The Obsession (17 page)

She ate in one of Jenny’s T-shirts and enjoyed herself more than she’d thought possible. Good food and good company, two things she rarely took the time for or had the inclination for, proved the perfect end to the day—even when she found herself cornered into playing Xbox.

“You’ve got game,” Xander commented after she’d trounced everyone at the LEGO Movie game—twice.

“Everything is awesome when you have a brother who’s still a video game maniac. And now that I remain undefeated”—she added a finger in the belly for Tyler—“I really have to go.”

“Play one more!”

“Practice,” she advised, “and I’ll take you on next time. But Tag and
I have to get home. Everything was great, Jenny, thanks for having me. I can take those frames with me if you want.”

“I really want.” In her easy way, Jenny stepped up and hugged Naomi. “Sunday dinner, open invitation. I mean it.”

“Thanks. And thanks, Kevin. See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll get the frames. Meet you out front with them,” Xander told her.

She hadn’t intended to stay so late. But the setting sun painted the sky in the west and the air had cooled enough that she could have used a sweater.

Still, she thought as she walked the dog to the car, she could get some work in, plan out her agenda for the week, and have time to read herself to sleep.

She opened the door to the back; the dog jumped agilely in. Then she sat on the back of the car, facing the water, and took pictures of the sunset over the inlet, the empty docks, the shimmering silence.

“Do you ever quit?” Xander asked as he carried the frames across the lawn.

“I get amazing sunrise shots from my place, but this little spit of water edges west, and that’s one champion sunset.”

“My place isn’t on the water, but I get some worthy sunsets through the trees. You might want to check it out.”

“I might.”

He propped the frames in the back, gave the dog a rub, and then managed to turn in a way that boxed her in.

“It’s still early.”

“That depends. Maddy was drooping.”

“Maddy’s four. Why don’t we go into Loo’s? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I had several glasses of wine.”

“Over about four hours. Walk a straight line.”

She laughed, shook her head. “I can walk a straight line, and since I want to continue to be able to, I’ll pass on another drink. You have terrific friends, Xander.”

“Seems like they’re your friends, too.”

“Jenny won’t take no.”

“Why say no?”

She shrugged, looked back to the sunset. Going to gold now, she thought. Soft, shimmering gold. “General rule.”

“You make it hard not to ask questions.”

“I appreciate that you don’t. I really have to go.”

He ran a hand down her arm, but stepped back. Didn’t kiss her, Naomi realized, because she expected it.

He had game, too.

But he walked around, opened the door for her. “Do you like eggplant parm?”

“I do.”

“Come to my place Wednesday for dinner. We’ll have eggplant parm.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re going to make eggplant parmesan?”

“Hell no. I’ll get takeout from Rinaldo’s. They make good eggplant parm.”

“Two social outings inside one week? I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“Try. Bring the dog.”

She blew out a breath as Tag shoved his face out her door and pushed his muzzle into Xander’s big, callused hand.

“Just dinner.”

“I can take no.”

“You’re going to have to. What time?”

“About seven works best. I’m over the garage. You come around back and take the stairs up.”

“All right. Wednesday. Probably.”

Still letting the dog nuzzle his hand, Xander grinned. “You like keeping the door cracked open.”

“Always. Good night.”

Why was that? he wondered when she drove away. What was it she needed to be ready to run from?

Yeah, she made it hard not to ask questions.

C
reatively, her week sucked. She had to move her workstation from the bedroom into one of the guest rooms—at least she could try it out as her potential studio—as they wanted to demo her bathroom. And since they were doing that, Kevin opted to have them demo all but one of the other baths on the bedroom floor.

The noise, even with earbuds in and music blaring, was horrendous.

She considered moving downstairs, but the painters held court in the living room, with the library next on the slate. She’d end up playing musical workstations, so she tried her best to stick it out.

By midweek she gave up and drove into the national forest with the intent of hiking with camera and dog.

