Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

“You said until recently. Are you not doing it anymore?” he asked, looking fascinated.

“No, after all of this kind of fell into my lap I decided to sell my little company to a bigger company. They’d been making offers for years, and to be honest, my heart just wasn’t really in it anymore. So when they offered again, I sold it. Well, I’m in the beginning stages of selling it.”

“Who are you selling it to?”

“Franklin Logistics and Software.”

This time he choked on his toast. “You just sold your company to Franklin L&S?”

I passed him his water. “Well, going through the process, but yep.”

“Wait— Vivian Franklin. Franklin L&S. Any relation?”

“Sure, it’s my dad’s company.” I grinned.

Clark sat there for a moment, digesting. “Can I ask something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Why did you sell it? I mean, sounds like things were going great for you back there. Why come here?”

I thought for a moment. “I think because I hadn’t had an adventure in a long time, and I was ready for one. And this was exactly what I needed at exactly the right time,” I said, dipping up a fingerful of jelly and licking it off. “Do you believe in fate, Clark?”

“Fate?” he asked abstractedly, watching my mouth closely.

“Yeah, fate. Do you think that there’s a preordained path you’re supposed to be on?”

“Never given it much thought, really. I’m pretty methodical. Not prone to whims,” he said.

“No. I never would have guessed.”

“You’re teasing me, Vivian.” He chuckled.

“Maybe just a little.” We sat for a moment together, quiet and still in the candlelight. “So,” I finally said, “I guess I should get the dishes started.”

“I’ll help you,” he said, getting up to clear.

“Don’t be silly. You cooked; I’ll do the dishes.” I took his plate before he could grab it and brought them both over to the sink.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” he asked, tying his apron back on.

“That’s a deal.” I turned on the water. As we cleaned up, we chatted some more.

“So did you always know you wanted to go into computers?” he asked, drying the plate I’d just handed him.

“No, in fact I hadn’t planned on going into it at all. Most of my family’s in computers so I wanted to try something new, you know? Out of the box?”

“You? Out of the box? I never would have guessed,” he said, swiping a soapy fingertip down the ink on my arm.

“Don’t poke fun, Clark. That’s my design there,” I warned, flicking a bubble at him from the sink.

“You’re a tattoo artist too?”

“No, but I minored in art in college, and spent some time really trying to make a go of it before the computer bug bit me. This tattoo is one I designed myself.” I twisted so he could see it better, the candlelight not being very strong.

He examined the ink, turning my arm to see how it wrapped around. “You drew this?”

“Mm-hmm.” I drew in a breath at the feel of his hands on my skin. Backstreet Boy or not, he had good hands.

“You’re very talented.”

“Once, maybe. I haven’t used that part of my brain in a long time, though.”

“Why not?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, not ready to answer that question. I never went back to it because I just fell into something new. I’d always assumed there’d be time for it, that I could go back to my painting later. That I could balance the practical with the artistic. But family and work became all encompassing.

It wasn’t a bad life, just a life without a lot of . . . passion. Adventure. Purpose. Intrigue. Wonder . . . And paint. “Here,” I said, handing him a slippery dish. He took it, drying it off without asking anything else.

We stood in the darkened kitchen, quietly cleaning up. It was nice, the not talking. When I finished washing up I leaned back against the counter, swallowing the last of the wine in my glass. He hummed a bit while he was working, a tune I almost recognized but not quite. His voice was even and pleasant, even humming. He caught me watching him but didn’t stop his tune, just grinned a little.

I was struck by how easy this was, how comfortable it was. There was no onion to peel here; Clark was an open book. Easy to read, easy to predict, he’d tell me anything I asked him. No holding back, no games, no bullshit.

But also maybe no chase? No working for it, no running after, no stomach pangs, no hit of adrenaline when the little things go my way. Like when Hank threw me that apple, I got a thrill from that, right?

You also got a thrill when Clark was draped across you, breathing on your thighs . . .

Well, I’m only human. And a human who is living in her own romance novel, remember? The house, the ocean, the cowboy? There’s your passion. Adventure. Purpose. Intrigue. Wonder.

“Paint?”

“What’s that?” I asked, brought out of my daydream.

“I was saying that if you wanted, I could help you paint the kitchen. When you’re ready, of course.”

The librarian finished drying the dish, still humming his merry tune.

And I thought long and hard about paint. I was still thinking about it after he went home.

Chapter ten

The next two weeks passed by quickly. I spent my days either cleaning, organizing, or driving countless bags of clothing, kitchen supplies, and ever-loving tube socks to a local shelter that was happy to take them off my hands. I found stack after stack of old plates, cups, and saucers; nothing too fancy but not cheap either. I pored over them, selecting a few pieces I wanted here and there but mostly packing them carefully into boxes and bringing those down to the shelter as well.