True-Blue Cowboy - Vicki Lewis Thompson Page 0,28
for several seconds.
“You think I’m a nutcase, don’t you?”
“No.” She took another deep breath. “But I am trying to get a bead on you. You’re a creative thinker.”
“Me?”
“That was an imaginative list.”
“I guess, but to me, creativity is like you giving someone a great haircut, or Jake cooking a terrific meal, or… CJ adding embellishments to a song.” He tacked on that last reference to find out how she’d react.
Her gaze sharpened. “I used to have a crush on CJ.”
“Yes, I know.” She’d said used to have, like she wanted him to know it was in the past. “He’s the reason I’ve never asked you out. Figured I didn’t have a chance.”
“But then he got engaged.”
“Just because CJ’s out of the running doesn’t mean I have a shot. I was playing it close to the vest.”
“Ready to lay your cards on the table?”
“I’d say they’re already out there. I kissed you back.”
“How do you feel about what I’ve told you?”
“That it’s good to know.” Fascinating that she’d felt the need to announce it in advance, though. Was that for his benefit or hers? Time would tell.
Maybe she was right that the ice pack had given them what they needed—a pause, a chance to let this attraction marinate while they worked on the tasks at hand.
He glanced toward the trunk. “Want me to see if I can open that?”
“Yes, please. Don’t worry if you can’t get it open, though. I have the name of a good locksmith.”
“I’ll see what happens.” He gave her the ice pack. “I won’t be needing this anymore. Thanks for the use of it.”
“How’s your head?”
“Doesn’t hurt.”
“Lean over so I can take a look.”
He did, keeping his hands to himself.
She didn’t touch him, either. Her warm breath caressed his cheek, though. “The swelling’s down.” She stepped back without making contact. “I’ll go stick this back in the freezer.” She headed out of the room. “Want me to bring you some coffee and a cinnamon roll?”
“Maybe later.” His stomach was just beginning to recover. “I don’t want to get the lock sticky.”
“Good point.” She continued into the kitchen.
Pulling out a streamlined pocketknife, he crouched in front of the trunk. Then he glanced up at the smiling woman in the picture. “Maybe Aunt Sally’s right about you,” he murmured, “but I see a woman running to meet her lover.”
“Are you talking to someone?” Eva walked back into the room.
“Just myself.” He flipped out the smallest blade. “Habit of mine.”
“Funny, I have the same habit.” She sat cross-legged near the trunk. “I thought it was because I live alone.”
“Could be.”
“But you don’t live alone.”
“Did for a while.”
“When?”
“Years ago.” He inserted the knife slowly into the bottom section of the lock, the blunt side next to the tumblers and the blade resting against the lock.
“I’ve never seen anyone try this.” She scooted closer. “How old were you when you lived by yourself?”
“I ran away when I was fifteen.” He put pressure on the blade, turned it clockwise, then counterclockwise.
“From your folks?”
“No, they were long gone. Foster care can be a good solution for some, but I drew the short straw. Not nice people.”
“Sorry.”
“I survived.” The lock was being stubborn. Not surprising after a lot of years in the attic.
“How?”
He glanced at her. “I stole things and sold them.”
“Did you ever get caught?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned his attention back to the lock, wiggled the knife blade. “I wasn’t a very good thief.”
“You learned to pick locks, though.”
“I was decent at that. But then I’d have to take stuff. I dawdled. Didn’t want to steal anything that had sentimental value. It was only a matter of time before I’d take too long and be collared.”
“You were arrested?”
“And incarcerated. Juvie was better than my foster family, though. And when I was released, a kind judge found me a job.” There it was, the soft click of surrender. He turned the knife once more. “Got it.” He pulled the knife blade out.
“Woo-hoo!” She scrambled to her knees. “Open it! Let’s see what’s inside!”
“That pleasure belongs to you.” He rose to his feet and stepped back.
She looked up at him. “You really are a special person, Nick Le Grande.”
He opened his mouth, a denial on the tip of his tongue. He gazed into her green eyes. Affection shone there, along with respect. She likes you, idiot. Your story didn’t turn her off any more than hers turned you off. He swallowed the denial. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She gestured to the trunk. “I almost hate to open it.