SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,10

and threw them a half-apologetic glance. “Back to work for me, sorry.”

Sophie stepped away to let the buyer closer. “We get it. Can we count on catching up later, though?”

“I don’t know.” Harper murmured a price to the woman and waited while she rummaged through her purse. “It’s a flash visit,” she told Sophie.

Relief rushed through Mad. That was her second assertion. Friday she’d said she wouldn’t even be unpacking her bags. He drifted backward, on the verge of escape.

“Mad.” Harper’s voice caught him one step away from freedom.

His gaze shot toward hers. “What?”

“I’ll have to catch up with you again, though.”

He stared.

“I have something of yours.”

His heart? After six years did she believe she still had hold of it?

“Your tie,” she said, when he continued staring at her.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Until now, he’d forgotten he’d handed it to her before changing her tire and hadn’t taken it back.

So now it was tying them together.

Fuck Freud, you know that?

Without another word to her, he moved again, headed down the aisle toward Alma’s Tamales. Shit. Should he go back? He could tell Harper to leave it in his mailbox.

But then she’d know where he lived.

Flash visit, he reminded himself, staving off any overreaction. She’d be gone before he knew it.

But until then, he thought, a dark mood descending, this town was too damn small.

Chapter Three

Harper sat up in bed and smiled at her mom as she came through the door, bearing a steaming mug of coffee. “You didn’t need to bring that to me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Rebecca said, passing it over and seating herself on the edge of the mattress.

One sip had Harper moaning in pleasure. “Grandmom’s secret, cinnamon sprinkled on freshly ground coffee. Careful. I could get used to this.”

“Would that be so bad?”

Harper froze, the steam coming off the mug bathing her face. What day was this? Tuesday? She’d taken two weeks’ off, but frankly wouldn’t have surprised herself by being back at the bar yesterday. But Sunday she’d helped out with the farmers market until it closed at six, which meant it was too late to start the long drive back to the desert.

Then yesterday…

At breakfast, Grandpop had brought in just-picked zucchinis and tomatoes and Grandmom needed help chopping to make her famous ratatouille for lunch. Her mom had gone into town and brought back a crunchy loaf of sourdough from the bakery. Missing that meal had not been an option.

Lunch had turned into afternoon which had turned into late afternoon, early evening, evening. More good food, more time around the kitchen table, more idle moments in the kitchen garden taking in the scents of things growing, thriving, green.

So different from the odors of stale beer, bleach-drenched bar mats, and air-conditioning in need of servicing.

A small vase of lavender sat on her bedside now, its scent mingling with the coffee and cinnamon and she wondered if she could bottle the mixture and bring it with her to the apartment she shared with her roommate. The walls were painted Navajo white. There was a steer skull on the coffee table in the living room. A dreamcatcher the size of a wagon wheel hung in one corner like a spider ready for desert rat-sized flies.

“Harper?”

Her mom’s voice brought her back to her pretty, sunlit room. To her pretty mother.

I could get used to this.

Instead of voicing that again, she cleared her throat. “Yes, Mom?”

“Grandpop,” she said, grimacing. “He seems to think we’ve had another…event.”

Harper shot straighter against the pillow. “What event?”

“That shed down by the road? It’s always been full of odds and ends and he claimed he had a box of plumbing parts in there. He wanted to replace the gate valves in the kitchen garden and he says someone’s taken all the copper and brass pieces.”

Covers thrown back, Harper exited the bed, only stopping to grab her robe before heading down the stairs. “I want to hear it from him.”

Her mother caught her arm. “Grandmom says she’s not sure…Grandpop might not know exactly what was in there.”

Frowning, Harper turned. “Grandpop’s not forgetful.”

Rebecca shrugged. “Honey, he’s aging.”

“Grandpop’s not aging.” Panic shot through her.

“He’s in his seventies, Harper.”

“It’s the new fifty,” she replied, and continued down the stairs. Grandpop’s not aging.

And he seemed perfectly himself to her, though irritated by the loss of the plumbing items as he topped off his coffee, though he told her he’d “misplaced” them.

Remembering again her mom had admonished her about bringing up the previous irregularities, she slipped into a chair and put an inquiring