The Obsession (14 page)

“Why?” Naomi asked.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

“Delivering your bed.”

“I didn’t order a bed.”

“Shoot. All this way and we forgot. No, ma’am, you didn’t order it. It’s a gift, sent by Seth Carson and Harry Dobbs. We’re to get it here, put it where you want it, and set it up. They paid for the full white-glove delivery.”

“When?”

“A little more than fifty-five hours and twenty-six minutes ago, I guess you could say.” He grinned again. “There’s a couple packages in the back, too. Wrapped. It’s a hell of a bed, ma’am.”

The one called Chuck handed her a clipboard with the order sheet. She recognized the name of the furniture store her uncles patronized.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“Want some help with it?” Xander asked.

The driver gave his shoulders a roll, and Xander a look of pure gratitude. “It’s one big mama, so we could use it.”

As it was heavily wrapped for shipping, Naomi couldn’t say if it was a hell of a bed, except in size. She carted the packages, one at a time, as the men began the more laborious effort of getting the bed inside and up the stairs.

Since the dog stayed with the men, she got a box cutter and opened the first box. Four king-size pillows—down. In the second, more pillows,
a gorgeously simple duvet several perfect shades deeper blue than her walls, with matching shams. In the third, two sets of lovely white-on-white Egyptian cotton sheets, and the handwritten note.

Our girl needs a bed, and one that gives her sweet dreams. We knew it was for you the minute we saw it. We love you, Seth and Harry.

“My men,” she said with a sigh, and carted the first box upstairs.

Since her bedroom was currently chaos and full of other men, and dog, she went back down, got soft drinks out of the fridge, and took them back up.

“’Preciate it. We’ll haul all the wrapping and padding away with it. We’ve got specific instructions. It’s going to take a while to get it put together.”

“Okay.”

“You want it where you got the mattresses, right?”

“I . . . Yes. That’s fine. I need to make a call.”

She left them to it, called home, and spent the next twenty minutes with Seth as Harry was at the restaurant. His pleasure zipped over every mile.

She didn’t tell him she’d narrowed down her choices and styles of bed, had even planned a day trip to Seattle to look some over. Whatever they’d bought her would be treasured just for that.

When she went back into the bedroom she stopped short. They had her mattresses on the frame, had the headboard and footboard on—or heading that way.

“Oh my God.”

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

She looked at the driver—she didn’t know his name—then back at the bed. “It’s gorgeous. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect.”

“Wait till we get the posts up.”

Mahogany, she thought, with satinwood crossbanding. Chippendale-style—she hadn’t been raised by Seth and Harry for nothing. The wood
tones, rich and lovely, set off the soft colors of the walls. Fretwork legs, and posts high and turned.

If a woman didn’t have sweet dreams in a bed like that, she needed therapy.

“You okay, ma’am?”

She managed to nod. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Josh. Josh and Chuck.”

“Josh. I’m fine. You were right. It’s a hell of a bed.”

When they were done, she tipped them generously—the least she could do—and gave them more soft drinks for the road.

When they left, she stood staring at the bed, at the way the early-evening light gleamed on the wood, on the details.

“Some uncles you’ve got,” Xander commented.

“Best ever.”

“Need to cry it out?”

She shook her head, pressed fingers to her eyes. “No. I hate to cry. So useless. I talked to them Sunday. They went right out and found this, then had it shipped all the way out here this way—along with sheets and pillows and bedding. And it’s just right, just exactly right. For me, for the room, for the house.”

She pushed the threat of tears away. “I’m not going to cry. I’m going to cook. I still don’t have dishes or a table. But you can eat what I fix on paper plates outside on the deck. That’s your tip for helping set up the bed.”

“I’ll take it. What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m having wine. I’m feeling sentimental and a little homesick.”

“Got beer?”

“Pretty sure.”

“If you do, I’ll go for that.”

“Okay.” She started out, glanced back at him. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

“Yet.” His smile was easy. And dangerous. “Beer and a dinner’s a start.”

A finish,
she thought as the dog trooped down with them.

—

H
e watched her cook. He’d never seen anybody cook by grabbing things, throwing this thing in a pan, that thing in a skillet. Chopping this up, stirring that in.

The dog watched her, too, and wasn’t subtle about licking his muzzle when the scents started rising.

“What are you making there?”

“We’ll call it Pasta on the Fly.”

She laid olives—fat ones—on a cutting board, smacked them with a flat of the knife she’d been wielding, and popped out the pits. Something else he’d never seen anyone do.

