Still, if she was calling, it would be churlish of him to refuse whatever she might have in mind. His body tightened in anticipation, but when he checked the number it wasn’t one he’d seen before.
“Evan Chance,” he said.
“Hello Mr. Chance. This is Francine Goodbody. I’m in Caitlyn Sorenson’s book club and I saw you in the Country Grill last night.”
“Uh-huh? Are you by any chance missing a dog?”
“Oh, no, but that’s sort of why I’m calling. It’s real hard to live in a motel with a dog so I wanted to let you know that I run the High Hills apartments. We happen to have a very nice one bedroom apartment for rent and we are dog friendly.” She paused. “Also gay friendly, single parent friendly and of course, we welcome all races and creeds.” Then, as though feeling she’d gone too far, she added, “But we have a strict no-drugs policy.”
“That’s great Ms. Goodbody, but—”
“Francine, please. I feel like I know you since I’m in the same book club with Caitlyn.”
“Isn’t it a small world. But I won’t be staying in town more than a few days.”
“Well, if you change your mind…”
“I’ll keep you in mind.” And he hung up before she could talk any more.
Small towns, he decided, were definitely not for him.
And, with the rest of Sunday looming and no sign of activity at Merv’s Gas and Auto Repair, it looked like he was going to have to find something to do with himself.
He started walking back toward his motel with the shaggy embarrassment of a canine by his side.
Correction: he had to find something to do with himself and a dog.
Chapter Eleven
Caitlyn woke at last to an empty bed. Even though she’d known it would be empty, she still felt the loss of Evan’s warm body beside hers. Which was ludicrous. She went out of her way to avoid waking up with a man she didn’t know. And this one she’d practically begged to stay for breakfast when he was clearly on his way out the door. “I might as well have hidden his clothes so he couldn’t leave, clung to his ankles and begged him to stay,” she confessed when she called Charlotte who had already left two messages demanding a full report.
“Oh, my God. That good?” her friend asked, full of breathless excitement.
She snorted with laughter, images of heat and pleasure filling her mind. “Yeah. That good.”
“He looks the type, too. Sometimes you can tell by the way a man moves.” She dropped her voice, presumably so her husband wouldn’t hear her gushing about another man. “And there’s something about a guy on a motorcycle. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me weak kneed.”
“I don’t think I’d care if Evan rode a donkey. I’d still think he was sexy.”
“So? When are you seeing him again?”
A tiny frown pulled her brows together, but she kept her tone casual. “I don’t know. We didn't make plans.”
“Oh.”
“He’s only here until Wednesday or Thursday. It’s not like this is a real relationship.”
“Until Wednesday or Thursday it could be.”
She sipped her coffee. “I guess.”
Then Charlotte made a sound like she was blowing out a breath. “Look, I hate to bother you on your day off, but I think I have preeclampsia.”
She loved her friend Charlotte, she really did, but sometimes she wanted to smack her. Gently, of course, since she was in her third trimester.
“Your blood pressure was fine last time you were in. Why do you think you’ve got preeclampsia?”
“I have this pain in my upper stomach. And when I looked on the internet—“
“What have I told you about going online? No. No. No. You may read your emails. You may research recipes but you are not allowed to self-diagnose based on medical sites.”
She settled back, sipped more coffee and waited.
“But I didn't want to bother you so I took a quick peek at webMD. And it really seems as though--”
“Are your hands and feet swollen?”
“No.”
“Do you have any other symptoms? Apart from the pain in your upper stomach?”
“Well, it sort of hurts to breathe now you mention it. Like there’s a burning in my chest.”
When she recalled all the complicated ways she used to put broken people back together, she shook her head. “Charlotte, what did you do last night?”
“Last night?” There was a tiny pause as her friend obviously reviewed her actions of the previous evening. “I went to dinner at the Grill. Don’t you remember? I saw you there.”
“I do remember. And do you recall what you had to eat?”
“Oh, it was so good. I had the steak with all the trimmings and I couldn’t resist the apple pie for dessert. You know how good the pies are there, and they put on so much ice cream. But I am eating for two,” she ended somewhat defensively.
“And do you think eating all that rich food might have given you heartburn?” she suggested.
“Heartburn?” Charlotte sounded almost insulted that her dramatic condition might be nothing more than a case of gluttony.
She tried not to laugh. “Honey, preeclampsia affects around six to eight percent of pregnancies. Heartburn hits in close to one hundred percent. My advice to you is to rest today and eat light meals. If you still have the pain tomorrow, come and see me.”
“Okay. Thanks. Or else I’ll see you at book club on Thursday night.”
“I’ve got another call coming in. I’d better go.”
“I bet it’s him. Call me later with details.” And Charlotte was gone.
It was probably the hospital with a report on Mr. Newsom, she told herself as she clicked through to the other call.
“I miss you,” the low, sexy voice said.
Definitely not the hospital. “Hi,” she said. Even though he was only here for a few days she was still happy he’d called. Showed class, she thought. And maybe a little eagerness to see her again, which she shared.
“My sources tell me there’s a farmers’ market with a corn maze about fifty miles from here and I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.”
“You need better sources. There’s a farmer’s market right in town. And it’s on today.”
