Page 55 of Thick as Thieves

“Yes, please.”

He was surprised she accepted, but she didn’t come over and take it. She made him walk all the way across the shop to deliver it to her. He extended her the mug, handle toward her. She hooked it with her fingers. “Thank you.” She took a sip. “You must’ve had a full day?”

“You could say.”

She used the mug to point out the raw wound on his cheekbone. “What happened there?”

“Bee sting.” He ignored the look she gave him and tried to keep his focus off her plush, whiskey-damp lips. “You came all the way out here to give me your answer in person?”

“You gave me no choice. I’m a woman of my word, and I had promised that you would have my decision by noon. But you didn’t answer your phone or return my calls. I called the bar and was told by the person who answered that you hadn’t been in all day. There’s no email address on your business card. I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

She took another sip, then ran her finger ’round and ’round the rim of the mug. He felt that spiraling touch low in his belly and had to stifle the groan that tried to push its way from his throat. He told himself it was the booze hitting rock bottom on an empty stomach, but he knew better.

She was saying, “I don’t get the impression that you’ve been on tenterhooks to hear my decision. On the contrary, you’ve led me to believe that you don’t give a damn one way or the other.”

“Not really, no.”

She looked up at him with challenge. “You’re a liar.”

“Busted. It wasn’t a bee sting.”

“You’re lying about not giving a damn.” She indicated the table behind her. “These drawings are of my house.”

Going through his mind was a litany of military-born, illustrative obscenities. But he made a motion of indifference. “Couldn’t sleep last night. I did some doodling.”

She set the mug down with a thump on the most convenient level surface, which was his computer desk, then turned to the drafting table and began sorting through his drawings.

She selected two of them and positioned them side by side. “Variations on how to widen the upstairs hallway. This one, turning it into more of a gallery. Very detailed, down to the molding around the recessions cut into the walls.

“This,” she said, pointing to the other, “takes out a wall altogether, and, by doing so, opens up the extra bedroom and converts it into a sitting area/TV room. These aren’t doodles at all.”

She slid forward a sketch. “The front elevation. The windows enlarged. The porch expanded. Or, as you’ve designated it here, the veranda.” She looked at him for comment. He didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t deterred.

She pulled another drawing to the forefront. “Reconfigured master bath. There’s another for the layout of a modernized kitchen.” She ran her fingertips over the drawing, then faced him. “They’re brilliant.”

“Thanks.”

“When did you study architecture?”

“I didn’t.”

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“It’s just something I know how to do.” She was fru

strated by his answer and showed it. “I see it in my head,” he said, not knowing how else to explain it. Motioning toward the computer, he added, “CAD helps.”

“Why are you repairing squirrel damage and getting closet doors to hang straight when you can do this?”

“Hanging closet doors is honest work.”

“Yes, but it’s also a waste of obvious talent.”

He picked up the mug she’d set aside and drained it. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“Making yourself at home. Going through my stuff.”