“Don’t those just come in jars without pits?”

“These are Kalamata olives, friend, and they’re worth the extra step. Anything I put in here you don’t like, you eat around.”

“I’m not fussy.”

“Good thing.”

Now she took a hunk of cheese and worked it to a blur over a grater. He’d have asked why she didn’t buy it already grated but figured he knew the answer.

She tossed little tomatoes in the pan, added some sort of herbs, and stirred—even while muttering how she wished the local produce ran to fresh basil.

“I need to get good cookware before Harry sends me that, too.”

“What’s wrong with what you’ve got? Looks like it’s working fine to me.”

“Hardware store special. He’d be appalled. I’m a little appalled myself, actually. And I definitely need good knives. Something to add to the list.”

He liked watching her—quick, sure movement. Liked listening to her—a voice that held just the right amount of smoke.

“What else is on the list?”

“Painting the guest rooms I have earmarked for my brother and for my uncles. The one for my grandparents. After that, I think I’ll retire my roller and pan. I don’t like painting.”

“Have the painters paint.”

“I need to buy decent cookware and knives—I can paint two more rooms in this ridiculously big house. And now I have to find furniture worthy of that bed, and so on.”

She drained the pasta—the little tube sort—then added it to the skillet, along with the olives, the cheese. Tossed it all around.

“Plates are in that cupboard there, such as they are, as are paper napkins and a box of plastic forks.”

“Got it.”

She tossed the stuff in the skillet a couple more times, then served it up on the paper plates and added wedges of Italian bread that she’d slathered with butter, sprinkled with herbs, and toasted.

“That looks amazing.”

“It would look better on the plates I ordered, but it’s good enough.” She handed him a plate, took one for herself, and then led the way out. Then she handed him her plate. “Hold this while I feed the dog.”

The dog looked at the kibble she dumped in his bowl, then back at Xander with the two aromatic plates of pasta. His tail drooped, and Xander swore the dog sighed in disappointment.

She sat, eyeing the dog, who eyed her. “This is mine, that’s yours. That’s how it goes.”

“Hard-ass.”

“Maybe.”

Xander sat down and sampled what she’d thrown together magically and a little maniacally in about twenty minutes.

“This is really good. Seriously good.”

“It’s not bad. It’d be better with fresh herbs. I guess I’ll have to plant some.”

It didn’t feel as odd as she’d expected, to sit there, eating pasta with him while the dog—who’d polished off his own bowl—watched them mournfully. Maybe it was the view—that soft hand of dusk gliding pale and purple over water and the green—maybe it was the wine. Either way, she needed to set the line.

“Do you want to know why I’m not going to sleep with you?”

“Yet,” he added. “Is there a list?”

“We can call it that. You live here, and right now, so do I.”

“Right now? You’ve got pots and pans for the right now, but have better ones on your list. It seems to me you’re looking at the down-the-road.”

“Maybe. I’ve never lived in any one place for more than a few months since I left New York. I don’t know if this will stick. Maybe,” she said again, “because it feels right—right now. But in any case, you live here and you’re friends with Kevin and Jenny—long-term, serious friends. We start something—and I’m also not looking to start something—and it gets messed up, your friend and my contractor’s in the middle of it.”

“That’s weak,” Xander said, and went back to the pasta.

“Not from where I’m sitting, in the heart of a construction zone. Plus you’re the only local garage and mechanic, and I might need a mechanic.”

Thoughtfully, he crunched into the bread. “Probably get the work done faster if we’re having sex.”

She laughed, shook her head. “Not if we stop having it, and you’re pissed at me. There’s work, of which I have to do a lot to pay for this house, and everything that goes into it. I don’t have time for sex.”

“There’s always time for sex. Next time, I’ll bring pizza and we can have sex in the time you spent making dinner.”

And thoughtfully, Naomi ate pasta. “That doesn’t speak well of your . . . stamina.”

“Just trying to work on your schedule.”

“Considerate, but unnecessary as dinner tonight is a one-off. I don’t know you.”

“That’s the only thing you’ve said so far that makes sense. But we can go back up your list and I can remind you I’m friends—serious, long-term—with Kev and Jenny. They’d warn you if I was a psychopath.”

She kept her eye on the view. “People don’t always know people close to them the way they think they do.”

There was a story, Xander thought. He could hear it murmuring under her words. Instead of pressing on that, he tried something else.

He leaned over and took her face in his hand. Her mouth with his. Strong and hot and edging onto the fierce.

