by Tawna Fenske
Something in her voice makes me glance at her face. Her expression is open and friendly, but there’s something darker in her eyes. Something guarded. I decide not to push.
As we round the corner of Sixth Avenue near the park, I spot the sausage cart up ahead. Lexi reaches into her purse and extracts a twenty, but I put a hand on her arm. “You don’t owe me a meal, Lexi,” I say. “I know you’re eager to get your hands on Bartholomew.”
I’ve given her an out that I’m hoping she doesn’t take. Relief washes through me when she shakes her head. “You said he’s safe in a terrarium with plenty of food and water?”
I nod and offer a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I went out first thing this morning and bought sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds in case he didn’t like the flax I gave him last night.”
She grins. “Sounds like he’s safe and happy and fed,” she says. “So the least I can do is make sure you are, too.”
I can’t argue with that, and I sure as hell don’t want to. We place our orders with the bratwurst guy, and I’m pleased Lexi gets one for herself.
“Want to go sit in the park?” she suggests.
“Definitely. I see an empty table under that tree over there.”
She turns to look where I’m pointing, which gives me a glimpse of that lovely, freckled right shoulder. There’s a warm, pleasant stirring in my chest as her eyes meet mine again.
“Perfect,” she says.
“I agree.”
I’m not just talking about the picnic spot, and I wonder if she knows. She gives me a sheepish smile, and I brace for her to ask why I’m staring at her.
“Would you mind waiting for the food so I can run to the ladies’ room and wash my hands?”
“No problem.”
“You’re the best.”
She turns toward the low-slung cement-block building that holds the public restrooms, and I order myself not to watch her hips sway as she walks away. I focus on the weather instead. It’s unseasonably warm for April in Portland, and I’m thrilled to be out on a warm spring day.
Thrilled with any opportunity to hang out with Lexi, truth be told. As the vendor hands me our dogs and drinks, I head toward the picnic table with thoughts of Lexi in my head. I can’t stop thinking about what she told me in the bar about not having a husband. Does the fact that she came clean mean she’s interested in me?
Because I’m a total lame ass, I text my sister to ask.
If a woman tells you she has a husband and then confesses she really doesn’t, is it a good sign she’s interested?
My sister responds in seconds.
Possibly. Or it’s a sign she’s a pathological liar. What kind of women are you hanging out with?
“Sorry that took so long.”
I turn to see Lexi approaching from behind me. She glances at my phone, and I slide it into my pocket, hoping she didn’t see the screen.
“No problem,” I tell her. “The brats are still warm.”
“Wonderful! I’m starving.” She takes a seat across from me, and I push a foil-wrapped brat across the table. I hold out her can of soda, and our fingers touch as she reaches out to take it from me.
Is it my imagination, or did she just blush?
“So I’m curious,” I say. “What made you fess up about not having a husband?”
She chews quietly for a moment, and I wonder if I should have just shut the hell up and played it cool. When she finally answers, she stares out over the water instead of looking at me.
“Last year, a guy from the bar followed me home and broke into my apartment.”
“Jesus.” I stare at her for a moment, feeling furious and protective of a woman I barely know.
But I do know Lexi. Not for very long, granted. But something about our time in the elevator made this strange connection between us. I can’t quite describe it, but I do know I want to punch anyone who’d threaten the amazing woman sitting across from me at this picnic table.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “That must have been scary.”
Lexi nods, still staring out over the water, with her bratwurst forgotten in front of her. “The thing was, I thought he was a good guy. He was a regular at the bar. Kind of a loner, but always friendly and tipped well. I never in a million years expected it to happen.”
I wait for her to continue the story, not wanting to push. She doesn’t say anything right away, so I try to think of something comforting.
“Did he—” I hesitate. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
She shakes her head. “No. He got into my apartment, but I barricaded myself in my bedroom and called 911. The police got there before anything could happen.”
My blood sloshes cold through my veins. A bite of bratwurst sticks in my throat, and I swallow hard to get it down. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Me, too.” She looks back at me, and the sadness in those smoky-green eyes makes my gut twist. “I always wondered if I should have known. If there were signs I should have seen or—”
“Lexi, no,” I tell her. “You can’t predict that sort of thing. Who’s crazy and who’s not? It’s not like people wear signs on their foreheads.”
Her gaze locks with mine and holds there, like a magnet clacking against a steel pole. It knocks the breath out of me. So do her next words.
“That’s why,” she says. “Why I told you I was married. Why I tell most guys at the bar that I’m married. Because I guessed wrong before. I want them to think twice about coming after someone who might have a cop husband ready to pounce at any moment.”
I nod, digesting her words. Wanting her to know I understand. “That makes sense. I don’t blame you for being cautious.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t my question, though.”
She cocks her head at me. “What do you mean?”
“I asked why you came clean. Not why you fibbed in the first place.”
