Page 28 of The Woman By the Lake

“I own a contracting business. We do mostly renos and refurbs all through central Washington,” he shared. “So I’m journeyman electrician, plumber, welder and a licensed contractor.”

She kept staring.

He pulled out the cork.

“That seems a lot of education for a man your age,” she remarked.

He unscrewed the cork, set it and the wine key on the counter, leaned into a hand and raised his brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, thirty-three, thirty-four.”

He chuckled. “Now you’re just being nice.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

Well, shit.

“I’m thirty-eight.”

Her astonishment was unhidden.

But she said, “That’s still young for that amount of training. It’s my understanding it takes years for each of those trades.”

“It does,” he confirmed. “And it helps that I started early, seeing as I skipped third and sixth grades. With my dad being my dad, it wasn’t easy entering high school at twelve. But even without my dad, it wouldn’t have been easy.”

“Wow,” she said quietly. “Not easy, but it’s impressive.”

He wasn’t so sure about that.

“It’s why I’m called Doc,” he told her. “My teachers started to talk to Mom about moving me up in second grade. She said I had to be a genius and began calling me that as a joke. It stuck, and everyone started calling me that. Even my teachers. The name I was born with was Jonathan Andrew Riggs, Jr. But my dad was such a dick, when I was twenty-four, I went in front of a judge and changed it to Andrew Doc Riggs, and obviously dropped the junior. Andrew was my granddad’s name. Mom’s dad. He was the shit. The judge knew my dad. Didn’t ask a single question. Slammed down his gavel, though I figure he didn’t need to do that, he just did it for the fun of it, also since he knew when my dad found out I’d changed my name he’d pitch a fit, and he granted the change. Dad was pissed as all hell. It was a brilliant ‘fuck you’ I was glad I could deliver before he went up in a ball of flame.”

Her lips tipped up and her eyes lit, and he liked both.

“Sure way to piss me off,” he carried on, probably due to that light in her eyes and curl in her lips, “is call me John. Dad went by that, so did I when I was younger.”

“So now it’s Doc,” she noted.

“That or Riggs, whichever works for you.”

She nodded, ducked her head in a shy way, and turned to the stove where she dumped an entire box of spaghetti in boiling water.

She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the long lengths of pasta, saying to the pot, “And you know who I am.”

“Yeah, Nadia,” he said gently. “Went into town today, heard word. I know that sucks, but in a twisted way, you should be glad. Means I’m gonna stop being a dick to you.”

Her ponytail had fallen down to hide part of her profile, so she peeked around it to look at him and give him a tentative smile.

And damn.

He liked that too.

She pulled it together, put the wooden spoon down, picked up another one and started to stir the sauce, commenting, “You do apologies really well.”

Now he was uncomfortable.

So much so, he had to clear his throat before he said, “It’s not the same, but there are similarities to our stories, and misery loves company.”

She turned fully to him and said outright, “Your openness means a lot, Riggs.”

---