Fresh air, a dry, sunny day, and lovely green-tinged light whipped annoyance away. She wished she’d brought her laptop, as she’d have found a handy stump, sat right down, and done her updates in the serenity of the forest.

She walked—the leash fixed to her belt, as Tag tolerated it now—through a stand of trees that looked as if they’d stood since time began. Towering columns with branches lifted to catch the sea of wind and send dapples and rays of filtered sun to the forest floor.

Wildflowers danced there through fans of young ferns, around moss-carpeted rocks. Snow-white trillium like fairy brides, and calypso orchids their colorful slippers.

She thought about taking a few days, camping out. How would the dog deal with that, now that she had a dog to consider? Two or three days, on her own again, away from the noise she’d brought on herself.

Maybe.

No question Tag enjoyed the forest, puffing himself up by threatening squirrels or prancing along beside her. He even sat patiently enough when she paused to take pictures, no matter how long she took.

“It could be fun. Just you and me, and all this.”

As they meandered she began to think getting a dog—or being got by one—had been a fine idea after all.

A couple of hikers came her way, leading a handsome little beagle. Before she could give them the fellow-hiker nod of greeting, Tag let out a yip of terror and literally leaped into her arms. And knocked her flat.

The hikers—a couple of guys up from Portland for a few days—rushed to her aid. But the friendly and harmless beagle only had Tag squirming on top of her as if he could worm his way straight through and under her where it would be safe.

Since her camera was cushioned between her body and the dog’s, no damage done. But she’d seen stars—and felt their sharp little points in her ass.

“You’re a disgrace,” she told the dog as she walked stiffly back to the car. “Definitely no camping for you. A teacup poodle might come along and try to rip you to pieces.”

Tag crawled into the back, hung his head, and said nothing.

Since her butt ached, she tried the seat warmer on low and found that it soothed her considerably on the drive back. And with relief she saw only Kevin’s truck in front of the house.

He walked out as she gingerly eased out of the car.

“Hey! I just left you a note. We made some good progress today. How was the hike?”

She watched Tag rush over to greet Molly like a long-lost friend.

“He’s fine with her.”

“Sure.”

“If there’s a cat or a Pom or Pekinese, whatever, in the vet, he shakes like he’s walking into the seventh circle of hell. He runs at squirrels, or barks at them, but we ran into a couple of guys with a damn beagle on the trail, and he freaked. Jumped on me, knocked me flat.”

“You okay?”

Automatically she rubbed her sore ass. “It rang my bell, I’ll tell you that, and he’s all but clawing me open to climb inside, away from the terrifying beagle who licked at my limp hand in sympathy.”

To her shock, Kevin stepped straight up and started running his hands over her head. “You’ve got a little bump. I can run you to the ER.”

“It’s just bumps and bruises. And extreme pissed-off.”

He cupped her chin, looked hard into her eyes, and did something she thought no one could at that moment. He made her smile.

“Bumps and bruises only, Dr. Banner.”

“Headache?”

“No. Ass ache.”

“Ice bag, warm bath, a couple of Motrin. That’ll be two hundred dollars.”

“Put it on my account, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“A good dinner you don’t have to cook over at Xander’s should polish it off.”

“I . . . It’s Wednesday.”

“All day, half the night. You take it easy,” he added, giving her a gentle poke. “And I know it looks torn up in there, but it’s good progress. Tell Xander I’ll see him tomorrow at Loo’s.”

“Right.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. She started in as Kevin got into his truck.

She had a perfect excuse—
reason
, she corrected—to cancel dinner at Xander’s. Sore, cranky, out of sorts—all for good
reason
, she thought, and headed straight back for that ice pack.

Then she turned straight around and walked back to stand and stare at the living room.

The painting wasn’t finished—as the ladders and drop cloths attested—and she could see where touch-up was needed.

But oh, it was going to be just lovely.

She’d gone back and forth, around and around on color, and had worried the soft taupe would come off as dull and boring.