She blinks. Then a slow smile spreads over her face. She picks up her soda and takes a sip, in no rush to answer. “Because I decided I trust you,” she says at last. “And I figured I owed you the truth.”
“Thank you.”
“And also because I think you’re kind of cute.”
I must look startled, because she laughs and sets down her soda with a slosh. “Despite what the silly girl in the elevator said,” she adds.
“Huh,” I say like a big idiot, too dumbfounded to manage an actual word. I take a bite of my brat, buying myself time to say something intelligent. She must take my silence as a lack of interest because she glances away and picks up her brat again.
“I wasn’t propositioning you or anything,” she said. “I just thought—”
“I’m okay with being propositioned by you,” I say. “Actually, I think I’d kinda like that.”
Color tints her cheeks, but she grins at me. It’s such a goofy, full-of-light smile that it makes my whole body hum with pleasure. We’re still smiling at each other when she holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
“What for?” I don’t object, though. I’m reaching into my pocket and handing it over before I stop to check whether there are any embarrassing texts on the screen.
Apparently this woman makes me lose my mind.
She flicks it on, and I lean over to peer at the screen as she scrolls to the contacts. For a second I think she’s checking up on me, but I watch as she types her name and phone number into my contacts.
“There,” she says as she hands the phone back. “Now you can reach me anytime. Like, hypothetically, if you wanted to ask me out on a date or something.”
I grin and shove the phone back in my pocket. “Hypothetically, then, what’s your schedule like this next week?”
She smiles and bites into her brat. “Hypothetically,” she says when she’s done chewing, “I’m free Thursday night and Saturday night. And hypothetically, I’ve been dying to check out that new Italian place downtown, over by the Heathman.”
“Hypothetically, then, I’ll make a reservation for seven thirty on Saturday.”
“It’s a hypothetical date.”
We grin at each other like two big dorks before I pick up my brat again. We eat in silence for a moment, savoring the juicy meat, the clover-scented air, the chatter of chickadees in the pink-blossomed dogwood beside us.
I’m unwrapping my second brat when a high scream shatters the peaceful scene.
“Stop! Help! That man stole my purse!”
I jump to my feet and pivot toward the frantic voice. A hundred feet to my right, a man in a gray hoodie sprints down the footpath gripping a navy-blue handbag.
Call me suspicious, but I don’t think it’s his.
I take off running. A voice in the back of my head—my sister’s, probably—urges me to be careful. The guy could have a knife or a gun or any number of weapons more lethal than I’ve got, which is a big, fat nothing.
But then I hear that panicked grandmotherly voice, now behind me. “Oh, please! That’s my grocery money for the whole month.”
Goddamn it. I run harder, gaining on the purse snatcher. He must hear my footsteps because he looks over his shoulder at me. Fear flashes in his eyes.
Damn right, motherfucker.
I’m not a graceful runner by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m aware that I look like a stampeding rhino. The guy picks up his pace, but it’s not enough. I’m gaining on him.
I wish for something to throw at the same instant I realize I’m not empty-handed. I glance down at the brat still clutched in my fist. Why not?
That’s all I think before I’m chucking it at the guy. It hits the side of his head with a sick-sounding splat that’s louder than you’d expect.
“Ooof!”
Maybe it’s the force of my throw, or maybe the guy just didn’t expect a quarter pound of meat to hit him on the side of the face. Whatever the reason, he stumbles and falls, going ass-over-teakettle into a hedge.
I pounce.
Maybe not the best move, considering the hedge in question is holly. Ow.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter as I grab the guy by the back of his coat. He’s light and not very big. If he does have a gun, now would be an excellent time for him to shoot me.
When his hand slides to his pocket, I don’t think. I grab his wrist and yank.
“Let go of me, asshole,” he snarls.
“Drop it!”
The guy obliges, probably because I’m crushing his wrist. Something clatters to the ground, and Lexi darts forward to grab it. Where did she come from?
“It’s one of those switchblade combs,” she says. “Not a real knife.”
Thank God. I probably would have been stabbed by now if it were the real deal. I’m hardly the heroic type, and I’ve probably screwed up this takedown six ways to Sunday. But I got the job done.
Lexi bends down again, this time scooping up the navy-blue purse. She clutches it to her chest and looks up at me.
“Oh my God,” she says. “That was unreal.”
Adrenaline courses through my body, and I’m aware that I’m breathing like an out-of-shape gorilla. My arms are scratched, my face is sweaty, and there’s either ketchup or blood smeared down my left arm.
In other words, I look like hell.
But that’s not the way Lexi is looking at me. She’s staring with an awe that might make me blush if my face weren’t already smoldering from exertion. She’s staring as though she likes me. Really likes me.
As the old lady hurries toward us in a flurry of grateful words, and the purse snatcher wriggles and curses in my grasp, I barely notice either of them.
