The Fixer by T E Woods Page A

tingling excitement as he watched her struggle to balance the large pot. She brushed snow off an outdoor table and carefully set the flowers down. She reached inside her navy pea coat, pulled out a white envelope, and nestled it within the giant blooms. For a moment he contemplated inviting this delivery person in for a cup of holiday cheer. But he sat still. Watched her turn to go. Watched her slip on his stairs and land with a loud yelp.
    “Oh, shit!” Bastian pulled himself off the chaise, set his bottle down, and took three heavy steps toward the deck. He leaned against the door and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head of scotch and irritation.
    “What the hell happened?” he yelled as he yanked the door open. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my backyard?”
    The young woman groaned and struggled to sit up. Her beret fell, a slash of red against the accumulating white. She turned to retrieve it. The porch light caught her face and Bastian smiled as the snow-encrusted lovely tried to regain her dignity and struggled to stand on wobbly legs.
    “You could put a little salt on those steps, mister.” She sounded more frightened than hurt. “You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck. I could sue, you know.”
    Her false bravado amused him. “And I could have you arrested for trespass. Who are you?”
    The beautiful intruder fixed her red hat back on her head and pointed a gloved hand toward the poinsettia. “Monica O’Leary. I deliver for Rainier Floral. I tried your front door but there was no answer. I didn’t want to leave your plant where somebody could take it so I brought it around back. Merry Fucking Christmas.”
    “Stay where you are.” Bastian crossed over the snowy deck and pulled the card from the plant. He chuckled when he saw it was from Meredith Thornton and assumed she’d ordered them some time ago. He doubted the university president would be so generous given the day’s events. He tossed the card down and stumbled back toward the house.
    “Hey, mister.” The delivery girl shuffled over to the table. “Aren’t you gonna take this plant inside? It’s like a hundred dollar flower. Somebody must love you a lot.”
    “Keep it.” He called over his shoulder, walked into the room, and threw himself back onto the chaise.
    Monica picked up the plant and the card and flat-stepped across the slippery deck to the still-open back door. “Mind if I just set this inside? It’ll die out here.”
    Bastian surveyed the young woman in his door way. Her hair, damp from the melting snow, clung to her face and framed translucent skin and bright green eyes. Plaid kilt and navy blue leggings under her pea coat. Dark green rubber boots. Bastian blinked hard to steady his liquored focus.
    “Put it over there.” He motioned toward a glass table at the far end of the sunroom. “And close the door behind you. It’s freezing out there.”
    Monica balanced the large pot on one hip when she turned to close the door. She kept an eye on him as she crossed toward the table.
    “You been drinking, mister?”
    Bastian held the scotch bottle high in his right hand. “Care to join me? If you’re not a scotch person there’s plenty of whatever.”
    Monica crinkled her nose and looked around the room. “You sure? Won’t your wife wonder who I am?”
    Bastian took a long pull from the bottle. “There’s no wife…what did you say your name was?”
    “Monica O’Leary. From Rainier’s.” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth in her green boots.
    “Ah! An Irish lass come to bring me Christmas cheer.” Bastian’s attempt at a brogue fell short. “Come drink with me, lassie. Tis a dark day I’m havin’.”
    She shrugged her shoulders and unbuttoned her coat. “What the hell. You’re my last delivery and my back is killing me after that tumble. You got Irish?”
    Bastian tried to get up but collapsed back to the chaise.
    “Sit still,” Monica said. “You have your