by Donna Ball
I spun away, drew a breath, and took a sip of the wine. It tasted expensive. Damn him, anyway.
He crossed the room and poured a cup of coffee. The dogs’ claws clicked on the wood floors as they hopefully searched for treats. I felt like a cad.
But I had also been a dog trainer for fifteen years and I knew the importance of boundaries. And I knew when mine had been violated. I said, “You shouldn’t have come in here without permission.”
He turned, leaning against the counter with one of my coffee mugs cupped in his hand. “I understand. But if it had been Maude or Buck or Sonny who was in trouble and needed shelter, would you still be mad?”
I said, sputtering a little, “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re –” I knew how that sentence ended and stopped it before I could embarrass myself further.
He supplied for me, “Friends.” He sipped his coffee, watching me. “I thought we were past that. Guess not.”
He put the coffee cup on the counter and started for the living room.
“Where are you going?”
“Asheville.”
“But the overpasses are icy.”
“Right.”
“Wait.”
I couldn’t believe I was saying it, and I had absolutely no choice. He turned to me and I looked at him, angry and frustrated and helpless and resigned. There is no worse feeling in the world than knowing you have things to talk about, but not knowing how to say them. All I could manage was, “You don’t just get to have everything you want, Miles. You’ve got to respect people’s boundaries.”
He said nothing. He just waited.
After a moment I said, grudgingly, “I only have one guest room. You’ll have to sleep on the couch.”
“Thank you.” And he smiled. He was incredibly charming when he smiled, and my willpower was not what it used to be. “May I kiss you now?”
“No.”
Of course I was hoping he would try to change my mind, and he wouldn’t have had to try very hard. But he just gave a little shrug, winked at me, and left the room.
Damn him, anyway.
__________
EIGHT
I slept restlessly and woke before dawn, creeping around so as not to disturb my guests. I hate having strangers sleep over in my house. I’d had to lock all three dogs in my bedroom with me, and Mischief and Magic had taken turns trying to see who could jump on my bed and land lightly enough at my feet that I wouldn’t notice. This of course insulted Cisco, who knew perfectly well dogs were not allowed on my bed, and he felt it his sworn duty to make sure I knew whenever an infraction occurred. We played this game for almost an hour before Mischief and Magic were finally convinced they could not get away with anything. When I awoke in the morning, who should be curled up on either side of my feet but two Australian shepherds. Cisco, with his head on his paws, was eyeing me reproachfully from his bed in the corner.
I chased the dogs off the bed and scolded them in a whisper, which is hardly an effective way to scold a dog at all, but I couldn’t risk waking up our company. I also could not go downstairs without brushing my teeth and running a comb through my curly brown hair, which had grown longer than I liked over the past few months. I spent far too long looking for the bathrobe without a stain on it. I really hate having strangers in my house.
The dogs came clattering down the stairs despite my shushing, and when I glanced into the living room I saw the blankets had been folded and neatly stacked with the pillow. I smelled coffee from the kitchen.
My yellow kitchen was cozy and warm with the flames from the glass doors of the wood stove reflected on the glossy sealed surface of the pine floors and dancing off the copper pots that hung from the rack over the stove. It was still pitch-black outside, and the one hanging lamp over the breakfast table that Miles had turned on gave the room a hushed, intimate feel. It reminded me of the mornings when I used to get up before dawn to ride up the mountain with my daddy to cut a Christmas tree, bouncing over the rutted dirt logging roads in a beat-up pickup truck he kept only for farm work. We would spend all morning searching for just the perfect tree, then haul it back home to arrive just as Mother was taking a pan of sticky buns out of the oven. I was filled unexpectedly with a warm glow of nostalgia, and when Miles turned he saw me smiling.
“Well, that’s nice,” he said, lifting his cup to me. “After last night I wasn’t sure you’d ever smile at me again.”
