Page 29 of Tin

She shrugs. “Too late.” Then she has the audacity to laugh again as she climbs off of the barstool and returns to her pasta.

“I think I liked it better when you thought he was a redneck loser I needed to stay away from,” I grumble as I get up and start to stalk off.

“Oh, I see. You want to have your Kirsten cake and eatthattoo. Man, that’s like your thing now.”

I turn around before I reach the stairs. “Stop talking about cake. You’re going to ruin pastries for me altogether if you keep it up. And then what joys will there be left for me in this life?”

She giggles. “There’s always sausage. You do seem to be rather fond of that these days.”

“You’re disgusting. And stop comparing Riker to food. It’s making me hungry.” I’m halfway through my door when I call back, “And not for your damn pasta!”

Harley greets me as soon as I walk in, and together we stroll out through the back, straight down to the sand where he spends the next twenty minutes chasing waves to his heart’s content. Days like today I watch him extra close, and I wonder how often he thinks of the night that changed us both. People like to remind me how time will heal me. How it will somehow mend all that is broken within, just by passing me by. But then I look at Harley. I see his missing limb and I think, no amount of time will ever bring it back. He will bear the scars and the loss of that night for the rest of his life. Why would I be any different? Why would time return what that night took from me? It wouldn’t.

Back inside, I finally decide to part with the scent I’ve thoroughly enjoyed these last few hours and jump in the shower. I pay an unusual amount of attention to detail today, and then scold myself for acting as if tonight will be the first time he’s ever seen me naked. Considering the circumstances surrounding our first time together, now is really a ridiculous time to start worrying about whether or not I missed a spot on my kneecaps while shaving my legs.

But I’m on a roll. So after I dry off I decide to dig through the old makeup case Kirsten passed down to me when I moved in here. I locate some hot-pink nail polish and have a go at my neglected toenails. For a split second, I consider doing my fingers as well, and then I remember whose hands they’re attached to and don’t bother. In twenty-two years, the only times I’ve ever had a fancy manicure were when Kirsten insisted on giving me one. So even if my efforts went unnoticed or wound up being deemed as insignificant by Riker, my sister would definitely see the unnatural aspect of my behavior and bust me for it.

However, since I did sort of mention looking more like a girl than a sweaty gym towel when I arrive tonight, I allow one last moment of vanity and put on a skirt. Nothing fancy. Just a denim cut-off mini with a long-sleeved tee and my boots. Still, it’s about as dressed up as I get, so I do kind of hope he appreciates it. Just as long as he doesn’t read anything into it. I’m sure he won’t. Just as sure as I am that I will. Because I’m a fucking wreck. I nearly change my clothes seven times before I’m back in outfit number one and force myself out through the front door to borrow Kirsten’s car for the second time today.

Parking in his driveway feels weird, and I’m tempted to drive back home and then walk back along the beach. But that would take forever. And I would definitely chicken out of wearing a skirt. So, I stay. Because that way I can make the skirt stay. At least until I get inside and Riker chooses otherwise.

I’m bending over inside the passenger seat, retrieving some items that fell out of my purse—yet another aspect of this evening that’s new and unfamiliar, given the fact that a purse doesn’t tend to go with running shorts—when I hear a loud whistle from behind. I stand up straight, nearly bumping my head on the car roof as I do.

“I like this look on you.” His hands glide smoothly down my hips and reach around to the front of my thighs as he comes up right behind me. “I like this look on youa lot.”

“Well, don’t get too used to it. At least not until I get my own car. Kirsten’s not going to let me hijack hers every night, so there will still be plenty of occasions I show up in my sweats.”

He turns me around to face him and greets me with a kiss. “I’m pretty sure you already know how fond I am of the way you look in your sweats.”

I smirk. “Can’t like ‘em too much. You pretty much rip them off of me the second I walk through the door.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, eyeing me up and down, this time from the front. “And don’t think for one second this little number will fare any better.”

And he’s not kidding. I’m barely through the door before I’m wondering why I bothered stressing so much about an outfit I literally only wore for the drive over here. Well, that and his reaction, which, honestly, was totally worth the anxiety.

An hour later and I’m wearing one of his t-shirts and sitting perched up on his kitchen counter watching him cook for the second night in a row. It’s just scrambled eggs, but still. I can’t not appreciate the effort.

“Can I ask you something?” He’s stirring the eggs, making sure the cheese he just added doesn’t burn and get all brown and crusty. “Something personal?”

“Since when do you ask my permission to ask me something personal? And while we’re on that, when have you ever asked me for permission period?” I rip off a piece of the tortilla he was planning to load my scrambled eggs into and shove it into my mouth.

“Good point. Forget I asked and just answer. What the hell do you do all day?” He’s turned toward me now, flinging his wooden spoon at me as part of his interrogation technique. It’s lacking, and I want to laugh at him, but I hold it in as best I can.

“What do you mean, what do I do? I spend all day staring at the clock and counting down the seconds until I can race over here and see you again.”

His lips are tightly pursed, and I know he’s not nearly as amused as I am. Although he’s also not nearly as put off by my sense of humor as he’d like me to believe. “I’m being serious. You know what I do. I want to know how you fill your time. And why you don’t need a car.” He cocks his brow on the second half of his statement. I guess anyone would wonder. It’s not like I never had a car. Just haven’t had a need for one in a while.

“First of all, I only sort of know what you do. For example, I’m still not clear on where you were today that it took you three hours to get back.” I’m stalling, but I also really want to know.

He takes the pan from the stove and starts fixing two plates for us. “You don’t sort of know what I do. You know exactly what I do. I help out Sid at the ranch and I take care of the rental properties. The Shepherdson Realty Group owns properties all up and down this coastline. Some are even out of state. Sometimes that means I have to drive a ways to check on things.”

“You have to take care of all of them?” For some stupid reason I’d thought it was just this one.

“Yep.” He places the empty pan in the sink and runs water over it before he comes back and hands me my dinner. He doesn’t sit down himself, just leans against the counter beside me. “Okay. Your turn.”

I tip my head back and forth between each shoulder a few times, debating on how detailed I want my answer to be. “Well, the reason I don’t need a car is because I work out of the house. I help run this website. I’m responsible for everything from answering emails, to writing content, to dealing directly with the public and offering them whatever assistance they require depending on their situation.”

He stares at me for a second, unimpressed, his tongue sort of stuck in the corner of his mouth. “That was vague.” He shakes his head, stabs a piece of egg with his fork, and then points it at me before he takes a bite. “Now try that again. And this time tell it like you want me to actually know what you do.”

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