Overkill(17)

When her pivot brought her back to him, she said, “I confess that I’m flabbergasted and impressed.”

“What did you expect?”

“Nice, but not something out of Architectural Digest. Did you design it?”

“I had the basic concept in mind. An architect took it from there.”

“It was beautifully executed. And the best thing about it is that it fits you so well.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

“Well, I mean…”

What she meant was where else would a man like him look more at home? His hair was long enough to curl from beneath a baseball cap that must be a favorite because it looked like it had seen decades of wear. Or war. His t-shirt was also vintage. He wore a flannel shirt tied around his waist by the sleeves. His army green cargo shorts were faded from repeated washings. His hiking boots had red laces; thick socks were cuffed above them. And he smelled of the woods, and resin, and healthy sweat.

He was waiting for her to reply. She groped, then said, “Well, I mean the scale of it, and all.”

“Oh,” he said, giving a nod. “Most things aren’t built for six-four plus.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t know how that feels.”

He looked her up and down. “No, if you went wandering off in here, you could get lost.” A beat, then, “And I’d have to come looking for you.”

He didn’t say it as a tease. He didn’t add a wink. Without a jest behind it, the statement took on weight. Unintended, no doubt.

They looked away from each other at the same time. An awkward silence followed, then both began speaking at once.

“Are you still—”

“What did—”

He motioned for her to go first. She said, “I was going to ask what you and Deputy Morris were talking about.”

“You mean Dave?”

This time, he did sound as though he was poking fun, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she asked what he’d been about to say.

“I was going to ask if you’re still cold. I could start a fire.”

She glanced toward the fireplace. “That would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. It’s already laid. All I have to do is start it. Bar’s over there. Corkscrew is in the drawer.”

On his way over to the fireplace, he took off his cap, tossed it onto an end table, and ruffled his hair. He also untied the flannel shirt from around his waist and put it on but left it unbuttoned. He set aside the fire screen, then knelt and used a lighter to ignite kindling beneath logs that had been expertly stacked.

She went over to the bar, which was recessed into the wall. It had a small fridge and ice maker. Above the granite counter, drinking glasses were lined up on subtly lighted glass shelves. Four highball glasses, four wineglasses. On a shelf all its own was a single bottle of bourbon, looking very mellow with the soft lighting shining through it.

Hearing him coming toward her, she quickly opened the drawer and got out the corkscrew.

“Let me,” he said, moving up beside her.

“I can do it.”

“I’m sure you can.” He took the bottle and corkscrew from her anyway, deftly handled both, and pulled out the cork. He took down one of the wineglasses and poured a goodly measure of Pinot Noir into it. As he passed it to her, he said, “I would’ve figured you for white wine.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just would. Maybe because your hair is so light.”

Their gazes held for a second or two, then hers moved to the bottle of bourbon. “For a drunk you certainly stock expensive whiskey.”

One side of his mouth tilted up. “I gave up being drunk and disorderly, but not good sipping whiskey.” He reached for one of the highball glasses and poured two fingers of the bourbon. “I allow myself a drink on special occasions.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“First fire of the season.”

“Ah.”

They made their way over to the fireplace. The young fire was casting flickering light. He indicated that she take the sofa facing it, while he sat—more like sprawled—in an adjacent chair positioned at an angle to the hearth.

She said, “I’m guessing that’s your favorite chair.”

“In the fall and winter.”

“What about spring and summer?”

“The rocker on the porch.”

“No Barcalounger?”

“Oh, hell yes. In the TV room upstairs.”

They smiled across at each other and drank from their glasses. She said, “You never answered my question about you and Deputy Morris. Do you two have a history?”

“Nope. Just met. We didn’t exactly take to each other.”

“I gathered. What happened?”

Rather than answer, he asked a question of his own. “He recommended the trout? Why does that not surprise me?”

“What’s wrong with trout?”

“It swims.”

She laughed. “We bumped into each other at a local restaurant. He was coming out as I was going in.”

“You two seemed chummy.”

“Not chummy exactly.”

“More than chummy? Y’all have a thing going?”