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It had been unexpectedly pleasant. Banished the ghost. “We should do it again.”
“Ah, Tom.” She leaned back on the counter, arms outstretched, her suit coat opening out to show a silky gray top that fitted close. “Don’t go bending those tight rails you run on for me. I’m temporary, remember.”
He poured the last of the wine in his glass. Hers was still full. “You think I run on tight rails.”
“You probably have hospital corners, can bounce a coin off your bed.”
He still did the army-style corners. She’d snooped in his bedroom.
“You’re smiling. I’m right.”
Or it was just a good guess. “That’s the way I learned to make a bed.”
“Your dad was military.”
“Army.”
“That explains a lot.”
Much as he loved his dad, he’d spent considerable energy on not being him. “What exactly does it explain?” No more coin bounce, no more high-and-tight haircuts. He’d styled himself on Wall Street, not full battle rattle.
She came around the counter again, marched right up to him and gave him a top-to-toe examination. “The bearing. Even in sweats, you have no slouch. You work out. You appreciate the brain-body connection. The rules. You like order. You like to control your environment. The apartment. You’re a neat freak. The food, hearty favorites. Bet your mom taught you to cook. You don’t like surprises. You believe in hard work, organization and good preparation. You go after what you want. You don’t let things—people—get in your way. But you’re not ruthless, not in an outward way. You’re actually a good guy who runs on tight rails. I could maybe get to like you, Tom O’Connell.”
Mutual like would be a better-than-expected outcome when he’d already rehearsed the “this isn’t working out, you need to leave” conversation. “My gram taught me how to cook. My mom died when I was a kid. Decided we suddenly needed ice cream cake and went out in a rainstorm to get it. Was driving too fast, wrapped her car around a pole and never came home.”
She took a step back and shock lit her face. “Holy shit.”
He closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say all that, but Flick seemed to see straight through him, and she had him down, so he’d wanted to kick back with something she couldn’t know. Dumb.
“How old were you?”
“I was eight.” Nothing was the same after that. No surprise was good. “Grandma Bel is still alive.”
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“Your dad?”
“Retired. He was engineer corp. He has a home renovation business now. They both live in Florida.” He liked she hadn’t done the sympathy act, but didn’t avoid the whole topic either.
“Okay, do me.” She spread her arms wide, turning in a slow circle.
He waited until she faced him again. “Pardon, ma’am?”
She laughed at his drawl. He didn’t know where it came from, an echo of his father. Her choice of words was like a puppy’s nip and he’d reacted to the unexpected bite.
“I mean, I sliced and diced you. It’s your turn to do me.”
“I see.”
“So go on.”
“I don’t run on tight rails.” That made him sound limited, hemmed in, and now he sounded defensive.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s being focused, goal-oriented. It’s why I’m here, not in the army or laying roof tiles. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things, but I wanted something different.” And he’d got it. It was the suits and the condo and the career prospects that meant he’d have choices in the future. And why was he defending his choices to her? How he lived was none of her business.
“And you think I’m not focused. Bring it.”
