The F-Word
“Seven o’clock what?”
“I’ll meet you back here tonight. At seven. So we can make plans. I have to go home first and feed my cat.”
“You have a cat?”
Two parallel lines appear between her eyebrows. I can tell that all that determination is suddenly wavering.
“See? There’s so much for you to learn about me—”
“I only meant that I’ll have to go home first, too. I have a dog.”
“Of course you have a dog. A mastiff. His name is Walter. He’s three years old, his birthday is January 16, and he’s up to date on all his shots.”
I stare at her. Then it hits me. Bailey has Walter on her schedule. She makes his veterinarian appointments. Heck, she made the arrangements for me to buy him in the first place.
“You’re right,” I say slowly. “You know everything about me and I don’t know a damn thing about you.”
She nods. The parallel lines return. Her shoulders slump.
“And I was right about this never working,” she says. “We could never pull this—”
“Seven o’clock,” I say firmly. “Not here. At your apartment.”
“What?”
“We only have three days, Bailey. If we go at this as if we’re cramming for finals, it won’t work.”
“I never crammed for finals.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, so you’ll have to trust me here. Cramming works for facts. What year was the Treaty of Paris signed? How many lanterns were hung in the belfry of the old North church on the night of Paul Revere’s ride? What’s the meaning of life?”
“Seventeen eighty-three. Two. And there is no specific answer to the last—”
“My point exactly. Some questions can’t be dealt with by memorizing facts. If we’re going to find out stuff about each other, real stuff, we have to do it by spending time with each other. In suitable settings, so we can really see what we’re like away from the office.”
She’s looking at me as if I’m certifiable. Maybe I am, but I’m pretty sure what I’m saying makes sense. I want it to make sense, anyway, and I’m not about to try and delve into that. Not right now.
“Okay,” I say briskly. I reach across and open her door. My arm brushes lightly over her breasts. Her breath catches. So does mine. Dammit. It’s all those fumes from the centuries-old teak. “I’m going to head home. You do the same.”
Bailey glances at her watch. “It’s only one-thirty.”
“Right. Right. Fine. I’ll, ah, I’ll take a look at that property.”
“Which property?”
An excellent question because I came up with that on the spot, but the last thing I want to do right now is spend the next couple of hours in my office.
“The hilly one. The one that couple is thinking of buying so they can put up a colonial.”
“It’s the wrong house for the site.”
I smile. For some crazy reason, I like that she thinks that. “Yeah. I agree.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I’ll see you at seven.”
“Do you know my address?”
“Of course I know your address.”
She looks doubtful. She’s right to look doubtful. I don’t know her address, but there’s always Google.