It didn’t.

Settled, she thought. For some reason the tone said
settled
to her.

“I keep thinking I’ve made a mistake with this place.” Sighing, she laid her hand on Tag’s head as he leaned against her leg. “Then I see the next step or stage, and know I haven’t.”

She looked down, smiled. Then narrowed her eyes. “I’m mad at you,” she reminded them both, and went back for the ice bag.

She argued with herself as she soaked her aching butt in the ugly baby blue tub in the single bathroom left to her upstairs. She could call off dinner without a qualm. She’d had an incident.

But calling it off tonight really equaled postponing.

Better to do it—get it done—and work on a way to shift whatever this was with Xander into the kind of friendship she had with Kevin.

The kind where being touched made her smile instead of tense.

And that, she admitted, would never happen.

Too much heat.

She got out of the tub, pleased the ache had lessened—and displeased to see she had a palm-sized bruise on her posterior.

She opted for leggings—softer on the ass—and a pale gray hooded sweater. She considered skipping makeup altogether but deemed it too obvious, so she kept a very light hand with it.

At quarter to seven she started out—though she felt Tag didn’t deserve a second outing. Then she walked back in and grabbed a bottle of wine.

It wasn’t a strawberry torte, but she’d been raised too well to go empty- handed.

She made the drive easily, then let the dog out but gave him the cold shoulder. As instructed, she took the steps up and rapped a knuckle on the door.

“Yeah, it’s open! Come on in.”

Naomi pushed the door open to see Xander in the jut that formed a kitchen, opening a bottle of wine.

Jeans, a chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, at least a day’s worth of scruff on that toughly handsome face.

She’d break down, she thought, and ask him to pose for her. “I could have been a trained assassin with her vicious hellhound.”

“A locked door wouldn’t stop a trained assassin or her vicious hellhound.”

He had a point. Tag strolled right in and wagged his way over to Xander.

And Naomi stared, with wonder and delight, at the living room wall of books. “Wow, the rumors of book lover are true. That’s quite a collection.”

“Part of it.”

“Part? You’re a serious man, Xander.”

“About books, anyway.”

She glanced around. “Very efficient space, and that is one of the best uses of a wall I’ve ever seen. Color, texture, dimension.”

“Not to mention words.”

He walked over, offered her a glass of wine, took the bottle from her.

“Yeah, words. I like to read as much as the next guy—unless you’re the next guy.”

“That’s the plan.”

She laughed, waving him off as she walked up and down the wall. “But this is art. You’re smart enough to know your furniture is absolute crap. You don’t care about that. You’ve arranged your space for efficiency and highlighted a passion. And by highlighting it, created art. I want pictures of this.”

“Sure, go ahead. I don’t care.”

“Not now, not with my phone. I mean serious pictures. I want to come back with my camera. And with big daddy Hasselblad.”

“Whose daddy is he?”

She laughed, but continued to study the wall of books. “Film camera. Medium format. I could do a nice panorama, too, and—”

“Bring your camera when you want. But why don’t we sit outside and have this wine?”

“You’re having wine?”

“It’s not so bad now and again. You smell great.”

He cupped her chin, but not like Kevin had, and took her mouth.

No, she thought, no, not like Kevin. Not in the least.

“Bath salts—it was medicinal.”

“Yeah, I heard. Small-dog fear.”

“What?”

He took her hand, tugged her into the bedroom, felt her resist. “I’ve got a deck through the door in here.”

And more books, she noted. A big-screen TV, crap furniture, and more books.

He opened the door to the small square of deck with a half-rusted table and a couple of folding chairs. “I can get you a pillow to sit on.”

“You talked to Kevin.”

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, which I’d planned to do anyway.”

“I’m fine.” She sat, carefully. “Mostly. But to the issue: There’s no such thing as small-dog fear.”

“Microcynophobia.”

On a laugh, she sampled the wine. “You’re making that up.”

