Author: Kristan Higgins

The same thought that had been niggling away at me all week popped into my brain. “I heard you and Fleur had coffee the other day,” I said.

He looked up. “Who’s Fleur?”

Say no more, Ian. Question answered. “Um…my coworker? Tony Blair’s mommy? The one who took you on the hike?”

“Right. I think I saw her in town.” He returned his attention to measuring the coffee.

“Can I look around a little?” I asked.

“Sure.” He may have sighed.

I wandered into the great room. On the walls were three large prints, all the same size, all matted in white and framed in black, a series of photographs of leaves…maple, fern, oak, close-up studies in sharp detail.

“Did you take these?” I asked. “They’re really nice.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said in that formal way of his. It was starting to grow on me. The coffeepot gurgled.

So Ian McFarland had an artistic streak. That was kind of nice. Quite nice, really.

The bookcase held mostly science-related tomes…here was a page-turner—Flynn’s Parasites of Laboratory Animals. Blick! Small Animal Medical Differential Diagnosis. Along with the textbooks were scattered a few manly novels… Call of the Wild, The Old Man and the Sea. And aw! He had All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot, the charming story of the English vet.

“I loved this book when I was little!” I exclaimed, taking it out.

He looked up and almost smiled. “Me, too.”

I replaced the book and continued my perusal, coming to a picture of Ian, an older woman…attractive, lean, very blue eyes…and a gorgeous man. Hello! Might this be Alejandro? Lord, I got a little turned-on just thinking his name. “Your family?” I asked, picking up the photo.

“Yes.”

“Is your brother married?”

“Yes.”

Figured. There was another picture of his mother…with a face I quite recognized. “Is this Bono?” I yelped, snatching the photo off the shelf.

“Yes,” Ian said, smiling. “They met at a fundraiser in Africa… Nigeria, I think.”

“Wow. I always thought we’d end up together, Bono and I.”

“He’s also married,” Ian said.

“Rub it in,” I said. A few of the books were not in English. “So you speak Spanish?” I asked, wandering back over to the kitchen area.

Ian reached into another cabinet, which showed the same ruthless organization as the first. He took out a small pitcher in the same shade as the mugs, as well as a matching sugar bowl.

“Yes,” he answered. “I moved to Latin America when I was eight, spent a few years there, a couple in Chile, three in Africa. I speak passable French, too. I knew a little Swahili, but I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“That is so cool!” I exclaimed. He didn’t answer. “Or not,” I added. He gave a grudging smile, then got out some spoons. I was beginning to feel like I was at a Japanese tea ceremony…everything so precise. I had some cute pitchers and sugar bowls, too, though they were of the “high on a shelf, covered in dust” variety. My own formalities usually ended at sniffing the half-and-half to make sure it wasn’t sour. Ian opened the fridge—Good Lord, it was as anal retentive as the rest of the house, neatly wrapped foil packages lined up in a row. “Do you like to cook, Ian?” I asked.

“I don’t really have the time,” he answered. “I get most of my meals from Kitty’s Catering.”

“I’m having you over for a home-cooked meal, then. One of these days.”

He made a noncommittal sound, glancing up at me, almost meeting my eyes.

“So did you like moving around, living in so many parts of the world?” I asked.

The coffeepot beeped, and Ian seemed glad to have something to do while he answered. “I appreciate it now,” he said carefully. “It was a little hard back then.” He handed me a mug and took a sip of his own coffee. I noted that he took his coffee black. All that cream and sugar prep, just for me. It was rather flattering.

“Thanks, Ian. Sorry about intruding like this.”

“It’s fine. It’s nice to have company,” he replied.

“I think you’re lying.” I smiled as I said it.

“Only a little,” he answered, and my smile grew. Ian McFarland, making a joke! Angie seemed to approve, because she chuffed softly next to him. “Have a seat,” he said, and we moved to the living room area. Ian sat in a sleek white chair (white? With an Irish setter? Clearly she wasn’t the leg-humping, lap-sitting variety of dog, like my own beloved fur ball). I chose the couch, which was pale green, taking care not to slosh any coffee.

Outside, a chickadee sang repeatedly. Angie lay down next to Ian’s chair and put her head on his foot.

“You should have a party here,” I observed. “Have you had your staff over?”

“No,” Ian answered.

“You should. Dr. Kumar used to. And your staff is so great. I’ve known Earl and Carmella for ages.” No comment from my host. “My own boss has us over every now and again. It would be part of your warm and fuzzy campaign.” I smiled and took a sip of the joe, which was dark and nutty. Maybe his mom sent it from Colombia or something.

Ian set his cup down. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Callie,” he said slowly, not looking at me, “but I’m not exactly warm and fuzzy.” He straightened the coaster so it was exactly aligned with the edge of the coffee table.