I shrugged and followed the dogs into the kitchen, finding it hard to remember to be annoyed with him at this hour. “I was just thinking about Christmas. I’ve got to get a tree.”
The dogs milled about his feet briefly, saw that he didn’t have any treats, and then raced to the door. I let them out into the back yard, and a wave of cold lingered when I shut the door again. Miles handed me a cup of coffee.
“Do you really do the whole Christmas thing, with a tree and lights and stockings over the fireplace?”
“Sure.” I was surprised. “Don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t really celebrate Christmas.”
I stared at him, warming my hands around the coffee mug. “Why not? I mean—are you Jewish or something?”
He looked amused. “No. Would it make a difference if I were?”
I was thoroughly embarrassed and felt it to the tips of my toes. “No.” Great. It wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning and already we were off to a bad start. “It’s just that –you’ve got a daughter, a mother with a beach house, three ex-wives, and a condo in Aspen,” I blurted. “I’m just wondering what else I don’t know about you.”
He regarded me mildly as he sipped his coffee. “They have something to fix that these days. It’s called Google.”
I was momentarily nonplussed. What kind of world did he live in, where people Googled potential boyfriends? I frowned a little into my coffee and muttered, “Well, you know us mountain folk. We don’t put much faith in that new-fangled technology.”
By the way he looked at me, I could tell he wasn’t sure if I was kidding. I was, by the way. Mostly.
But Google? Seriously?
He said, “Christmas is for kids, and when you grow up with an alcoholic father you don't have a lot of childhood memories you want to re-create. Besides, my ex always has Melanie for Christmas, and I never had anyone to celebrate with.”
I tried again, determined to hold on to some semblance of the Christmas spirit. “I’m sorry I was a grouch last night.”
“That’s okay. I overstepped.” That smile again. Damn, what he could do to me with that smile.
And then the smile faded. “No excuse, but it’s been kind of a stressful week. This whole thing with Mel took me by surprise. I shouldn’t have made it your problem. But we’ll be out of your hair in no time. I’m going to go over to the house and see if I can figure out what went wrong with the heat pump, and get a plumber out there at first light.”
While his designer home was being built on the top of my mountain, Miles was temporarily living in a luxury-model mobile home with granite countertops, a wrap around deck, hot tub, and two bathrooms, each one bigger than my bedroom. His temporary quarters were situated at the entry gate of his resort community, which made it very convenient for supervising the construction. It also was almost within walking distance of my house.
Sipping my coffee, I said, “I’ll tell you what went wrong with the heat pump. It iced over. We’ve had nights in the teens since you’ve been gone. You should have winterized.”
His brows drew together sharply and he swore softly under his breath. “You’re probably right,” he admitted in a moment. “I didn’t plan to be gone so long, but then this business came up with Mel. . . Who knew it would get that cold this early, anyway?”
“It doesn’t usually,” I admitted. “If you had let me know, I could have checked on it for you.”
He unknotted his brow with a visible effort. “Thanks, hon, but I have people who were supposed
to be doing that.”
Right. His people.
I heard a scrabbling at the door and went to let the dogs in. They flowed around us, butts wiggling, faces grinning. Miles obligingly reached down to scratch ears and chins. “Sorry, guys,” he said, “all out of treats. Hit me later.”
“Dogs,” I commanded sharply, because they were starting to be pests. “Settle.” I pointed to the corner of the kitchen, and one by one, with unhappy looks, they filed over to their places. When Cisco looked as though he thought he might be the exception to the rule, I raised an eyebrow and made a “Nuh!” sound in the back of my throat. Reluctantly, he flopped down with his head on his paws.
All right, then. Rarely did I get a chance to show off what a good dog trainer I was. Usually, I just got to show off my expertise at rescuing myself from some disaster my dogs had created. The morning was looking up.
Miles was making an effort too. He said, “So tell me about your case. Who did you and Cisco rescue last night?”
