Deadline

“Come sit. Before hiding the incriminating evidence of my vices, I poured you a whiskey.”

His right hand was dangling over the arm of the chair. In it, he loosely held a tumbler. Another one sat on the end table beneath the lamp. The amber contents reflected the light.

When she hesitated, he said, “Bourbon is all I have. Is that okay?”

“My father was a southern gentleman. What do you think?”

He smiled. “I think he probably spiked your baby bottle with it.” He tilted his head toward the chair next to his. “Come on. You looked pretty wound up when I got to your house. This will relax you and help you sleep.”

Said the spider to the fly, she thought.

But she joined him anyway. The chair was soft, cushy, and enveloping. Pulling her feet up, she tucked them against her hip.

Noticing her striped socks, he said, “Fetching.”

“I’m afraid the whole outfit leaves much to be desired.”

He looked her over and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind. Instead, he picked up the glass of whiskey on the table and extended it to her. “Drink up.”

She took a sip and sighed as the liquor spread a pleasant warmth through her middle. Letting her head fall back against the cushion, she sighed, “Lord, what a day.”

“Mine didn’t have many highlights, either.”

“What happened?”

“Work-related hassle.” He made an offhanded gesture and took a sip of his drink.

“You went to the village?”

“I didn’t want to be caught in short supply.”

“Of batteries?”

“Of booze.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “I was almost out.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

“You’re welcome.”

He smelled of soap. His hair was dry, brushed back away from his face, making the sun-lightened strands distinguishable from the darker ones beneath. He’d put on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, which, like the one from the beach, was practically threadbare. But at least this one had sleeves that partially covered the bite-worthy biceps. The lamplight cast the features of his face into harsh relief, emphasizing the sharp angles, the spikiness of his eyelashes. It also glinted off the tawny hair on his legs.

Her teeth clinked against her glass when she took a hasty sip.

He said, “May I ask you a question? A harmless one.”

“Chocolate or vanilla? It’s a tie. My most favorite is peach.”

He grinned. “Not quite that harmless.”

She weighed the pros and cons of letting him pry further into her life, and specifically into her life with Jeremy, and finally consented to at least hear the question. “Then I’ll decide if I want to answer it or not.”

He waited a second or two, then asked if she had a picture of Jeremy’s parents.

“His parents? No.”

“If you did, would you show it to me?”

“The point is moot, I don’t have one.”