Roses Have Thorns, page 8
The dogs and I arrived home just as the first flakes began falling from the sky. I sighed unhappily as I stripped out of my outer clothing and took the dogs out of their harnesses. I usually loved winter—even with the average 63 inches of snow we got every year—but I did not relish the thought of trudging through it tonight. I wanted to stay home, sit by my fireplace, and watch the weather through double-glazed windows.
I decided to do just that. I’d invite Sawyer over, make dinner, and serve it by the hearth in the living room. We could watch one of the approximately 500 DVDs I had, or stream something else if he didn’t like my choices. After building up a cheerful fire and making sure I had enough wood in the house to keep it going all night, I called Sawyer’s cellphone.
“Livingston,” he said. This time, there was no background noise. Maybe he was at the office.
“Hi. It’s June. About tonight—”
“Oh, right.” He sounded distracted. “Listen, I’m told it’s really starting to come down out there, and I’ve had a long day, so would you—”
“We can cancel,” I said, hurrying to interrupt him. I didn’t want him to be the one to cancel things. For some reason, it was vital to me that I be the one to do that. Probably something to do with my fragile ego.
There was a short silence before he asked, “Do you want to cancel?”
“Don't you?”
“No. I want to see you tonight.” My heart took off soaring; no fear of a crushed ego. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come over tonight. I’ll make dinner. Maybe. To be honest, I have no idea what’s in the kitchen at the moment. I can’t remember the last time I ate at home.”
I laughed with relief. “Oh, that’s funny. I was going to ask you the same thing. If you wanted to come here, I mean. I’ve already got a fire built, and unlike you, I know exactly what I have in my kitchen. I could make cullen skink or cock-a-leekie soup. Or maybe you’d prefer French onion?”
“What in the world is cullen skink?”
“Fish chowder, with smoked haddock and potatoes and leeks. It’s Scottish. My dad loves it.”
“Oh. Wow. That sounds good.” He sounded less distracted now, and I smirked. The old adage about the best way to a man’s heart being through his stomach was certainly true. You could engage almost any man’s interest just by telling them about food, especially food that you yourself were about to cook for them. Of course, the opposite was true as well. I knew I was far more interested in any conversation that was related to eating.
“It is. It’s really quite good and easy to make. Shall I do that?”
“Yeah. That sounds nice. What can I bring?”
“You don’t have to bring anything. Just yourself. Though if you want to get on the dogs’ good side, you might pick them up some new toys. They like Nylabone and Kong best.”
He laughed and the sound of it brought a huge smile to my face. “That sounds like a decent trade. I’ll see you about seven then, okay?”
“Perfect. Be careful out there.”
“Will do.” He hung up, and I went into my kitchen to begin preparing the soup, using a haddock Denys Barre had set aside specially for me the last time he’d gone fishing. He’d even smoked it before giving it to me. While the fish cooked, I began cleaning and chopping onions, leeks, and potatoes.
I was just pulling a loaf of bread from the oven when Sawyer knocked on my front door. The dogs predictably went nuts, barking and ricocheting around the front hallway as I tried to get to the door. “Down, beasts! Back! Back, I say!” I called out, finally making it through the scrum and pulling the door open. The dogs were in an acceptable down-wait, though Cornbread’s excitement was visible in her trembling flanks and bright eyes. Dundee looked slightly less aloof than the last time Sawyer had stopped by, too.
Sawyer’s hat and the shoulders of his sherpa-lined suede coat were covered with snow. I frowned at him, taking in the cold-reddened nose and cheekbones and his general air of chill. “Did you fall in a snowbank between your truck and my front door?” I peered past him into the falling snow and didn’t see his truck, either in my drive or at the curb. “Where did you park?”
He stepped inside and kissed my cheek as he went past. His lips were freezing and I shivered before closing the door with alacrity. “In my garage. I walked.”
“You walked?” I helped him take off his coat and hat and gloves and scarf, hanging them from the hall tree. He produced a bottle of red wine from beneath his black sweater and presented it to me with a smile. I nodded to the dogs, releasing them from their spots, and they inspected Sawyer’s ankles with interest before Cornbread accepted pets. Dundee even stuck his head under Sawyer’s hand, a move that shocked me.
“I walked. I didn’t want to chance the truck getting stuck. I might need it before Denys gets the streets plowed.” He sniffed the air dramatically. “That smells amazing. Is that dinner?”
“It is.” The dogs and I led Sawyer into the kitchen, where the soup was on the stove, gently simmering and the bread was waiting for slicing. “Pour the wine and bring it out to the living room. I thought we could eat out there and watch a movie. Look through my DVDs and pick one.”
“That sounds great.” He pulled down two of my wineglasses and brought them and the bottle out to the living room, while I sliced and buttered bread and served up the soup, carrying everything out to the coffee table in front of the couch on an olive wood tray my parents had brought home from their last trip abroad.
I found Sawyer sitting in the floor between the couch and the coffee table, with Cornbread’s head in his lap and Dundee leaning his full weight against Sawyer’s side. “Okay,” I said, putting the food down on the table and dropping onto the floor next to Sawyer. “I think my dogs like you more than they like me. I’m officially jealous.”
