From this moment on, Giff Verdon meant less than nothing to her.
She picked up her bucket and moved three windows down so she could keep an eye on him.
At the moment, Lexy and her moods weren’t at the forefront of Giff’s mind. He caught the oversweet smell of fresh paint, heard the hiss of the sprayer. He worked up a smile as he rounded the stone corner of the smokehouse and saw Brian.
Little dots of sea-blue paint freckled his arms to past the elbows, and polka-dotted the old jeans he wore. An army-green tarp was spread out and covered with chaises and chairs. Brian was giving the old glider a second coat.
“Nice color,” Giff called out.
Brian moved the nozzle slowly back and forth another stroke before disengaging it. “You know Cousin Kate. Every few years she wants something different—and always ends up going with blue.”
“Freshens them up nice, though.”
“It does.” Brian flicked the motor off, set the sprayer down. “She’s ordered new umbrellas for the tables, pads for the chairs. Should be in on the ferry in another day or two. She wants the picnic tables painted over at the campground, too.”
“I can take care of that if you don’t have time.”
“I’ll probably do it.” Brian rolled his shoulders free of kinks. “Gets me out in the air. Gives me some daydreaming time.” He’d just been having a nice one, too, replaying his night with Kirby.
He knew he would never think of a stethoscope in quite the same way again.
“How’s that porch coming?”
“Got the screening in the truck. The weather looks like it’s going to hold, so I should be finished by end of the week, like Miss Kate wanted.”
“Good. I’ll try to come by and take a look at it.”
“How’s the hand doing?” Giff asked, nodding toward the bandage.
“Oh.” Frowning, Brian flexed his fingers. “A little stiff is all.” Brian didn’t ask how Giff had heard about it. News simply floated on the island’s air—especially the juiciest tidbits. The fact was, he considered it a wonder no one knew that he’d spent most of the night on the good doctor’s examining table.
“You and Doc Kirby, huh?”
“What?”
“You and Doc Kirby.” Giff adjusted his cap. “My cousin Ned was down to the beach early this morning. You know how he collects shells, polishes them up and sells them off to day-trippers down to the ferry. Seems he saw you leaving the doc’s this morning about daybreak. You know how Ned runs his mouth.”
So much for wonders, Brian mused. “Yeah, I do. How long did it take him to pass the news?”
“Well ...” Amused, Giff rubbed his chin. “I was heading down to the ferry to see if the screen came in, saw Ned on Shell Road and gave him a lift. That would make it, oh, about fifty minutes, give or take.”
“Ned’s slowing down.”
“Well, he’s getting up in age, you know. Be eighty-two come September. Doc Kirby’s a fine woman,” Giff added. “Don’t know anybody on the island doesn’t think high of her. Or you, Bri.”
“We’ve spent a few evenings together,” Brian muttered and crouched down to rub the nozzle tip with a rag. “People shouldn’t start smelling orange blossoms.”
Giff lifted a brow. “Didn’t say they were.”
“We’re just seeing each other some.”
“Okay.”
“Nobody’s thinking about making it a permanent relationship, or tangling it up with strings.”
Giff waited a moment. “You trying to convince me, Bri, or is somebody else here?”
“I’m just saying—” Brian caught himself, lifting his hands as if to signal himself to call a halt. He straightened again and tried not to be irritated by the bland and innocent smile on Giff’s face. “Did you come by here just to congratulate me on sleeping with Kirby, or is there something else on your mind?”