He knew when a woman wanted—and she did. He knew it by the way her mouth responded, heard it in her throaty hum, felt it in the quick, sexy quiver.

Another woman? All this heat, the mesh of needs would lead them straight up and into that excellent new bed.

But she drew back. Still, she kept her eyes, that deep, fascinating green, on his.

“You make an excellent point,” she said. “And I can’t argue it, but . . .” She looked directly into his eyes. “Like I told the dog, that’s how it goes.”

“Tonight.”

For the moment he contented himself with the food, the view, the mysteries of the woman beside him. Somebody handed him a puzzle, he thought, he just had to solve it. He’d figure her out, sooner or later.

S
he went back to work. Since work ranked high on her list of reasons not to sleep with Xander, she had to make her own point.

When she went out to shoot in the morning, the dog tagged along. For a few days, if she headed into woods or along shorelines, she rigged the leash to her belt. They both disliked the solution intensely.

After those few days, she realized the dog wasn’t going anywhere and usually left him off the leash. He explored nearby, chased squirrels, barked at birds, sniffed at deer tracks—and scat—while she composed studies of wildflowers, trees, long channels of water in sunlight and in shadow.

And she ended up with an entire series of dog shots.

He snoozed by the fireplace—gas logs installed and fabulous for cool, gloomy days—while she worked at her computer. Now and again, he’d go down, hang with the crew or with Molly if she’d come to visit, but he always came back in, gave her a long look as if checking if she’d finished. If she hadn’t, he curled up again, usually with something in his mouth.

Sometimes the something was a stray work glove, and once it was a hammer.

Steady, focused work paid off. She received a satisfying check from the gallery in New York, and watched her PayPal account blossom.

People, it seemed, really liked pictures of dogs.

Jenny stopped by, as promised, and took the tour. When they got to the master suite, Jenny sighed.

“I don’t know which is more impressive, the view or the bed.”

“I like having the view from the bed.”

“It must be wonderful, waking up to that every morning. Xander said your uncles shipped the bed all the way across the country.”

“They did. And if I don’t find some pieces to go in here, they’ll start finding them, and shipping them.”

“Come shopping with me!” Bouncing on her toes, Jenny slapped her hands together. “Let’s go.”

“What? Now?”

“It’s my day off, kids in school. I’ve got . . .” She pulled out her phone to check the time. “Five hours before I have to pick up Maddy, then Ty. I know it’s a workday for you, but you have to have more furniture, and I know a couple of places—especially if you’re not afraid of refinishing or having something refinished—that should have pieces that will really suit that bed.”

“I really . . .” She thought of the income she’d just banked, turned the automatic refusal on its ear. “Should do that.”

“Yes! Maybe we can find your dishes.”

“I ordered them. Wait. I’ll show you.”

They both studied her computer screen as she brought them up. “They’re recycled glass, which appealed, and I went with some white serving pieces for the bump. I think—”

“They’re wonderful. Perfect. Oh, they’re going to look fabulous in that kitchen. And on the table once you get a table.”

“The table can wait awhile. Not planning any dinner parties. But I do need stools. Stools, and a dresser. It’d be nice to put my clothes in drawers rather than cardboard boxes.”

“Let’s go bag one.”

The dog came. Naomi had no intention of taking him, but he followed them out, hopped right in her car, then crawled into the back to sit, tongue hanging out in anticipation.

“He’s so sweet. A dog’s a good thing to have living out here alone, and a sweet dog’s a good thing anywhere. Kevin says he and Molly get along fine. What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Oh, Naomi, you have to name him.”

“His owners could still—”

“How long since you brought him home?”

“We’re into week three.” Naomi sighed, rubbed the back of her neck. “He’s going in for neutering tomorrow. If you’re looking for a dog . . .”

“We have one, thanks. We are thinking of a puppy, a friend for Molly. And we want the kids to have the experience. Besides, Naomi. That’s your dog.”

Naomi looked in the rearview mirror, and the dog unquestionably smiled at her.

“He’s just living here for now.”

“Sure he is.”

Naomi narrowed her eyes, put on her sunglasses. “Which way?”

“Just head toward town, and I’ll guide you from there.”

She couldn’t think of the last time she’d shopped with a friend—or allowed herself a friend. For the most part she didn’t go shopping so much as go, hunt up what she needed, buy it, and take it home. Which baffled and disappointed her uncles.

Plus, she could hunt up and buy almost everything she needed online.

But since she was out and about, she’d stop by the hardware and buy the paint for Mason’s room—a warm mossy green—on the way back.