“If we go to the farmer’s market here, someone will offer to sell me a house, rent me an apartment, offer me a job or probably elect me mayor. And for sure somebody will sprain an ankle or drop a kid or something and you’ll be called into service.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a small town.”
“That’s why my friend Google suggested a different small town, far, far away where I can kiss you on the street if I want to and not ruin your reputation and get thrown in jail by the town’s sexually frustrated chief of police who has a major crush on you, Doc Hot Stuff.”
“You did not seriously call me Doc Hot Stuff.”
“I certainly did not. Bad cell reception.”
How did he do this to her? Make her all warm and gooey and turned on simply by asking her to go to a farmer’s market of all things. But he did. So she said, “I would love to go with you.”
“Great. I will pick you up in an hour. Or should I meet you at a secret location?”
“Honestly. Come and pick me up like a normal person.”
“See you in an hour.”
When Evan arrived at Caitlyn’s door she opened it, looking ready to go, in a black T-shirt and jeans that fit where they should. He checked her shoes and they were sturdy walking shoes. Good. She said, “Do you mind coming in for a coffee or something? I need to talk to Mr. Newson’s cardiologist. He should call any minute.”
“Sure.” He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him, then pulled her to him and kissed her long and hard.
She pulled away looking slightly dazed and licked her lips.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I left here.” He checked his watch. Glanced up. “Five hours ago.”
She
looked fresh and sexy and the urge to drag her up to bed was so strong it startled him. Especially as the woman clearly had work on her mind.
“Do you mind making coffee while I check over Mr. Newson’s file?”
“No problem.”
She sat at her kitchen table with a laptop computer and a paper file folder in front of her. He turned to make coffee but all he saw in the kitchen was an expanse of granite countertop. There was not a single thing on it. Not an appliance, a decoration, a salt shaker, a knife block, and certainly not a crumb of leftover food. “Don't you ever cook?”
“I love to cook. Why?”
“This kitchen – it’s like a showroom.”
“I don’t like clutter.”
“I do not consider my coffee maker clutter, call me crazy.”
“It’s in the appliance garage. Lower left cupboard beside the stove.”
He opened the door and found the coffee maker. A gorgeous top-of-the-line European model. “Nice.”
He set it up on the counter and plugged it in.
“Coffee?”
“In the Sub-Zero. Left hand lower door, the first canister is beans, the second is pre-ground.”
He opened the door and found her freezer was organized with military precision. Actually, she made the military look like a bunch of slobs. Her containers all fit exactly, each was labeled and the pristine gleam inside the stainless doors was amazing. Did she use surgical gloves to remove food from her fridge?
He found the cutlery drawer without too much trouble. Once more, the absolute perfection of the drawer astonished him. Where were the rubber bands and old batteries and take out chopsticks and useless crap that always ended up in a cutlery drawer? Who had such perfectly stacked spoons and forks? He’d have guessed that this woman was seriously sexually repressed if he didn’t have vivid and recent experience of the opposite.
He dug out a scoop, made the coffee a little lighter than he’d have made it for himself because everyone complained his coffee was too strong.
Coffee mugs were in an upper cupboard. Gorgeous, sleek white mugs that looked like the latest in industrial design. Where were the tacky, clunky World’s #1 Doctor and Paris is for Lovers mugs?
“Finding everything you need?” she asked. She was skimming notes, swapping her attention from computer to file.
He said, “Where’s your garlic press?”
“Drawer closest to the fridge. Third compartment, upper quadrant.”
He opened the drawer closest to the fridge. Yep, there it was. Exactly where she’d said it would be. He imagined his own apartment kitchen in Seattle. He knew he had a garlic press – in fact, he thought he had two -- but he wasn’t precisely sure which drawer it was in, never mind which quadrant of which compartment.
“Melon baller,” he said. And he knew for damn sure he didn’t own one of those.
She didn’t miss a beat. “Same drawer as the garlic press. Second compartment, lower quadrant.”
Check.
“Soy sauce?”
“Pantry cupboard. Second shelf, in front of the sesame oil.” Then she suddenly glanced up. “What are you making?”
Behind him the coffee was beginning to gurgle and purr. The greatest aroma in the world was beginning to permeate the air. And the prettiest woman in the world was staring at him with big, slightly puzzled blue eyes. “I was checking the extent of your truly terrifying organizational skills.”
She opened her mouth as though she’d perhaps explain about her struggles with OCD or how she hired NASA scientists to organize her kitchen. But her phone rang and, with a quick smile and a shake of the head, she answered.
Inside the fridge, which he knew cost ten grand because he had the same one, he found full cream and three different kinds of milk. In the pantry were more kinds of sweeteners than you’d find at Starbucks. He bet there was an espresso machine in that appliance cupboard and that, in Caitlyn’s house, you could get coffee or tea any way you liked it. Interesting.
He poured himself a mug of the fresh coffee. Added coffee cream, because it was there, scooped in a spoon of organic cane sugar and sipped. The coffee was excellent.
He poured her a mug and then, figuring she’d put the milk she liked best in the easiest-to-reach spot, put the mug of coffee on the table in front of her and the jug of two percent and the organic cane sugar in easy reach. He made sure to get her out a fresh shiny stainless steel spoon from the cutlery drawer.
