quietly. “Is that good enough?”
Her lips curved a bit, but her expression remained mostly shuttered. “You sure you’re not an event promoter? You’re pretty good at being focused yourself.”
“It’s a wonder we get anywhere in conversation, I suppose.”
“Actually, I think I’ve had deeper, more thought-provoking conversations with you in the short time I’ve known you than I’ve had with anyone in a long time.”
He tilted his head, searched her face. “But, at least from where you sit, that’s not entirely a good thing, is it?”
“It can be a disconcerting thing. I haven’t quite decided on whether or not it’s good for me.” She straightened and took a step back.
He toyed with the ends of her hair, then reluctantly let her go.
“And, for a guy who didn’t want to talk about himself much, you sure don’t seem to mind nosing in my business.”
“I don’t think I’d mind. Anymore. If it was you asking the questions.’” He was surprised by how easily that truth just popped up. But now that he’d said it, he knew that he meant it. “If you think it would help, or just distract you from whatever it is that’s worrying you-” He spread his arms. “Ask away. Open book.”
She smiled easily then, and it almost reached her eyes. “One night only?”
“We can figure that part out later.”
Her smile faded. “See, that’s the part that trips me up.” She held up her hand when he started to speak. “I hate to renege on dinner; I really do. It smells amazing. But there are some things that require my immediate attention. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check.”
For once, he didn’t push. Knowing when to fold was just as important when it came to winning the bigger prize. “I’ll put some aside for you. You can heat it up later, if you want.”
She nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate that. And…thanks for the rest, too. It’s not that I don’t want the help, or even the ear. I appreciate the offer of both, I do. No insult intended.”
He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “None taken.”
“Good. It’s just…it’s complicated.”
“Most trying things are.”
She ducked her chin, then looked back at him, and some of her defenses were clearly wavering. But he still didn’t push. That wouldn’t be fair. To either of them. If and when she wanted his help, or just a sounding board, she’d ask.
“You’re almost too good to be true. Maybe that’s part of it. Things that are too good to be true rarely are. Or rarely last.”
“I’m just sincere. And honest. The offer stands, okay?”
She nodded, and the defenses crumbled a bit further when she folded her arms in front of her chest, tucking her hands tightly under them and against her sides, as if giving herself comfort and support. She stood there a moment longer, and he was just about to go against instinct and reach for her again, when she turned on her heel and walked away. “Don’t worry with cleaning up,” she called back. “I’ll take care of it later.”
“Just like you take care of everything else,” he said under his breath as he heard her bedroom door close on the other side of the front foyer. “Including yourself.”
He turned back to the stove, back to his sauce, which had cooked down further than he’d wanted it to. He stirred, added a bit more water, a bit more tomato sauce, tasted, then pinched a bit more oregano into the mix and kept on stirring. As did his thoughts.
He should just take a giant step back and leave Kirby to her business. After all, she had a point about things not lasting. She didn’t want to allow herself to lean on someone who might not be there a week, or even a day later. Hard to fault that. Then there was the bigger issue at hand, which was that she’d only be concerned about that if she was worried she’d come to care about how long he stayed or when he might leave.
Which meant maybe she already did.
He tasted the sauce, but was too busy deciding his immediate course of action to pay any real attention to flavor. He knew, if he examined his own behavior right now, he’d be forced to admit that maybe, just maybe, this mental back and forth wasn’t purely about his fascination with Kirby…but also a convenient substitution for his own problems. He’d told Dan that he needed to stop, to think, to figure out what came next. But there was no timetable on that. For once, there was no place he had to be. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if that was the way he wanted it.
Right that very second, he was exactly where he wanted to be. With no plans whatsoever to go anywhere else. It was a nice change, to be certain of at least one thing. He’d figure out the rest.
He tasted the sauce again, and smiled. Yeah. But in the meantime, he still wanted to know the rest of Kirby Farrell’s story. Find out what was the best way he could help. Which meant, for now, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 11
Kirby sipped her coffee and shuddered at the volcanic strength of it. But she desperately needed something to kick-start her into the day. Day One of her personal thirty-day death march. Well, her inn’s death march, anyway.
She stared at the computer monitor and the online bank statement she’d opened up; then she finally slid her glasses off and closed her eyes. She’d been juggling bills for almost three months now, pretty much since the day she’d opened. Initially, she’d still had a little something to juggle with. She’d known that without a sudden drop in temperatures and some snow, she was courting total failure. But she’d been trying to remain hopeful, positive. After all, how long could the damn heat wave last? It was unnatural. She’d honestly thought that things would turn around.
The call yesterday evening from Albert, a local tax accountant she’d hired early on to help her set up her books, had made it clear that her turnaround time was pretty much over. Her tax bill come April was going to be the felling blow, but the bank was already grumbling about her loan payments and Albert wasn’t sure she’d even make it long enough to be worrying about the IRS.
At the moment, she was numb. Too numb to even cry. She’d poured so much of herself, of…well, everything she’d had left in her after the disastrous end with Patrick, and every bit of what she’d been able to summon up after her life had taken such a drastic new course. She’d been determined to look at the ending with Patrick as the beginning of herself.
This was her rise from the ashes; this was her celebration of what her life could be. This was the middle finger she’d given to Patrick, to fate, and anyone else who’d ever made her feel like she couldn’t take care of business. Which, when it came down to it, she’d realized, was all on her. As Aunt Frieda had said often enough, “Just because folks don’t understand, respect, or support what you think is true about yourself doesn’t mean you have to listen to them.” Kirby had only needed to listen to herself. But she’d let the other voices, so many of them, drown her own out.
It had taken seeing her chosen partner for who he really was-who he’d always been if she’d just been more willing to see the truth-and the following hard look at what she’d allowed herself to believe, to accept as okay, for her to finally, at the age of thirty-seven, examine her life, her choices, and what she was going to do about it- moving forward.
And she had moved forward. She was proud, almost fiercely so, of what she’d accomplished here. The one thing she knew now was that if the current combination of events conspired to end this new dream, this new path…well, she’d simply find another one.
She dropped her forehead to the edge of her desk. “I just really, really don’t want to.” It would be so easy to wallow, to blame fate, to sink into that place where it was all about being the victim and not being in control of her life. She wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t. But, right at that very moment, she simply didn’t know where she was going to find the strength to rise again.
On a surge of anger, aimed at both the world in general and at herself in particular for not having an
