Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel by Nike N. Chillemi Page B
Authors: Nike N. Chillemi
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Mandy."
"Mandy?"
"The woman in my GPS." My exasperation showed when the words came out in a growl, proving once again social graces were not my forte. My palms began to sweat and I couldn't meet his eyes. My history displayed a long list of social blunders, starting just after my dad began staying out late at night. I never felt quite good enough after that.
Hughes wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. "I was about to take a break. Can I interest you in a glass of sweet iced tea?"
"Do you freeze your glasses like they do at Billy-Joe's?"
He wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans. "No, I can't say that I do, but maybe I should start."
He led me up the cement walk and into a comfortable living room. Two matching tan recliners with buffalo-check blankets on each headrest sat kitty-cornered before a stone fireplace. A low-table nestled between them with a few Field and Stream magazines strewn about on top. I couldn't help imagining one of the pair had been his former wife's seat.
"Come on into the kitchen." He motioned with his hand.
I pulled out a ladder-backed wooden chair at the round pine table and plunked down my tush. Opposite me, a red and white checked valance hung from the top of the window over the counter. A microwave, toaster oven, and a high-end coffee maker sat to one side of the sink. On the other side, a restaurant quality cappuccino/latte machine took up most of the space.
"That's the machine Hoot teases you about." I pointed, not able to hide a slight smirk.
"Aw, he's just sore 'cause I don't come in and drink his mediocre brew." Hughes grinned.
I walked over to the coffee maker and inspected it then went on to the fancy jobbie. It had the ability to brew espresso and spew steamed milk.
The open shelves above the machine housed a white ceramic Melita, a glass French press, and several sugar and creamer sets. Eight large mugs hung from hooks beneath the shelves.
I pivoted to face him. "I'm impressed."
He held up gritty hands. "Listen, I've got to get cleaned up before I put out the sweet tea."
I hiked one shoulder and grinned. "I kinda like a little dirt on a man." It had to be a giddy moment. There could be no other explanation for that comment.
Tiny sparks seemed to dance mischievously in his eyes. He laughed, turned, and walked down a short hallway, shaking his head. "New York woman."
That's what Winslow Chandler had called me. Somehow, it sounded very different coming out of Hughes' mouth. Sounded kinda nice.
A moment later, a door closed and the sound of running water drifted down the hallway and into the kitchen.
I ducked into the living room to see what kind of a fix I could get on him from his surroundings. Photos on the mantel showed him hunting with Hoot and another fellow, him at a rodeo, and him at what looked like a county fair. No pictures of an ex-wife. I let out a long sigh and realized I'd been holding my breath.
A tuft of dust caught my attention at the bottom of a small bookcase in the otherwise immaculate room. I dashed over. He read Vince Flynn and David Baldacci. Grabbing the thick book at the bottom, I gave a yank. To my astonishment, I stood there eyeballing a Bible, covered in a thin layer of soft gray grit. Hughes vouched for this book, but it didn't look like he read it. I realized the water had stopped running. So, I shoved the volume back where I'd found it, stood and took two quick steps bringing me back to the center of the room.
"Find anythin' interestin'?" He leaned lazily against the doorjamb, one weathered boot crossed over the other.
Startled, I pivoted and dug the heel of my running shoe into the textured pile area rug, nearly lost my footing and had to reach out and grab hold of one of the recliners. How long had he watched me? "Oh, sorry, I've been a professional snoop so long, it's second nature."
He motioned with his hand. "Come back into the kitchen, take a load off, and I'll get the tea."
I followed him. "While we're on the topic
"Mandy?"
"The woman in my GPS." My exasperation showed when the words came out in a growl, proving once again social graces were not my forte. My palms began to sweat and I couldn't meet his eyes. My history displayed a long list of social blunders, starting just after my dad began staying out late at night. I never felt quite good enough after that.
Hughes wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. "I was about to take a break. Can I interest you in a glass of sweet iced tea?"
"Do you freeze your glasses like they do at Billy-Joe's?"
He wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans. "No, I can't say that I do, but maybe I should start."
He led me up the cement walk and into a comfortable living room. Two matching tan recliners with buffalo-check blankets on each headrest sat kitty-cornered before a stone fireplace. A low-table nestled between them with a few Field and Stream magazines strewn about on top. I couldn't help imagining one of the pair had been his former wife's seat.
"Come on into the kitchen." He motioned with his hand.
I pulled out a ladder-backed wooden chair at the round pine table and plunked down my tush. Opposite me, a red and white checked valance hung from the top of the window over the counter. A microwave, toaster oven, and a high-end coffee maker sat to one side of the sink. On the other side, a restaurant quality cappuccino/latte machine took up most of the space.
"That's the machine Hoot teases you about." I pointed, not able to hide a slight smirk.
"Aw, he's just sore 'cause I don't come in and drink his mediocre brew." Hughes grinned.
I walked over to the coffee maker and inspected it then went on to the fancy jobbie. It had the ability to brew espresso and spew steamed milk.
The open shelves above the machine housed a white ceramic Melita, a glass French press, and several sugar and creamer sets. Eight large mugs hung from hooks beneath the shelves.
I pivoted to face him. "I'm impressed."
He held up gritty hands. "Listen, I've got to get cleaned up before I put out the sweet tea."
I hiked one shoulder and grinned. "I kinda like a little dirt on a man." It had to be a giddy moment. There could be no other explanation for that comment.
Tiny sparks seemed to dance mischievously in his eyes. He laughed, turned, and walked down a short hallway, shaking his head. "New York woman."
That's what Winslow Chandler had called me. Somehow, it sounded very different coming out of Hughes' mouth. Sounded kinda nice.
A moment later, a door closed and the sound of running water drifted down the hallway and into the kitchen.
I ducked into the living room to see what kind of a fix I could get on him from his surroundings. Photos on the mantel showed him hunting with Hoot and another fellow, him at a rodeo, and him at what looked like a county fair. No pictures of an ex-wife. I let out a long sigh and realized I'd been holding my breath.
A tuft of dust caught my attention at the bottom of a small bookcase in the otherwise immaculate room. I dashed over. He read Vince Flynn and David Baldacci. Grabbing the thick book at the bottom, I gave a yank. To my astonishment, I stood there eyeballing a Bible, covered in a thin layer of soft gray grit. Hughes vouched for this book, but it didn't look like he read it. I realized the water had stopped running. So, I shoved the volume back where I'd found it, stood and took two quick steps bringing me back to the center of the room.
"Find anythin' interestin'?" He leaned lazily against the doorjamb, one weathered boot crossed over the other.
Startled, I pivoted and dug the heel of my running shoe into the textured pile area rug, nearly lost my footing and had to reach out and grab hold of one of the recliners. How long had he watched me? "Oh, sorry, I've been a professional snoop so long, it's second nature."
He motioned with his hand. "Come back into the kitchen, take a load off, and I'll get the tea."
I followed him. "While we're on the topic
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