“That’s because I bribed them.” He nodded to a pile of new, unchewed Nylabones and a Kong tug toy near the TV. I chuckled and scratched Cornbread’s neck before gently pushing her away. She grumbled but stood up, shook, then climbed onto the couch behind us.
“Did you decide on a movie?” I asked as I took the soup and bread off the tray and laid a spoon down next to Sawyer’s bowl.
“Yeah,” he said, taking his spoon and dipping it into his soup for a tentative bite. “Oh, man. That’s amazing. You’ll have to make this for me more often.” He took a real bite this time and reached for a slice of bread. After swallowing, he said, “I thought maybe we could watch Midnight in Paris.” The DVD was laying on the edge of the TV stand.
I stared at him for a moment, my spoon frozen halfway to my mouth. “Midnight in Paris. Really? I didn’t know you liked Woody Allen.”
He shrugged with embarrassment. “It looked good. Plus it reminds me of something my mom would have liked. It’s her birthday this week. I guess I’m missing her.”
“Oh,” I said and smiled sadly. Both of his parents had died a number of years ago, drowned in a boating accident while Sawyer was in the Persian Gulf aboard the USS Hopper, scrapping with Iranian Revolutionary Guard gunboats. “Let’s watch it, then. It’s one of my favorites. And the star looks a bit like you. You’ve even got the same crooked nose.”
He reached up and gently touched the bridge of his nose, which had been broken at least twice that I knew of. “You have Jason to blame for that. He broke it during hockey games when we were still in high school. He sure didn’t like me for some reason.” Jason was Joss’s twin brother and a one-time rival for my affections. Since he was Joss’s twin, I never really felt comfortable with the thought of dating him—if we broke up, the fallout might have damaged my relationship with Joss, and in some ways, she was closer to me than Hazel. But then I’d started seeing Sawyer, and Jason had faded into the background.
I chuckled softly and got up to put the film on then returned to my spot next to him. We ate and watched the film, remarking on scenery or decisions a character made, the costumes and the music. Sawyer seemed to be enjoying the movie and the food, and when it was over, he made no moves to leave. I glanced outside and saw that the snowfall had picked up and it seemed as though we were on the verge of a blizzard.
“You should probably go before it starts coming down even harder out there,” I said, glancing back at him to find him watching me closely. His scrutiny made me feel self-conscious and I reached up to run an unsteady hand through my hair.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked, moving close enough that his face was a scant few inches from mine. His eyes were so blue.
“Not especially,” I responded, my voice dropping into a husky whisper. I bit my lower lip and stared at him, feeling like I was falling into the summer sky of his eyes. After a moment, I drew a deep breath and leaned back, dropping my gaze to the dishes on the coffee table. “But shouldn’t you? I mean, don’t you have a murder to investigate? How is that going, by the way? Any new suspects?”
He chuckled softly, clearly seeing right through my ham-fisted attempt at getting information out of him. “There’s a person of interest,” he said, rising to his feet with the same boneless grace of a hunting cat. “Not necessarily a suspect, but someone I’m looking at closely.” He began loading up the dirty dishes onto the tray I’d left on the table.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, standing up as well. “I can take care of it.”
“Well, if I don’t look into this guy, I might never solve Rob’s murder.” He held the loaded tray out of my reach and headed into the kitchen. “And no, you can’t take care of it. You’re still not a deputy.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes at his horrible joke and followed him into the kitchen, where he’d laid the tray down on the counter near the sink and was in the process of loading the dishes into the dishwasher. I perched on a stool across the counter from him and watched, feeling both slightly guilty and more than slightly appreciative of his efforts. “So who’s this person of interest?”
He paused in the act of sliding the spoons into the silverware basket and looked up at me. His eyes had gone hard and assessing, robbing them of their previous sunny splendor. “You probably don’t know him,” he said, going back to the dishwasher. “We finally tracked down the driver of that truck you saw, so I’m going to go talk to him tomorrow.” He glanced out the window above the sink and shook his head a little. “Maybe. If this doesn’t turn into a blizzard between then and now.” He finished what he was doing and washed his hands at the sink, turning to face me and drying his hands on a towel that hung from my oven’s handle. “Hey, does your dad or Dr. Steve drink scotch?”
“You’re asking if my father, a man born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, drinks scotch?”
“Yeah, now that I’ve asked that, I feel kind of silly. Do you happen to know what his favorite is?”
“He likes Laophraig. Why?”
“We found a bottle of the Macallan in Rob’s office, along with two glasses with a little scotch in the bottom of them still. I was just wondering if it was left over from a visit from your dad. What about Dr. Steve? Do you know if he drinks that?”
“No, I don’t. The Macallan is a little pricey for my dad, though I imagine Dr. Steve could afford it. What about fingerprints? On the bottle or the glasses?”
