Out of Eden. Beth Ciotta
that time somewhere else? Somewhere out of Eden?”
“I would, but I can’t.”
Hmm. Maybe he was strapped for funds. “You could relax—”
“I prefer to keep as busy as possible these days.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to travel alone. She suspected keeping busy kept his thoughts off of his deceased wife. Three months back, Mona Martin had succumbed to cancer. Travis had been devastated. He was still damned somber. How long did it take to get over a spouse’s death? She hoped to never know.
Kylie crossed her arms over her middle, trying to decide what to make of the man’s offer. She asked straight out. “Why would you want to do this?”
“To shake up my life?”
Had he been in the bar last night? Had he heard her rant?
“Maybe you miscalculated that figure I jotted. To be clear, I can’t pay you close to what you’d deserve for your time and effort.”
He almost, sort of, smiled. “Happy belated birthday.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT 10:00 A.M., TRAVIS entered his boss’s office and put in for vacation time. If Hank had refused, he’d been ready to quit. But it didn’t come to that. The man felt sorry for him. Assumed he was still mourning Mona—which he was. Only this wasn’t about Mona. This was about two people stuck in a rut.
By 10:45 a.m., Travis had loaded several cans of paint and various other supplies into the bed of his truck. Hank didn’t carry the kind of lighting fixtures Kylie wanted. Not wanting to wait weeks for an order to come in, she’d been ready to settle for something more conservative. Travis didn’t want her to settle. He told her not to worry. He’d track down those contemporary fixtures or something damn close.
At 11:15 a.m., Travis pulled into his driveway. A burst of adrenaline made his hands shake. He’d broken his routine. He’d tempted fate. Again. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he felt about that. But this time he wouldn’t turn back.
He raided his work shed for a ladder and toolbox. He pulled a roll of canvas and a bin of paint brushes out of his attic. The whole time he’d been at work boxing up everything Kylie needed, he’d been mentally ticking off items he could bring from home. He’d try to save her what money he could. It bothered him that she’d given up on a dream. He knew all about giving up something important. It ate at your soul. It was too late to save his, but maybe he could save Kylie’s.
Mona wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t understand why he’d stick his neck out for a person he barely knew. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was that Kylie McGraw had unleashed the part of him that he’d kept locked away for seven long years. Time to shake up the life forced upon him.
Eleven-forty-five. He stashed his name badge and work hat in a drawer. Changed into a fresh T-shirt and a clean but paint-splattered long-sleeved button-down. He tugged on an Indiana Colts ball cap. In his heart, he rooted for the Eagles.
Lunch consisted of a ham sandwich—white bread, yellow mustard and American cheese, Lays potato chips and a Coke. Of the times they’d shopped together, three times Travis had reached for a package of provolone. Mona had nudged him away.
“They don’t eat provolone,” she’d reminded him after they’d reached the sanctity of home.
Not typically. Typically they ate American, Swiss or Cheddar. Travis had grinned. “I feel daring.”
“No, you don’t,” she said as she put away the groceries. “You feel like everyone else in this county. You dress like them, talk like them, eat like them….” She bobbled a can of Campbell’s soup. It should have been Progresso. “Anything out of the norm—”
“—is dangerous. I know.” He’d hated the fear in her voice. He’d pulled her into his arms and hugged her. He’d assured her that American cheese was just fine.
Only it wasn’t. And Mona was no longer here to reassure.
By 12:40 p.m., Travis was on the road and on his way to McGraw’s Shoe Store. Renovating Kylie’s business called to his artistic side. He’d liked the pictures she’d shown him, although he’d suggested slight variations in the color scheme so as not to deter the male clientele. He’d also recommended scattered throw rugs—a mix of abstract and art deco—as opposed to the wall-to-wall carpet. Less expensive. More impact. Splashes of vibrant color against the dark hardwood floors. Kylie had applauded his vision, naming him a kindred spirit. He didn’t know about that. But he sure liked the way she made him feel.
Alive.
He popped open another can of Coke and floored the Chevy. He knew he’d work hard and work late tonight. Maybe he’d reward himself later…with a bottle of Chianti and a wedge of provolone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK SAT BEHIND HIS DESK sorting through old newspapers, budget reports, trade magazines and assorted mail. A daunting task, complicated by the fact that he couldn’t concentrate. He’d played with fire this morning. First to soothe his ego. Then to satisfy his desire. He’d wanted to hold Kylie’s hand, to stroke that ivory skin. Watching her blush and ramble had been a turn-on. The more she denied an attraction, the keener his arousal. Growing up, given their four-year age difference, he’d never paid much attention to Kylie-the-kid. But Kylie-the-woman…she was a fascinating enigma.
Mesmerized, he’d imagined her in his arms, in his bed. He’d imagined her flexibility and fiery spirit. He wanted to lose himself in all that spunk and sweetness. He wanted to protect her from men like Ashe Davis and Bobby Jones. In that split second, he’d felt possessive of Kylie Ann McGraw. A sign that he was in deep shit. He wasn’t sure if he could shovel himself out. Worse. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Spenser was always bragging about his sister’s grounded, caring spirit. Connecting intimately with all that goodness could do wonders for Jack’s cynical soul.
Tempting.
The desk phone rang, jerking him out of his destructive musings. “Chief Reynolds,” he answered.
“Personal assistant to Chief Reynolds,” Dorothy Vine replied.
Jack frowned at the woman’s caustic tone. “What is it, Ms. Vine?”
“As requested, I phoned your sister on your behalf and invited her and her daughter to your house—or anyplace of their choice—for dinner.”
It had been a desperate act on his part, asking the squad’s administrative assistant to act as a liaison of sorts. But dammit, he’d been in town for almost a week and Jessie had avoided him at every turn. He knew she had to be heartbroken. She’d finally learned the truth about the Cheating Bastard. Frank Cortez was ruled by his dick, not his heart. That’s if he had a heart. Jack wanted to help Jessie through this. He wanted to help his young niece.
“Jessica Lynn asked me to give you a message,” said Ms. Vine.
“Okay.”
“She said…”
“Go on.”
“Fuck off.”
Disappointing, but not unexpected. Almost amusing coming from straight-laced Ms. Vine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jack hung up and focused back on his paper-ridden desktop. Better than obsessing on his fractured relationship with his sister and nonexistent relationship with his niece. Better than obsessing on Kylie. According to Ziffel, Chief Curtis had had a filing system. Damned if Jack could figure it out, and he wasn’t about to ask Ms. Vine. Not today. The squad’s administrative assistant, a fifty-something woman with choppy silver hair, green cat-eye glasses and a fondness for polyester suits, had rolled in an hour late—eyes swollen from crying over the former chief, manner brusque. Ziffel was right. She didn’t like the coffee and she