The Obsession(115)

“They look like presentable kindling to me, but it’s your deal.”

“What about the table?”

“I get the table—needs a little work, but it’s a good piece.”

“I meant do you need help getting it out of the car?”

“Eventually.” Clearly unconvinced, he gave the chairs a final frown. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I’ll get what you need.”

She got the supplies out of the laundry room, filled a bucket with water, carted it out in time to see him coming back up the steps behind a forest of lilacs in a tall cobalt blue pitcher.

“There.” He set them on the table on the deck. “I brought you flowers and something to put them in.”

Staggered, she stared at them, at him. “I . . .”

“I stole the flowers, but I bought the pitcher.”

“It’s—they’re . . . They’re perfect. Thank you.”

He stood there, scruffy, scowling at the chairs he obviously considered a waste of time and money—and she had to swallow, twice.

“This better be some dinner.” After taking one of the rags from her, he dropped it in the bucket. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’ve just got things going inside.”

“Go on, deal with that. I’ll clean up these butt-ugly chairs.”

She went inside, grabbed the wine on the way and took it with her straight to the powder room—the one that still needed lights, new fixtures, and a towel bar.

Her heart was tripping again. In fact it was tripping, stumbling, staggering all at the same time. Not a sensation she’d ever experienced before. Not a panic attack—not exactly, though she definitely felt considerable panic.

He’d walked up the steps with lilacs in a blue pitcher, set them down unceremoniously. Stolen flowers in an old pitcher, carried in big, callused hands.

And she’d fallen in love.

It couldn’t be that fast. It couldn’t be that simple. It couldn’t be.

But it was. She didn’t have to have felt it all before to know what tripped and stumbled inside her.

She breathed in, breathed out, took a good glug of wine.

What happened next?

Nothing had to happen next, she assured herself. Everything just continued, it just kept going until . . . something. But right now, nothing happened.

She had pork chops to stuff.

She heard him laughing, talking to the dog out on the deck. She saw the lilacs—so lush, so sweet. And had to press the heel of her hand to her heart, order it to behave.

But she pulled out her phone, angled herself, and took several shots of the flowers.

By the time she began making the stuffing, she heard Mason’s voice and, glancing up, saw him step onto the deck from the stairs.

Xander moved into the opening. “We’ll get the table. The chairs are clean, but they’re still ugly.”

“Their charm is simply yet to be released.”

“Whatever. I’m going to want that food once we get the table up. It smells good.”

“Food’s an hour off.”

“That’ll do.”

While she finished the stuffing, they hauled up the farmhouse table. Mason stepped in.

“Are those . . . stuffed pork chops!”

“I know how to soften you up.”

He kissed her cheeks. “Thanks. Why did you buy such crappy chairs?”

“They won’t be crappy when they’re fixed.”

“If you say so. I like the table. Is that barn wood?”

“It is.”

“Built to last.”

She finished stuffing the chops, slid them into the oven, and stepped out on the deck. “Oh, look how the cleaner brings out the grain. It just needed some tending.”

“It’s got some dings and scratches,” Xander told her.

“It’s called character. And Jenny said she could fix anything that needed fixing. I don’t want to spoil anything, Mason, but I thought if we could talk about what you did, found out, think since meeting with Chief Winston, we wouldn’t have it hanging over us at dinner.”

He gave her a long look, then nodded. “I can’t tell you much you don’t already know. All indications are Donna Lanier was abducted from the parking lot shortly before midnight on Friday. Her car was locked, hasn’t been moved since she parked it when she came on shift at four. Three other employees worked until closing. One, Maxie Upton, came out the back of the building alone a few minutes before Donna, Gina Barrows, and Brennan Forrester. Routinely Maxie parks in that same section of the lot, as most employees do, but her car was in the shop. Yours,” he said to Xander.

“Yeah, she drove in on a flat just after I closed, and had four tires as bald as my uncle Jim. I wasn’t going to let her drive around on them, made her a deal. I’d work the price of the tires down, take her to work—and she’d call her father to pick her up. She was going to walk, and after what happened to Marla, I wasn’t having her walking home or to a friend’s alone at midnight.”

“She’s lucky you provide such personal customer service.”

“I’ve known her since she was . . .” Xander straightened from his slouch against the rail. “Are you saying he was looking to take her? Was waiting for Maxie to walk to her car?”