Cisco’s ears lifted hopefully at the sound of his name, then lowered when no command was forthcoming. I said, “No one, actually. It was kind of a false alarm, but interesting.” It was nice of him to ask, but as I summarized the events of the night before I couldn’t help feeling anxious about the missing girl. I wondered whether Buck had found her by now and what kind of life would be waiting for her now that her father was gone. I was abruptly depressed again.
When I was finished, Miles said, “Do you mind if I make an observation?” Apparently it didn’t matter whether I did or not, because he went on, “Last month you were dealing with a serial killer and a skeleton in your back yard. The month before that you were tied up and left to burn to death in your own building by a psychopath. Now you walk in on a murder scene and don’t even blink an eye. I’m starting to think this little corner of the Smoky Mountains is not quite the paradise I was led to believe.”
I smiled sweetly. “Oops,” I said.
His eyes twinkled, and for a moment we were all right again.
But I sobered. “I’m really kind of worried. If it was that guy I saw in the diner, and if the girl was there when he broke in…”
“Then the neighbors wouldn’t have seen her leaving that afternoon,” Miles reminded me. He was always so rational about these things.
“I suppose,” I admitted. “Still, I think I’ll call the office as soon as the day shift gets in.”
“Or,” suggested Miles, “you could wait until someone calls you. As in, when they need your help.”
I had to bite my tongue. He really didn’t get the way things worked around here. And he sounded a little too much, at that moment, like my ex-husband.
The silence was awkward for a beat or two, and then Miles nodded toward the back yard. “How’s the construction project?”
I sighed. “Expensive. Looks like we’re shut down until I can figure out how to pay for this thing.”
The truth was that I had Miles to thank for the progress that had been made so far. He had sent his top crew down to reconstruct my building, even though it meant pulling them off his own project. I would have felt even worse about not being able to finish the construction if I hadn’t been sure the crew would still have jobs to go to with Miles.
“Looks like they’ve got you under roof, anyway.”
“Yeah, but no plumbing, HVAC, or kennel runs. I’m going to have to come up with something pretty soon or we’ll be out of business.”
“You’re losing money every day you’re closed.”
“Tell me about it.”
I could see the determination forming in his eyes that had laid waste to business opponents across the globe and every muscle in my body tensed. “Raine, I can send down a crew that will have you up and running before Christmas.”
“No. I told you, I’m out of money. ”
“Consider it a loan. Low interest, I’ll draw up papers.”
“No. I’m in more debt than I can afford already.”
“An investment, then. “
“I already have a partner. Don’t need another one.”
“Damn it, Raine—”
“No.”
“It’s Christmas! Learn how to accept a gift, won’t you?”
“A gift!” My outrage rose and it showed in my voice. “A gift is perfume or jewelry or—or—fruit of the month! Not a ten thousand dollar construction renovation that I already told you I can’t afford. You can’t just buy people, Miles. Boundaries, for heaven’s sake!”
We glared at each other for a moment and I could see he was trying as hard as I was not to say what he was thinking. His nostrils flared with a breath. My fingers tightened around my coffee cup. Neither of us would be the first to blink. Finally he muttered, “You are the stubbornest person I have ever met.”
“Said the pot to the kettle.” But I allowed my shoulders to relax fractionally as I took a sip of my coffee.
My relationship with Miles is complicated, to say the least. First of all, we are sworn enemies when it comes to his development project; he has decided not to let that fact bother him, and I am coming to an uneasy peace with it, myself. And there is an awful lot I like about him. You always know where you stand with Miles; ask him anything and he’ll tell you the truth. He’s completely comfortable in his own skin. He makes me laugh. When he comes to dinner, he not only cooks, but he does the dishes. He is at home wherever he is. I like his unself-conscious affection, which he extends as easily to me as he does to my dogs—even though I wish he wouldn’t be quite so affectionate in public. And one cold, rainy night not long ago, he had stayed up till dawn helping me search the woods for a lost dog. No one asked him to. He had just done it. There’s a lot to like about him.
