big. Bigger than she remembered, frankly. Or maybe it was only that her apartment seemed smaller.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” he said. Still frowning.
She sighed. “Like your little chat with Enid isn’t sitting so well.” The dog looked from Scott to her, figured nobody was paying attention to him—which would never do—so he sashayed over to the sofa and hopped up beside her. Wedging his sturdy little body between her hip and the cushioned back, he laid his head on her lap with a contented groan. “Those flowers for me or the dog?”
“You can share,” he said, handing her the bouquet. “You heard us?”
“Your voices, yes. Not what y’all were saying.” She buried her nose in the delicate lavender mums, the scent fresh and sweet, then lifted them to Scott again. “I don’t even own a real vase, but you might find a jar under the sink that’ll work. I take it she was doing her Rottweiler number on you?” she said as he crossed to the kitchen.
“I was thinking more along the lines of rabid Chihuahua, but yes.”
“She means well,” she said over the water’s thrashing into a big olive jar. “And it is nice to have somebody on my side.”
Scott returned with the flowers, which he set on the fabric-covered footlocker she used as a coffee table. Still standing, he pushed back his jacket, shoved his hands in his pockets. Frowned some more. “I’m on your side.”
“I mean somebody who’s gonna stick around.”
Silence. Then: “She wanted to know what my intentions were. Toward you.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Christina said, even as she thought, Yeah, wouldn’t mind knowing the answer to that one myself. “She sure has the wrong end of the stick there, doesn’t she? I mean, you’ve been real sweet and all, but—”
“But what I haven’t been, is entirely honest.”
“About?”
Chafing his palms together, Scott sank onto the edge of the old recliner, pushed out a short, dry laugh, then lifted his eyes to hers.
“Okay…those hours we spent together in the airport…jarred something loose in my brain. You jarred something loose, and…I don’t want to say too much, too soon—the last thing I want to do is scare you off—”
Like she had any place to go?
“—and anyway, at first I thought…well, never mind what I first thought, that’s immaterial now. Because the thing is, the more time we spend together, my feelings—for you, I mean—they’re becoming more…real.”
Then he gave her That Look. Like the one the Jane Austen hero always gives the heroine when he finally comes to his senses.
Except that’s always at the end of the movie, you goober! Not the frickin’ beginning!
“Scott,” she said when she finally found her voice. “You can’t be serious. Besides the fact we met less than a week ago…I’m not even remotely your type!”
A half smile tilting his lips, he leaned back, his hands gripping the chair’s arms. Nice, strong hands, she couldn’t help but notice.
Because she was observant like that. “Yeah, well…I’ve dated plenty of women who were supposedly ‘my type’ and have never felt…drawn to them the way I am to you.”
Christina opened her mouth to argue, only to hear a little voice in her head pssst at her, reminding her there was no arguing with Scott Fortune. Men like that, once they made up their mind, that was it.
Except…what was it he’d made his mind up about, exactly? So he was “drawn” to her. Big whoop. Didn’t mean anything would come of it. Especially since…
“May I remind you, in case it escaped your notice, that my home is here? And yours isn’t?”
“Well aware of that—”
“And even if that weren’t the case, I simply do not have the wherewithal right now to be in a relationship. Or even think about one. So if there’s an ulterior motive behind your wanting to help out, you might want to rethink a thing or two.”
He laced his hands high on his stomach,
“Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” he said. Still frowning.
She sighed. “Like your little chat with Enid isn’t sitting so well.” The dog looked from Scott to her, figured nobody was paying attention to him—which would never do—so he sashayed over to the sofa and hopped up beside her. Wedging his sturdy little body between her hip and the cushioned back, he laid his head on her lap with a contented groan. “Those flowers for me or the dog?”
“You can share,” he said, handing her the bouquet. “You heard us?”
“Your voices, yes. Not what y’all were saying.” She buried her nose in the delicate lavender mums, the scent fresh and sweet, then lifted them to Scott again. “I don’t even own a real vase, but you might find a jar under the sink that’ll work. I take it she was doing her Rottweiler number on you?” she said as he crossed to the kitchen.
“I was thinking more along the lines of rabid Chihuahua, but yes.”
“She means well,” she said over the water’s thrashing into a big olive jar. “And it is nice to have somebody on my side.”
Scott returned with the flowers, which he set on the fabric-covered footlocker she used as a coffee table. Still standing, he pushed back his jacket, shoved his hands in his pockets. Frowned some more. “I’m on your side.”
“I mean somebody who’s gonna stick around.”
Silence. Then: “She wanted to know what my intentions were. Toward you.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Christina said, even as she thought, Yeah, wouldn’t mind knowing the answer to that one myself. “She sure has the wrong end of the stick there, doesn’t she? I mean, you’ve been real sweet and all, but—”
“But what I haven’t been, is entirely honest.”
“About?”
Chafing his palms together, Scott sank onto the edge of the old recliner, pushed out a short, dry laugh, then lifted his eyes to hers.
“Okay…those hours we spent together in the airport…jarred something loose in my brain. You jarred something loose, and…I don’t want to say too much, too soon—the last thing I want to do is scare you off—”
Like she had any place to go?
“—and anyway, at first I thought…well, never mind what I first thought, that’s immaterial now. Because the thing is, the more time we spend together, my feelings—for you, I mean—they’re becoming more…real.”
Then he gave her That Look. Like the one the Jane Austen hero always gives the heroine when he finally comes to his senses.
Except that’s always at the end of the movie, you goober! Not the frickin’ beginning!
“Scott,” she said when she finally found her voice. “You can’t be serious. Besides the fact we met less than a week ago…I’m not even remotely your type!”
A half smile tilting his lips, he leaned back, his hands gripping the chair’s arms. Nice, strong hands, she couldn’t help but notice.
Because she was observant like that. “Yeah, well…I’ve dated plenty of women who were supposedly ‘my type’ and have never felt…drawn to them the way I am to you.”
Christina opened her mouth to argue, only to hear a little voice in her head pssst at her, reminding her there was no arguing with Scott Fortune. Men like that, once they made up their mind, that was it.
Except…what was it he’d made his mind up about, exactly? So he was “drawn” to her. Big whoop. Didn’t mean anything would come of it. Especially since…
“May I remind you, in case it escaped your notice, that my home is here? And yours isn’t?”
“Well aware of that—”
“And even if that weren’t the case, I simply do not have the wherewithal right now to be in a relationship. Or even think about one. So if there’s an ulterior motive behind your wanting to help out, you might want to rethink a thing or two.”
He laced his hands high on his stomach,
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