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When he answered his door, Tyler’s expression was one of genuine shock, but he seemed to recover quickly.
“This ought to be interesting,” he said, stepping back to let her in.
She looked down at the threshold, sensing that once she moved across it, there was no turning back.
“I hope so,” she answered lightly as she swept into the room.
Without relaxing the stiff set of her head, she took in his small living space. The bed was most prominent.
The air in the room was redolent with the somehow manly smells of damp towels, soap, cologne, and the sharp tang of graphite from recently sharpened pencils.
Aware of holding her breath, Stormy exhaled.
“I’m forgetting my manners,” Tyler said, offering her a chair at the minuscule table. He pulled it out and moved some folders and pencils aside. “What can I offer you?” he continued as she sank into the chair. “Diet Coke or a beer?” he asked, reaching into a small refrigerator against the wall.
Yourself, she thought, feeling as if her heart was about to explode in her chest. “Neither. Thank you.”
“I see.” He sat down opposite her, wondering what she was up to.
“What are all those folders?” she asked, finding it easier to speak of the mundane than of the purpose that had brought her to him.
“Your case, the trial transcript, broken down into bits. The same with Wilson’s. And a couple of other cases that need attention.”
“You take your work seriously.”
“Have to if I want to eat,” his voice trailed off, his mouth suddenly sounding dry. He went to pick up a fallen pencil; it got away from him. He stared at his hands; they were shaking.
Ignoring the tautness of her nerves, Stormy expelled a tumultuous breath and scattered a few inane comments. “I had another terrific day at the flea market. Sandy came and helped me out. We’re going to add candles to the inventory and—” And suddenly, she was out of words.
“Sounds like you’ve really got the ball rolling.” He sat across from her, an eyebrow raised in question.
It seemed to Stormy that silence prevailed for an eon. She suddenly felt ridiculous. As if from a distance, she saw herself and Tyler—a pair of stiff-necked mongooses darting hither and thither, arguing over which would slay the cobra that separated them. The picture made her smile.
“What’s funny?” he asked. His eyes said he still wondered if she was playing a game.
“This ’n’ that,” she told him, nervous laughter escaping her throat.
“An impressive reason,” he said. “I could stand on my head and still not get it.”
“I know. I’m sorry. The truth is…I came here to make an unladylike, immodest spectacle of myself.”
If his mouth had gone dry before, it now sounded as arid as the Sahara. He reached for a beer, stopped, then pulled out a can of Coke. Leave it to the man to want to have all his wits about him as he stood there, barefooted, looking as if he were going to navigate an unmapped minefield. “And?” he said, popping the tab and taking a long sip.
“I lost my nerve. And then I thought, how funny we look, sitting here—”
Tyler’s shoulders tensed. “Find it.”
“Find it?” Her voice faltered.
“Your nerve,” he insisted. “Look under the table. Under the bed, maybe. I know—in your purse…look in your purse. Women keep everything in their purses.” He grabbed her small bag from the edge of the table and dumped its contents.
Among other things, a toothbrush tumbled out, more graphic than words.
Tyler stared down at thedeadgiveaway, then slowly raised his eyes to Stormy’s.
Her face felt hot, the line of her jaw held rigidly. “I told you it was a stupid idea.”
Tyler stepped toward her, cautiously, as if he were approaching a stunned bird. “What if I told you that I don’t think it’s stupid at all?”
