the guys here are friendlier than Mr. Fancy here.”
Amber snickered, gave Paul a wave and left, and Imogene walked up to the bar.
That hadn’t gone well, but it had been effective; he’d gotten Amber out of here. No way would he let her put herself in harm’s way, even if she was just trying to help a friend.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN HER DOORBELL rang the morning after her night at the Gusty Gull with Imogene, Amber pushed back her chair from the breakfast table and straightened her spine. She and Paul were scheduled to work together today, and since neither of them had canceled, she guessed they were on.
Don’t let him bully you, and don’t get attracted.
Amber had been highly irritated by Paul’s comments last night. Who was he to tell her she should get more rest?
When she’d thought about it, though, she’d realized that he probably was just trying to get her away from Imogene. Which was a different kind of patronizing, since Amber could take care of herself in that regard, too. But the truth was, she’d been glad to escape Imogene. Before they’d started talking to other people at the bar, Imogene had said something interesting: she’d told Amber that she’d “really screwed up” in her earlier life, done something terrible. Amber had tried to pursue it, to find out what it had to do with Mary. But she hadn’t been successful.
Once there were a few guys around, though, and Imogene had had more to drink, Amber’s opportunity to learn anything helpful to Mary had disappeared.
When she opened the door now, her throat went dry. Paul stood there, laptop in hand, wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up. His face was serious, almost stern.
Her heart seemed to do a little dance, just seeing him. And it wasn’t only because he looked good. The thought of spending the day with him, even working hard, made her way too happy.
“You can come in, but not if you’re going to yell at me about last night.” She stepped back so he could enter.
Sarge pushed past Paul and thrust his big, slobbery face into her hand.
She gladly shifted her attention to the dog, kneeling to rub his big ears. “Did you come along to help us, big boy? Did you guess I’d have a treat for you?”
At the word treat, Sarge gave a short, deep bark.
Paul sniffed the air, and his expression softened. “Something smells good.”
“The way to a man’s heart...” she began, and then heat climbed her face. She wasn’t trying to get to Paul’s heart. “Or a dog’s heart, for that matter, is food. Come on into the kitchen, you two.”
While she cut slices of coffee cake, Paul paced, looking out her windows toward the bay, inspecting the novel that lay facedown on the table, bending to pick up a leaf that had fallen from a potted plant.
She was way too conscious of him, and she needed to stop. Their relationship was strictly business.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he said as she carried two plates to the table. “I’m here to work.”
“And heaven forbid we’d have any pleasure in the process,” she said, and then her face heated again.
Their eyes caught and she knew he’d noticed the word pleasure and taken it where she hadn’t meant it to go.
Consciously, at least.
Was it warm in here, or was it just her? She needed to get her focus off Paul, no matter how handsome he was, no matter how appealing his stern protectiveness.
“I didn’t forget your treat, you good boy,” she said, looking at Sarge as she set the plates down. She turned and pulled out a large, bone-shaped biscuit from the canister on the counter. “Can you shake hands?” she asked, and he held up a paw, eyes on the treat, then took it delicately from her fingertips.
Finally, there was nothing else to do but to sit down at the table.
Paul did, too, but he didn’t pick up his fork. “I’m concerned about last night,” he said. “I don’t want you spending time with that woman. Imogene.”
She laughed at his tone. “Oh, Dad. You never let me have any fun.”
“I mean it.” He didn’t smile. “I’m serious. It’s not safe.”
She took a bite of coffee cake and lifted a shoulder. “Even if you’re right, so what? I of all people can take risks.” She hadn’t meant to say that; it had just popped out.
“What do you mean by that?” He still hadn’t picked up his fork,