And she liked Jenny. She decided it was impossible not to like Jenny, who was cheerful and funny and didn’t ask probing questions.

She decided she really liked Jenny when her new friend directed her to a huge barn a few miles inland.

“I should’ve brought my camera.”

But she opened the compartment between the seats and took out a case.

“What’s that?”

“Lenses and filters for my camera phone.”

“Really? I didn’t know there were such things.”

“Works well in a pinch. And that barn—the texture of the wood, the true barn red with the white trim, that old apple tree, the light. It’s good.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s in the barn?”

“Absolutely. This won’t take long.”

She intended to leave the dog in the car. He had other ideas, so against her better judgment, Naomi pulled out the spare leash she’d stowed in the glove compartment.

“If you go, you wear this.”

He tried to stare her down. Failed.

“I’ll hold on to him while you take pictures.”

“Thanks. He hates the leash.”

“Wouldn’t you? It’s all right, sweetheart. We’ll think of it as you leading me.”

Perversely, the dog behaved perfectly for Jenny, walked happily beside her, sniffed his way to an appealing spot to lift his leg while Naomi composed shots, added lenses, adjusted filters.

She’d come back with her equipment, she promised herself. She’d love a gloomy day, that barn under gloomy skies.

She found more shots inside. The place went on forever, packed with everything under sun or gloom.

Glassware, tinware, collectibles, mirrors, chairs, desks.

In fact, she paused in front of one of the desks. She’d decided to go with new for a permanent desk—something that looked right with the bed, but had all the modern touches. Keyboard drawer, plugs, file drawers.

But.

It was nearly black from years—probably decades—of varnish, and the drawers stuck. It needed new hardware. It wasn’t at all what she’d decided on.

And it was perfect.

“The shape’s terrific,” Jenny said beside her. “Just enough curve at the corners. Plenty of drawers. It needs work.” Lips pursed, Jenny checked the tag. “And some bargaining.”

“It’s solid, sturdy. Mahogany. It needs to be stripped down to the original finish. It’s not what I was going for. And I really love it.”

“Don’t say you love it to Cecil—his place. Look doubtful when you ask him about it. You need a good chair—a new one—ergonomic, lumbar support. Kevin says you spend a lot of time at your desk.”

“Kevin’s right. The computer’s the darkroom today. Though I want to put an actual darkroom in. I still get the urge to shoot film sometimes. Is that a mermaid floor lamp?”

“It appears to be.”

“A bronze mermaid floor lamp.” Struck, she pulled out her phone again. “I need that for my portfolio.”

“No-name and I are going to wander.”

“I’ll catch up.”

She fell for the mermaid floor lamp, which she told herself was stupid. She wasn’t looking for a floor lamp, much less a bronze mermaid with sly eyes and sleek breasts. But she wanted it.

“Don’t tell Cecil,” she reminded herself, and tried to find Jenny and the dog in the maze of fascinating things.

Jenny found her. “Don’t hate me.”

“Does anybody?”

“Kevin’s old high school girlfriend.”

“Because she’s a slut.”

Jenny beamed. “I didn’t realize you knew Candy.”

“Candy? Definitely a slut. A pink-wearing slut.”

“Actually, I have a cousin named Candy, and she’s not. She’s wonderful. But to circle back, don’t hate me, but I think I found the dresser.”

“Why would I hate you for that?”

“It’s expensive, but I really think it’s perfect, and maybe we can team up and drive the price down, especially if you get the desk, too.”

“And the mermaid lamp.”

“Really?” Jenny threw back her head and laughed. “I love it. I figured you’d see it as a novelty, just for photos, but I think it’d be fabulous in your house.”

“So do I. Let’s see this dresser. If I hate you, you have to walk home.”

There were advantages, Naomi discovered, to shopping with a friend—a friend with a sharp, creative, and discerning eye. It was more gentleman’s chest than dresser—which really hit a note for her. Not female and fussy, but gorgeous and dignified without the stuffiness. In good condition, which surprised her, the finish glowing with that lovely reddish gold undertone. She’d change the hardware—get rid of the ornate brass handles—and one of the drawer bottoms had a long diagonal crack, but that was it.

The price made her hiss and shudder.

“We’re going to talk him down. You wait and see.” Jenny gave Naomi a bolstering pat.

Cecil might have been a scrawny man in bib overalls, a straw hat, with a grizzled beard—and he wouldn’t see eighty again—but he had a gimlet eye and a hard line.

But so, Naomi discovered, did the sweet and cheerful Jenny.