“Cynophobia’s fear of dogs—add the micro. You can look it up.”

Though she had her doubts, considering his collection of books, she didn’t argue the term. “Why would he—and he’s eighty-five pounds now, a lot of it muscle, I can attest—have microcynophobia?”

“Can’t say. Maybe he was traumatized at an early age by a Chihuahua.”

He reached behind her head, gently tested. “Ow.”

“That’s what I said once I got my breath back. My ass hit harder than my head.”

“Want me to check it out for you?”

“I’ve taken care of that, thanks.” She studied his view. “You can sit here and watch the ball game.”

“And do, if I’m too lazy to walk over.”

“Little League?”

“T-ball, Little League, Pony League, and some sponsored adult leagues. Keaton’s sponsored the Whales—currently battling their way out of the basement.”

“Do you play?”

“Not much anymore. Not a lot of time for it. You?”

“No, I never did.”

“What kind of feminist are you?”

“The non-sport-playing type. My brother played for a while, but basketball was his deal.”

“Is that right?”

“He played for Harvard.”

“Huh. Crimson. What position?”

“Point guard. I noticed you have a blacktop court and hoop out back.”

“Shooting hoops clears the brain. Used to play, back in high school. Mostly pickup games now.”

“What position?”

“Same as your brother. We’ll have to go one-on-one if he ever gets out here.”

“He will.” She’d have her family here, she thought, including her grandparents so they could see what they’d helped her have. Maybe by the fall, she’d have her family out.

“Are you any good, because, I can attest, he is.”

“I hold my own.”

She suspected he did, in many ways.

And he was right about the sunlight through the trees as it dropped toward the horizon.

“It seems like a good spot for a garage. Quick and easy access to the road, close to town, and a quick zip to 101. Is that why you picked it?”

“The place was here already. It used to be Hobart’s. He was looking to sell—getting up in age, and his wife took sick. We came to an agreement, and they moved to Walla Walla. Their daughter lives there.”

“Was it having your own business, or mechanics?”

“It was both. Is. I like cars. If I wanted a car—and I did—I had to learn how to keep it running. I liked learning how to keep things running. I didn’t mind working for Hobart—he was fair. But I like working for myself better. You must feel the same.”

True enough, she thought—but she preferred being by herself as much as working for herself.

Still . . .

“I worked as a photographer’s assistant for about fourteen months after college. I thought of it like an apprenticeship. He was not fair, by any measure. Arrogant, downright mean, demanding, and prone to toddler-scale tantrums. He was, and is, also brilliant.”

“Sometimes the brilliant think they’re entitled to tantrums.”

“Unfortunately true, but I was raised by a chef—a brilliant one—and brains and talent weren’t considered excuses for arrogance, for pettiness, but gifts.”

“No throwing spatulas or frying pans?”

The idea made her smile. “Not in Harry’s kitchen—home or restaurant. In any case, I’d planned on two years with Julian—the photographer—but fourteen months was all I could take. One of the happiest days of my life was punching him in the face and walking off the shoot.”

He glanced at her hand—slender, fine-boned. “That’s an interesting way to give your two weeks’ notice.”

“Two weeks’ notice, my ass.”

She shifted toward him—he wondered if she knew she rubbed her foot on Tag’s back, keeping the dog in quiet bliss. “Major shoot. Advertising—shampoo.”

“Shampoo is a major shoot?”

“Let me tell you, friend, there’s big money in ad photography. The model has a yard of glorious flame-red hair—she’s a joy to shoot. This guy, he’s a perfectionist, and I’ve got no problem with that. He’s also a vicious little dick. I’m used to the verbal abuse, at this point. The blame-casting, the castigating, even the throwing of objects. All of which were present during this particular shoot. He actually had the makeup artist
in tears at one point. Then he claimed I handed him the camera with the wrong lens, I’d had enough, and pointed out I’d given him what he’d asked for. He slapped me.”