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“What’d I say?”
“You’re sucking up so I’ll invite you in.”
“I’m trying to give you a compliment.” He lifted his toolbox a few inches. “You care where I start?”
“I haven’t said yes to the locks yet.”
“Say yes now.”
She stared at him, her nostrils flaring slightly. Breathing shallow and fast. “No.”
Damn it, why did she have to be so territorial? What rational person resisted replacing old, weak locks with newer, better ones?
Whatever was going on with Ellen, it wasn’t rational. He’d made his case last night, and she’d brushed it off. For some reason, she didn’t want to believe she might be in danger.
She was, though. Or she could be. When Katie had checked the plates on the photographer’s brown sedan this morning, she’d come up with expired tags registered three years back to a Martin Plimpton of Georgia.
It was entirely possible that the man Caleb had run off Ellen’s property wasn’t the same Martin Plimpton who had outstanding warrants in Illinois for burglary and assault, but the safe thing to do was to assume he was. Caleb had put a phone call in to the Mount Pleasant police. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a lot of faith they’d be able to find Plimpton and bring him in for questioning. It was up to Caleb to make sure Ellen, Henry, and Carly were safe.
If he told Ellen about Plimpton, would she change her mind and let him install the locks? Maybe. Maybe not. He wasn’t inclined to share the information until he knew one way or the other whether the photographer from yesterday was the same guy. He’d asked Katie to keep digging.
Meanwhile, the locks had to go in. He propped the screen door open and unpacked his drill and one of the deadbolt kits.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to start right here.”
“You can’t drill holes in my house without my permission.”
“Actually, I probably could. But you’re going to give me your permission.”
She flushed. “I’ll call my brother and have you fired.”
“For installing locks you need?”
That flummoxed her temporarily, but she rallied quickly. “I’ll call the police.”
“You could do that. They might be on my side, though.” He turned away from her, opened his toolbox, and found a tape measure.
When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “You’re no better than the rest of them.”
Caleb dropped his laid-back-guy act and took a good, long look at her. She was absolutely furious, which he’d expected. He figured that in Ellen’s emotional universe, he was doing the exact same thing as the photographer from yesterday—invading her space and ignoring her wishes. But unlike Plimpton, Caleb had a good reason.
What he couldn’t understand was why she looked so goddamn hurt.
Caleb took a deep breath and let it out. He’d fouled this situation up on day one, but there had to be a way to fix it. Had to be a way to talk her into letting him do this without stepping on one of her emotional land mines.
Though it would sure help if he knew where the mines were.
“Ellen, if you tell me no again, I’ll go,” he said quietly. He met her eyes and made sure she knew he was telling the truth. “It’s your house. I told you I worked for you, and I meant it.” She crossed her arms. “But listen, we’re not talking about a big change here. We’re talking about a couple of locks. One more key you have to put on your keychain, and a bolt you have to flip closed at night. That’s all. It’s nothing. It’s like the porch light. Something I can do that you can’t, and I want to help you with it.”
Ellen stared at him for a long time. “Fine,” she finally said, before turning her back on him and taking Henry into the kitchen. Caleb told himself that was what he wanted, that he’d won this round.
He didn’t feel particularly victorious.
The work was familiar, and he let himself start to relax as he did it. He tried sorting through what had just happened, what he felt about her, but he thought about all the wrong things. The way she’d smelled last night, like wine and cinnamon. Her merlot-stained lips. Those slender white hands on his chest.
In the long moment before he’d walked away from her porch, she’d seemed so ripe and sweet, he’d wanted to do more than kiss her. He’d wanted to have her, to imprint himself on her. To lose himself in all that softness and make her his own.
