Page 19 of Walking the Edge

The cards and photographs stuck to her refrigerator had fallen to the floor. She squatted to collect them, nearly toppling in her efforts to put distance between them when Mitch crouched to help. How long did he plan to hang around, anyway? She eyed his agile fingers picking up a magnet. “Don’t you have someplace else to be?”

“You’re the one who was rushing to an appointment, not me.”

She ignored him to kneel in front of the stove where a couple of photographs had slipped.

“I’ll get those.” With his much longer fingers, Mitch made short work of the task.

She rubbed off the dust before reattaching them to the refrigerator. “This was taken right before Les got his hearing aids. It’s one of my favorites.” She tapped the sepia-tinged photo of her and her mother and brother on the beach and took a magnet from Mitch to position another of her and her brother standing next to a horse. “This one too.”

Mitch crossed his arms and studied the photos much longer than warranted. His features softened, if that were possible, and something a million miles away captured his gaze. “I don’t have any photos of my family.”

He sounded almost—wounded? That had to be her imagination. For some reason, she needed to know for sure. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” He pushed his hands into his pockets.

“I know the difference between thinking about nothing and thinking about something.”

One hand came out of his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have a brother with a hearing loss.”

What an incredible coincidence, but Mitch seemed to be telling the truth. About this, anyway. She touched his arm, and muscles rippled under her fingers. “The guy in the utility company uniform?”

“No.”

If he was putting her on in an attempt to make a connection—

“Our oldest brother has a hearing loss.” His dark eyes held her with such seriousness, she went back to believing.

“I’m sorry.”

He glanced around the kitchen and braced a hand on the doorjamb under the bead curtain. “I don’t see any more magnets or photos.”

“I don’t either. Thanks for helping.” He looked as if he had no plans to leave, but she couldn’t let that happen. Her whole world had crashed, and her entire body still swayed in the aftermath. She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your beauty sleep.”

“I can go thirty-six hours without sleep.” His lips twitched.

She crossed her arms. “Look, Mitch—”

“This is probably a ridiculous question, but do you have any tools?”

How did he think she’d hung those pictures in the living room? Huh? Huh? She opened the utility drawer where a hammer lay in plain view. “Why do you ask?”

“Your front door needs to be better secured.” He hefted the hammer in his long, tapered fingers. Those same fingers had wound around her arm to drag her away when she’d rushed up the steps with her key. The press of his warm skin against hers had barely registered—until now. Even though those strong fingers of his stirred the contents of the drawer. He went on to explain as if she were a simpleton. “The chair isn’t keeping the door closed, and anyone passing can see it’s ajar.”

“I did notice that.” She stepped into the living room, and frigid air swirled around her feet. “You’re volunteering to fix the problem?”

“Depends on if you have any lumber.”

“Lumber?” She pictured stacks of boards at the local home store. “There are limits to what I keep on hand.”

“Any odd piece of wood will do as long as it’s at least four inches long.”

She pulled a wooden spatula from the utensil holder. “Try this.”

He rubbed the shaft with his thumb in a slow caress. Her insides dissolved. Cath tore her gaze away. What was wrong with her? She’d seen men’s hands before. Many, many times and never experienced this intense melting.

He looked down at her. “Have you got two?”

She washed and dried the spatula in the spaghetti skillet and followed him into the living room. “How are you going to use those?”

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