“Well, sure, I’ve noticed, Ian,” I answered. “You’re kind of…formal. But that’s okay. We’re not trying to lie. Just make people like you more.”

“I don’t really care if people like me more, Callie. I just want to maintain my customer base.” His jaw was getting a little clenched.

“Which you can do by being a little warmer and fuzzier,” I said, smiling to show this would not be at all painful.

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?” he said after a beat.

“Good at what?”

“Working people over.”

I blinked. “Ouch, Ian!”

“What?” He gazed at me impassively, unaware that he’d just stuck a knife in my heart.

My mouth opened and closed before I could actually form words. “Well, if you mean I’m good at talking to people in a polite and interested way, Ian, then yes, I am good at it. Perhaps you can learn by my example. And thank you for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he said. “It’s an observation.”

“Why are you being mean to me?”

“I’m not being mean, Callie. I’m just…being honest. You try very hard to make everyone like you, and not everyone needs that kind of…affirmation. I don’t.”

“No, of course not. You’re perfect in every way.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Well, what are you saying?” My voice was getting a little loud, and my face felt hot.

“Just…you seem to try very hard at something that maybe you shouldn’t.”

“And how would you know anything about me?” I asked tightly.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen you in action. That older woman in line in the Department of Motor Vehicles. The guy who made things out of hair. All those people at Elements. The older man on the hike that day. You work people.”

I slapped my cup down on the coffee table, getting a gratifying twitch from my host as the coffee sloshed nearly over the rim of my cup. “I do not work people, Ian. I’m nice. I’m cheerful. I’m smart and I’m cute. People like me because those are likable qualities. Much more so than, oh, I don’t know, frosty and anal retentive, wouldn’t you say?”

He just looked at me, unblinking, and I couldn’t tell if he was mad or amused or just unfeeling. Unexpectedly, a lump rose in my throat.

“I think I should head back,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for the coffee. It was delicious. And your house is beautiful.”

“There you go again,” he murmured.

“I’m just being polite, Ian! It’s how my mother raised me! I’m sorry if you think I’m some insincere phony!”

He stood up quickly, took a step toward me and then stopped, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I don’t, Callie. I don’t think that.” He gave his head a little shake. “I don’t know how we got into this conversation.”

“Me, neither,” I muttered.

“Look, Callie,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mean to insult you, but it’s clear I did. I meant only that…” His gaze drifted to his dog, then to the bookcase. “You don’t have to try so hard.” He paused, then met my eyes with some difficulty. “Not with me, anyway.”

Oh. Oh.

Suddenly aware that my mouth was open, I shut it. What should I say? Thank you? Bite me? I don’t mean to try so hard, it’s just ingrained? Why don’t you just kiss him? Betty Boop suggested.

“I’ll walk you back to your kayak,” Ian offered.

“Okay,” I said faintly.

The walk back to the dock didn’t seem nearly as long as the walk in had. We didn’t talk. I was still trying to sort out what Ian had said, if there had been…something. He was not the easiest man to read.

The clouds were back, though a few shafts of gold pierced the lake. Rain was about an hour off, if I interpreted the signs correctly. Not that I ever did.

“Well. See you soon,” I said, looking at my kayak.

“Okay,” Ian said. “Need a hand?”

Ah, blushing. Ever reliable, those cheeks o’ mine. “Sure,” I said. He held out his hand, and I took it, and it sure did feel safer, that warm, strong hand holding mine. Alas, the second I was in the kayak, he let go.

“Next weekend’s the pet fair,” I reminded him. He stood on the rocks with his hands in his back pockets.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I’ll…I’ll call you, but everything’s pretty much in place,” I said.

“I’m sure it is,” he said, looking at me with those disconcerting blue, blue eyes. Say something, I urged him silently.

“Do you need a push?”

Not what I was hoping for. “Okay.”

And with that, he gave the boat a strong shove, sending me out past his dock.

“Thanks, Ian,” I called, giving him a wave.

“Nice seeing you,” he said, then turned and walked down the path, disappearing almost at once into the woods. I took a deep breath and started paddling uncharacteristically hard, both glad and relieved to be away from him.

You don’t have to try so hard. Not with me, anyway.

If it meant what I wanted it to mean, it was the nicest thing a man had said to me in a long, long time.

Then again, I was excellent at misinterpretation.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN A VERY RARE MANEUVER, my sister came over one night. “Hi,” I said, opening the door as Bowie leaped and crooned. “Did someone die?”

“No,” she answered. “Why? Did someone die here?”

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s just…you never come over.”

“Does that mean you’re thrilled to see me and want to pour me a glass of wine?”

“Yes! Yes, it does, Hes.”

“Keep it down!” Noah bellowed from the living room.

“We have company!” I yelled back.

“I don’t know how you live with him,” Hester said. “Dog, get off my leg or I’ll castrate you so fast you won’t know what hit you.”