Page 30 of Just Friends

“What do you mean? The contractor had some client order it and then decide it didn’t work for the space…whatever that means. So, he gave me a deal. Why? Is it expensive?”

Rebecca laughed. “Let’s just say if you sold it, you could buy like ten regular ovens…. This is incredible.” She ran her fingers over the cold burners. “Beautiful,” she marveled and bent to look inside.

“Do you and my oven need some time alone?”

“I could have a good time with this oven,” she replied, eyes glued to the beautiful stainless steel.

He laughed.

“I’m sorry,” she withdrew her hands from the appliance and turned to him. “What did you ask me?”

“Was asking if you wanted wine; then you went to second base with the stove. You could’ve at least bought it dinner first.”

Rebecca laughed. The wine on the counter, a chilled Riesling was one of her favorites—he would know that. “Yes, to the wine…. And sorry, but your stove is a chef’s dream.”

Shaking his head, he removed the opener from the drawer. “Whatever. The poor thing will only be able to talk about it in a therapist’s office using dolls.” He selected two wine glasses from the cabinet in front of him.

“Oh my gosh.” Rebecca walked off to calm the giggles that had hit her. He was crazy. She stepped into the living room and a cozy blanket hung off the side of the couch; she picked it up pulled it onto her lap as she settled back on the end of the big, cushy sofa. A crime show played on the television, but the volume was muted. The flames danced in the fireplace, and she noticed that it held gas burning logs. Overall, his place was a comfortable home that conveyed a domestic part of him she hadn’t seen coming.

Weasel came over carrying two glasses, handing her one, he slipped onto the sofa next to her, leaving little room. She inhaled the fruity aroma of the wine and sipped; it was tasty.

“You had the house built?”

“Yep. Picked it all out myself and had it built bigger than what I need.”

“How long have you lived here?” she asked and sipped.

“About two years.”

“About when you were promoted to detective and told no one?”

A slow smile spread across his mouth, and he shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Uh huh,” she chuckled, then took a drink.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I got tired of the whole party scene and wanted to have someplace to myself.”

She giggled. “The curse of getting old.”

He grinned. “Old, huh?”

She nodded to his smirk. “Although, I must admit, when I first heard about your cabin in the woods, I pictured it more like the Unabomber, but thankfully….” She giggled at the expression that crossed his face. “It’s a really nice place.”

“Damn, I need to work on my image, then.” Weasel laughed. “Shit, woman, Unabomber?” he shook his head.

She smiled. “Well, without the anti-governmental tendencies and all.” Rebecca held up a finger. “Although, you went from party animal to loner in the woods if you think about it.”

“Yeah, well, I was going for personal growth.”

She turned and slid her fingers down his smooth cheek to rest on his lower jaw. “You shaved the beard.”

“You didn’t like it,” his voice low. He removed her fingers from his jaw and kissed them—electricity shot through Rebecca.

“I never said that,” she whispered.

“You didn’t have to. I could tell.” He set his almost empty glass on the coffee table.

“It’s your face. Who cares what I like?”

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