Everything She's Ever Wanted. Mary J. Forbes

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СКАЧАТЬ Tucker? Who drove her home last week?

      And, here she sat, by a day-lit window, in a gray hoodie, navy sweats, sneakers…sans makeup. Wonderful.

      The worker stood, and followed Kat down the aisle.

      “Breena Quinlan. Seth Tucker,” the tiny grandma said. “He built communities in the sandbox, and today is the master.”

      Amusement shaded his eyes. “Now, Kat.”

      “Now, Seth.” She patted his arm and left.

      “So,” he said when they were alone. “We meet again.”

      His voice, deep as a Nevada crater.

      “Yes. Again.”

      He slid into the booth, set the sheepskin vest he carried on the bench. A whiff of aftershave passed her nose. Like autumn air. He regarded the window—her. A smile flickered.

      He’s shy, she thought. The man who drove King Kong trucks was shy. A ripple hit her heart. Leo had never been bashful.

      They both spoke at once.

      “Your truck’s—”

      “Did you—”

      She said, “You first.”

      “I see your Blazer’s up and running.”

      “The Garage Center did a great job. Thank you for recommending them.”

      Kat returned with a fresh carafe of coffee. When she left again, he toyed tough, brown fingers along the mug’s handle. His nails were cut straight, his hands scar-pocked. A Band-Aid was wrapped around one forefinger.

      “Kat said you’re looking for a contractor.”

      “I am. The shop’s walkway and back steps need replacing.”

      “Likewise for the stone wall out front of the place.”

      Of course. A construction man would recognize all kinds of impairments even in the dark. “It can wait until spring. Can you install moon lights along the walkway?”

      “Sure. You want it done tomorrow?”

      He was teasing her. She glanced away. “I didn’t mean…” Warmth fanned over her skin the way a breeze shifts leaves.

      “I could fit you in every couple days, between other jobs.”

      He had mythical eyes. Charcoal auras around Dakota-blue. She smiled into them. “Thank you. I, uh, I assumed you were a trucker, not a contractor.”

      He sipped his coffee, watched her. “I haul. But I own other equipment as well.”

      “I see.” She had no idea what the other equipment might be, or what “I haul” meant. “Can you give me a ballpark estimate for the walk and steps?”

      He quoted a figure. She reserved her pleasure; her savings could handle the cost. Definitely a standard deviation between city and town. Here, expenses remained low-cost and agreeable to her budget. If she wanted a future in Misty River, she needed both feet on the ground for secure financial investment, which meant calculating her pennies, learning to be an employer instead of an employee. “Sounds reasonable,” she said. “You’re hired.”

      “I can patch the wall as well. For a minimal fee.”

      He’d do that? “Mr. Tucker—”

      “Seth.”

      “Seth. I don’t think that would be—” Fair? Proper? Compared to California landscapers, his price was a godsend. “That’s very generous of you.” Her cheeks warmed.

      “When do you need me?”

      Forever. She rolled her lips inward. “Monday?”

      “Monday’s fine.”

      The bandaged finger roved the mug’s rim. “How come you’re doing the hiring? Paige sick?”

      “She’s fine.” Breena reckoned her choices and went with instinct. She needed someone to understand, to recognize what she’d done and why. I need a friend. “I’ve bought into the shop.”

      His nod encouraged her. “Paige is thinking of retiring come January. She’ll continue as a silent partner. We’re keeping the information confidential for now.”

      Another nod. He sat back, set an arm along the bench. “You planning to stay, then?”

      “Maybe.” She studied the idle morning outside. “Probably.”

      “What’d you do in San Francisco?”

      A black crew cab with five young men pulled up to the curb. “I was a family therapist and a marriage counselor.” A half laugh. “Dumb, huh? I couldn’t see the problems in my own marriage till it was too late.”

      Everything about him stilled. “You’re a social worker?”

      “Psychologist.”

      “But you work with Social Services.”

      “If a patient is referred, yes.” She studied him. He’d gone from warm and congenial to cool and cautious. “You don’t like therapists, Mr. Tucker?”

      “No.”

      His response stung. Her profession shaped her. Someone, somewhere, had twisted his perception. “Perhaps you’d rather not fix our store.” She said it kindly. With empathy. Or maybe not.

      The arm left the bench. “I’ll do it. And I’ll leave my opinions at home.”

      As long as she kept her career and her thoughts hidden. She could do that. “I’m not here to counsel anyone, Mr. Tucker. Unless it’s my finances and your costs.” She offered a smile and shook inside. “This is my home now. I may never go back to Frisco. I don’t know if I could deal with…deal with…” Her throat hurt. He wouldn’t understand. How could he, when she who lived with the deceit, the betrayal, the agony, couldn’t make sense of it?

      His eyes were quiet. “The chance of seeing them again?”

      Around her heart, tightness eased. He understood. For the first time in months, someone—and a virtual stranger at that—someone grasped the bitterness fogging her corner. She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Most of all, that. I kept thinking if I ran into them…”

      Somewhere dishes clinked above the murmur of patron voices.

      “Your relationship,” he said, “a divorce?”

      “And a regular carousel ride.”

      He lifted his cup, didn’t drink. “On a feral beast.”

      “It was like eating live slugs on Fear Factor.”

      His cheek СКАЧАТЬ