“They’d been wiped clean. I sent the glasses off to the state police’s crime lab for DNA testing, but it’s gonna be at least another week before I get results back. So in the meantime, I do things the old-fashioned way.”
“Shoe leather and face-to-face conversations?”
He chuckled and put the towel back on the oven door. “Exactly. So. You never did answer my question: do you want me to leave now?” He closed the distance between us and leaned forward against the counter opposite me. The summer had returned to his eyes and I found myself sighing like a besotted teenager, which coincidentally was the last time I’d really looked into Sawyer Livingston’s eyes like this.
“I did too answer your question,” I said, feeling a bolt of heat race through me when he leaned in even closer. “I said you probably should go, but that I didn’t especially want you to.”
He reached out to slide a tendril of my hair through his index and middle fingers, bringing it up to his nose and sniffing delicately. “You still use the same shampoo that you used in high school,” he commented before letting go of my hair.
“If it ain’t broke,” I said, trailing off as my toes curled in my socks. He brought both hands up to cup my cheeks before leaning in to kiss me with an entire forest fire’s worth of heat. This was no gentle, chaste kiss between friends as all our others had been. This was a kiss with promise, a kiss that scared me more than a little.
He broke the kiss at least a million years later. “I’ve been waiting for five years to do that,” he whispered against my lips before letting go of me and straightening up a bit.
I blinked and glanced up at him as he came around the counter to stand next to me. “Five years?”
“Since you came back from Scotland,” he said, reaching for my hand to help me off my stool. He led me into the living room, where the fire I’d built earlier was in the process of dying out due to neglect. After seeing me settled on the couch, he added more wood and poked it a couple of times. The flames leapt in the river-rock hearth, pumping out a significant amount of heat. Or maybe that was just me.
Sawyer sat down next to me and reached for my hand again, taking it between both of his and examining it. My hand looked like a child’s in his grasp, and an image of Joe holding my hands while he recited his wedding vows popped uninvited into my head. I still deeply felt the sting of Joe’s loss and I knew I probably always would. I loved him now just as much as I had when we’d first married. But I couldn’t deny that I also felt something for Sawyer, something that spending so much time with him lately was reigniting. Was I wrong? Was it somehow being unfaithful to Joe’s memory to be with Sawyer?
I sighed softly and disengaged from Sawyer’s grip. He looked up at me, a frown marring his forehead as he searched my eyes. Whatever he saw there made him smile sadly. “I should go,” he said.
I nodded without saying anything and followed him to the front hall, where he carefully put on all the layers of winter clothing he’d had taken off when he’d arrived hours ago. I grabbed his hand before he could turn away and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss against his mouth. While this one lacked all the heat of his, there was still a definite promise in it.
“I’ll send a text once I get home,” he said. “Thanks for dinner and the movie. You’re right; I did like it. Goodnight, Junie.”
“‘Night, Sawyer.” I opened the door for him and watched for a moment as he navigated the arctic wasteland that was my front yard and the unplowed expanse of Court Avenue. I soon lost sight of him and closed the door, leaning my forehead against it with a thunk. It was such a satisfying sound that I did it again. Twice. Thunk. Thunk.
I guess it really was too soon to start dating again after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sawyer’s text was waiting for me when I woke up. It was simple: Thanks for dinner and the movie. Let’s do it again soon.
Tonight? I sent back and sat on the edge of my bed waiting for his reply, staring down at my phone, which was laying on my knees. I felt a tiny pull of guilt over my excitement about spending more time with Sawyer, but rationalized it away by telling myself that five years was a long time to grieve and to be alone. Besides, I was certain that Joe wouldn’t want me mourning him for the rest of my life. He’d want me to be happy again.
I’ll get you at 7. Bring overnight bag and pie from Tout Sweet.
Well. That was bold of him, assuming I’d be staying the night. Of course, his house had three extra bedrooms. Maybe he was planning on me staying in one of them. I texted back an affirmative and began thinking about what sort of pie I should get. Pumpkin? Or maybe sour cream-apple. I thought I remembered it being Sawyer’s favorite.
As I was shoveling off my porch steps, I noticed a silver Ford pickup driving past my house. I got excited for a moment, thinking Sawyer had come by, but then I remembered that his truck was black. I waved at the driver, who did not wave back, thus violating one of the biggest Downeast Maine rules—you always waved back to anyone who waved at you first, regardless if you knew them. “Rude,” I muttered and attacked the last step with gusto, shoving the snow off to the side where it landed in a neat little pile. I started in on the path from my front door to the street next, and by the time I was finished, I had completely forgotten about the rude driver.
While I ate breakfast, I called Sarah. “Should we bother opening the shop?” I asked after we’d exchanged hellos and the requisite discussions of current weather and future weather.
“I don’t know,” she said. While it wasn’t snowing at the moment, the forecast called for more soon, so foot traffic would be all but nonexistent as tourists and locals both huddled around fireplaces instead of braving the elements to purchase flowers.
I was silent for a moment, mulling over whether to open the shop. “I guess I won’t. I think I’ll just go in and see if there are any FTD orders and deliver them if there are.”