She poked her oar in a time or two, just to say she did, but it was primarily Jenny who did the bargaining and, with tenacity and guile, shaved a full twenty percent off the dresser where Naomi had hoped for ten.

The three of them managed to load the dresser in the 4Runner—Cecil was old, but he proved ox-strong.

“Kevin’s going to pick up the other pieces,” Jenny told Cecil.

“He is?” Naomi wondered.

“Sure. He’ll get them after work or in the morning. And remember, Cecil, Naomi has that big house to furnish so we’ll be back. And expect good prices.”

The dog sprawled out content enough beside the dresser, and Jenny settled in the passenger seat.

“That was fun.”

“I’m dazzled by your Arabian marketplace skills. Thank you, really. I
can come back and get the other pieces. Kevin doesn’t have to come all the way out here.”

“It’s fine. Plus, if you hire me to refinish that desk, he’ll just bring that home to my little workshop.”

“You have a workshop?”

“I refinish and reimagine furniture and decorative pieces on the side. I didn’t want to say anything, make you feel obligated or awkward. But boy, I want to do that desk. I’m good, I promise. I’ll make it gorgeous.”

“I bet you will.” And she could cross off the hours it would take her to do it. “You’re hired.”

“Really? Yay! If you came over for dinner Sunday—Kevin said not to bother you, but I’ve been dying to have you to dinner—you could see the workshop. I’ve got a bench I’m working on that’s perfect for the deck outside your bedroom. An old wire garden bench with a big, curved back. And you can bring the dog. The kids would love him.”

Naomi started to make an excuse—knee-jerk. But curiosity won. “I’d love to see your workshop. You don’t have to feed me.”

“Come to dinner. We eat a little early most Sundays. Come by anytime after four. Time to see my shop, for the kids to play with the dogs.”

“I’ll be there. I’ll bring dessert.”

—

B
right and early she took a long-sleeved T-shirt and leggings out of boxes. She refused to use the dresser until she had Kevin fix the drawer and she’d replaced the hardware.

When she walked casually out to the car, the dog followed, jumped right in, gave her that smug-dog grin.

He didn’t know what he was in for.

But he got at least part of the picture when she pulled into the parking lot at the vet’s.

He quivered, shook, tried to glue his nicely healed paws to the floorboards.

“This time you’ve got a reason, but you don’t know that. Come on,
grow a spine.” She pulled, hauled, bribed—with a tennis ball, as food was off the table until after the surgery.

“You won’t miss them,” she told him, then shook her head. “How do I know? I’d miss pretty much anything somebody snipped off me. But it has to be, okay? It’s just how it goes.”

She got him through the waiting room—empty, as she’d arranged to be the first surgery or appointment of any kind of the day.

“Hey, boy.” Alice greeted him with a good rub, relaxed him so he leaned on her. “We’ll take him from here. The procedure’s routine—sometimes a little tougher on a grown dog, but still routine. We’ll keep him a few hours after, to make sure everything’s good.”

“Okay. I’ll come get him when you call.” She gave the dog a pat on the head. “Good luck.”

When she turned to go he howled—long and mournful, as he’d done a few times when he heard a siren. She glanced back, saw his blue eyes full of sorrow and fear.

“Shit. Just shit.”

“Just let him know you’re coming back,” Alice advised. “You’re his alpha.”

“Shit,” she said again, and walked back to crouch in front of the dog. “I’m coming back to get you, okay?” She took his head in her hands, felt herself battered with the love his gaze sent out. “Okay, all right. I’m coming back to get you, take you home. You just have to do this first. I’ll go—hell—I’ll go buy you some good dog-sans-balls presents.”

The dog licked her cheek, laid his head on her shoulder.

“He’d hug you if he could,” Alice commented.

Sunk, Naomi hugged him instead. “I’ll be back.”

He whined when she rose, cried when she started out.

“He’ll be fine,” Alice called after her.

And the heart Naomi hadn’t wanted to give away broke a little when she heard the dog howl.

She bought him a little stuffed cat, a ball that squeaked—telling herself she’d regret both purchases. She added a sturdy tug rope, a dog brush.

She made herself go home, made herself work. And when she couldn’t concentrate for more than ten minutes, she put on her paint clothes. She didn’t have to be creative to paint a room.

While she primed the walls, she imagined furnishing it. Maybe a sleigh bed, maybe dark gray. Mason would like it when he came to visit her. Or maybe old and iron—gray again. Gray would work with the green tones she’d paint in here.