I only see Lexi.
Her face curves into a slow smile, and she blinks hard against the glare of sunlight and maybe something else. An emotion I could maybe name if my brain weren’t flooded with adrenaline.
“My hero,” she murmurs.
The thing is, I’m not sure she’s joking.
CHAPTER SIX
Lexi
I can’t believe you took down a mugger with a bratwurst.”
I also can’t believe I’m walking into the home of a guy who took out a mugger with a bratwurst. A guy I’ve known less than forty-eight hours and whose dimples make me stupid.
But I don’t feel stupid as Noah holds the door open for me and gestures me into his home. “I’m guessing he wasn’t the brightest mugger in town if he thought it was a good idea to snatch a purse two blocks from the police station,” Noah points out as I step through the door. “As fast as the cops got there, they probably would have taken him down if I hadn’t.”
“Yeah, but not with that much flair.” I grin and kick my shoes off beside the door.
“Sorry it’s not tidier,” he says, though I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. The place is immaculate. And adorable. I turn in a slow circle, taking in the fern in a blue pot, the leather sofa the color of my most comfortable boots, and a fireplace like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life. Holy shit.
I step forward and reach toward it. “This is gorgeous.”
My words come out breathless as my fingers bump over the smooth river rocks embedded from the hearth to the ceiling. It’s two stories tall, and looks like something out of a home-design magazine. Gray, tan, cream, glittering obsidian, even some green and red rocks. They’re laid out in a dizzying pattern, and I have to step back to see the whole picture.
There’s a dark swath of stones forming a gently curved river, and an arc of gray and white pebbles laid out in the shape of snowcapped peaks.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I breathe. “It’s incredible.”
“Thanks,” Noah says. “That’s some of my work.”
I turn and stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head, and I see a flicker of bashfulness in his eyes. It’s endearing as hell. “Nope. Took me three months to draw up the plans and find all the rocks, and another eight months to get it all laid out.”
“It’s unbelievable.”
Noah grins and shoves his fingers through his hair. “Thanks. I bought the house as a fixer-upper. It’s taking me a little longer than I’d hoped to whip it into shape, but that fireplace was the first thing I did. It’s not quite done yet.”
I turn back to the fireplace, not seeing anything that looks out of place. “You mean that patch up there? The spot without any rocks?”
“Yeah. That’s where the sun is supposed to be. I just haven’t found the right stones for it.”
I stare up at the wall, too awestruck to care about a tiny unfinished patch. “I can’t believe you made this.”
It’s seriously a work of art. I touch the stones again, marveling at the smoothness of the larger river rocks, at the way they jut from the wall like stepping-stones. The whole thing is like something alive. Like a breathing, swirling scene from nature.
Besides being a rat rescuer and bratwurst-wielding thief catcher, Noah Donovan is one insanely talented artist.
He steps up beside me, and I feel the heat of his body on my bare arms. “The reddish ones through there are jasper,” he says, pointing. “These black ones are basalt.”
“You gathered them all yourself?”
“Almost all. I had to special-order those sparkly-looking silver ones up there. The ones that look like stars.”
“I had no idea this sort of thing was even possible.” I draw my hand back and turn to face Noah, who’s standing wit
h his massive hands at his sides, a funny little smile on his face.
“Thanks,” he says. “I can show you my portfolio sometime if you want.”
I try not to laugh, since show you my portfolio sounds like some kind of cheesy come-on. I know he doesn’t mean it that way, but the thing is, I wouldn’t mind if he did.
Be careful, Watson warns.
Harlow just swoons.
“I’d love to see more of your work,” I say, wondering if he can hear in my voice how much I mean it.
“First things first.” Noah shoves his hands in his pockets. “Bartholomew’s back here in the guest room. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you.”
Bartholomew. Right. What kind of lousy pet sitter am I? First I lose the pet altogether, and then I forget about reclaiming him because I’m distracted by stone art and the stupid-hot stonemason who created it.
I turn and follow Noah down a short hallway. He pivots at the first door on the left, and I rush past him to see an aquarium that’s as long as my body. It’s pushed up against a far wall, and relief washes through me as I see the little gray packrat standing on his hind legs with a look that says, “Where the hell have you been?”
I hurry forward and drop to my knees, then press a hand to the glass. “Bartholomew! It’s so good to see you.”
Whiskers twitching, Bartholomew scuttles to the wall of the tank and presses one paw against the glass. He looks totally fine—happy and healthy and unscathed. Tears prick the backs of my eyelids. “I can’t believe I almost lost you. Your mom would have murdered me.”
Noah’s voice rumbles behind me. “I fed him this morning, but you’re welcome to feed him again. I’ve got stuff in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure how often he needs to eat.”
“He should be fine until later tonight,” I say. “Is it okay if I take him out?”
“Be my guest,” Noah says. “The lid locks down on the corners right there.”