She nodded thanks but was too busy talking Medicalese to fix up her drink.
Not wanting to eavesdrop on a conversation he had zero interest in, Evan walked through the house he’d seen so little of last night. The living room was at the front of the house. He remembered a cat had been sleeping there last night but not a hint of life was there today. Not so much as a plant. It was a stunning room, he thought. Right out of a decorating magazine. And that’s kind of what it reminded him of. He’d looked at houses and apartments that were staged for sale and that’s how this room looked. Everything coordinated to designer perfection. The few decorative pieces were art rather than tchotchkes. The only personal item was a single silver-framed photograph on the fireplace mantel. He walked over to it.
Six people were pictured. He picked out a younger Caitlyn right away. He would guess she was about sixteen in the photo. As pretty as he’d have imagined she’d be, but her petals were still furled. She wore her hair back and her expression seemed serious. The guy beside her must be her brother. He was as angelically fair, but there the resemblance ended. His expression was sulky, his hair long and untidy and he favored the confuse-me-with-a-hobo look. He’d seriously dressed down in a hoody and low-riding grubby jeans. His pierced lip added a certain swagger to his scowl.
The parents stood behind the kids and nobody was touching. The father looked like a successful middle-aged guy, the kind he saw all the time in his law firm, either a partner or a client. The wife was an older version of Caitlyn in some ways. Same hair, same blue eyes, but she was thinner, brittle looking. He thought for a second that she reminded him of someone, and realized with a start that it was Tessa.
The other two were probably grand parents. The old guy had to be the original Doc Sorenson. He looked like a country doctor. He had a beard and glasses and a belly. His eyes, also blue, seemed like they might twinkle when he asked you how you were feeling. His wife was a comfortable looking woman. She looked like a grandma who baked cookies and knit. And he would have bet his net worth that when she’d lived here that kitchen had a coffee maker on the counter and bits of twine in the cutlery drawer. Probably there’d been pictures of the family all over the living room and cushions with needle-pointed sayings on them that she’d sewn herself.
He put the photograph back in place. Wandered over to a bookcase. There was a shelf of books but it was all hardcovers that screamed ‘women’s book club’. Caitlyn came in as he was checking out the shelves. “Where are the trashy novels? And your copy of Medicine for Dummies?”
“In my clinic. With the Scotch.”
She held her coffee but she didn’t move to sit down. Didn’t invite him to.
“How’s the cardiac patient?”
She shrugged. “He’ll live. For now. And, he’s got a great cardiologist on the case, which means I can go out for the afternoon.”
“Excellent.”
As one, they turned and went back into the kitchen. He drained his coffee mug, and she sipped a little more then put both mugs into the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. He did his bit, putting coffee grounds into the in sink disposal and washing up the pot before returning the appliance to its hideaway.
He checked the cat’s dishes to make sure there was plenty of food and water. The cat had one of those automatic feeder things he was happy to note. He topped up the water dish. When they left the kitchen, it was as pristine as when he’d entered the house.
“Where’s the dog?” she asked when they were inside his car and ready to roll.
“I got
a dog sitter.”
“How did you find a dog sitter? You’ve only been here two days.”
“Oh, she found me. The people in your city take great delight in calling my number off the lost dog poster and trying to sell me services. At least this one, I could use.”
“Wow. Was the dog okay with it?”
In point of fact, the dog had enacted a scene so pathetic it reminded him of the little kid in Les Miz. That dog deserved an Oscar. But he didn’t tell her that. He said, “He’ll be walked, fed and played with. It’s part of the deal.”
“That’s good.”
“And, in case you’re interested, I don’t have to pick him up until tomorrow.”
“He’s having a sleepover?”
“He is.”
She slid him a sexy look that made him so weak at the knees he’d have fallen down if he wasn’t driving. “That’s convenient.”
Chapter Twelve
They meandered down the country roads and he thought how nice it was not to be in a hurry. Not to have an especially important destination. “So, have you ever been in a corn maze?”
“No. Have you?”
“Nope. Seemed like it was time.”
She turned to him looking half amused, half exasperated. “This isn’t one of those things on your bucket list is it?”
He grinned at her. “First, when I made that list, lo these many years ago, there was no such term as ‘bucket list’. The idea was more positive. It was about setting goals and achieving them, not cramming in a bunch of activities before you croak.”
“What would you call your list then?”
He thought about it. “A life achievement list.”
“Okay. So, is roaming around in a corn maze on your life achievement list?” She’d already seen his list so she had to know it wasn’t.
“No.” He contemplated the road ahead, the neat pastures and fencing. “But, if I’d thought of it, I’d probably have included it.”
“Well, I’m honored to be included in your amended life achievement list.”
“Thank you.”
When they arrived at the farm he discovered he wasn’t the only one thinking a sunny Sunday in late September would be a good day to wander around among stalks of corn. He also discovered that the place was packed with families. Kids ran everywhere, demanding that harried parents buy them caramel apples and fruit ciders and ice cream bars and all the various nonsense the smart farmers were peddling.