But he can also be controlling, abrupt, determined, stubborn and a little arrogant. Since I am also most of those things—except arrogant—we have a tendency to butt heads a lot. To Miles’s credit, he’s usually the first one to make an attempt to smooth things over.
He regarded me silently for another moment. Then he said, “You know, it would be a lot easier to respect your boundaries if I actually knew what they were. We’re more than neighbors but not quite friends. Or maybe more than friends but not quite lovers. I can’t kiss you in public but can I kiss you in private?” He shrugged. “Anybody’s guess. A few clear signals wouldn’t be unwelcome here.”
My muscles stiffened again. “Look, Miles…”
He held up a hand. “It’s okay. I know you have some things to work out. Patience is one of my many virtues. But while you’re thinking about it, consider this: I am going to be in your life. There’s no avoiding that. I can be your enemy, or your friend, or your lover. You choose.”
There was that strange, silly fluttering in the vicinity of my ribcage again, and the heat that crawled up my throat. He had fabulous eyes. Sometimes I just couldn’t stop looking at them. I said, “You don’t have an opinion?”
“I do,” he conceded gravely. “But I wouldn’t want to accidentally violate your boundaries by expressing it.”
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at a corner of my lips. I tried to hide it by lifting my coffee cup. He smiled back at me. We were comfortable for a moment.
I searched for a neutral topic. “Melanie seems like a smart girl.” I probably should have said nice or sweet but couldn’t quite manage it.
“She is.” But his expression was troubled again as he looked into his coffee cup. “She doesn’t like me much. Hates being here. Who can blame her? I’ve seen her maybe three times in two years. I don’t know anything about her life. What do nine-year-old girls like, anyway?”
I was appalled. My collie Majesty had been living with my Aunt Mart for less than a month and if I didn’t see her at least every other day I started to go into withdrawal. How could a father see his own child only three times in two years? I tried to keep my opinions to myself. “I don’t know. I was never a little girl. I was a tomboy. I liked dogs and mountain bikes. I was
a junior handler at thirteen. You know, if you spent more time with her you’d probably know exactly what she likes to do.” Ah well, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my opinions to myself very long. But it was worth a try.
Miles, of course, was unruffled. He always was. “You mean,” he corrected, “if she spent more time with me. I make plans to pick her up every weekend of the year and for a month in the summer— she always has something she would rather do. Her mother has her in this fancy boarding school in New York and she has her friends…” He shrugged. “She was supposed to be skiing in Austria this Christmas. Hell of a thing, huh, when spending Christmas with your dad is a punishment?”
I wanted to say something. I had no idea what.
He took a final sip of coffee and set the cup aside. “Well, I’d better wake her up so we can get going.”
“What—now?” I looked out the window. “It’s still dark. What are you going to do, just make her sit and wait while you work?”
“We’ll go into town for breakfast. It’ll be light by the time we get back.”
What was wrong with me? I didn’t like kids; I had no idea what to do with one. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. Blame it on Christmas.
I said, “Come on, Miles. She’s had a hard couple of days. Let her sleep. I’ll bring her over when she wakes up.”
He looked at me with a kind of amused skepticism. “Are you sure? She can be kind of a handful.”
I shrugged, suddenly not so sure. “Okay, I’m not saying I have the greatest maternal instincts, but I think I can handle a nine-year-old for an hour or two.”
About that time I looked down and noticed that Cisco had managed to scoot himself, an inch at a time, across the kitchen floor, until he now lay only a few feet from us, head on paws, just as though he thought he could convince me that was where I had left him. I fixed him with a glare.
Here is the thing about teaching the “stay”: you give a dog an inch, and he will take a mile. Dogs are incredibly precise about these things, and the first time you allow him to get away with moving even a foot or two out of position, you have taught him that he gets to determine where he should stay. It’s almost never a good idea to let dogs start negotiating with humans over territory.
