“You!” she said. Her jaw remained a trifle slack.
“It still sounds like an accusation,” he said, mock-frowning at her. “I’m going to have to think about that.”
Ramsey pushed the papers in front of her out of the way and leaned back in the stiff, barely padded, no-arms office chair. She kept petitioning Paul for a new chair from the office supply center, but he said he didn’t want her to get too comfortable. She threaded her fingers together and rested them against her midriff and angled her head to regard him curiously.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. He was in uniform so she suspected the visit was job related. “Did Mel actually call something in? He hardly ever does.”
Sullivan shook his head as he studied her. “Radio transmission. Didn’t know you were the one assaulted until Karl reported it. Potatoes?”
Ramsey held up one hand, spread her fingers. “Five pounds.” She demonstrated how she blocked the blow. “I was lucky. Bruised but not damaged.”
“Is that you or the potatoes?”
“Funny.” She saw that he still looked concerned. “Sullivan. I’m fine. Really.” Ramsey raised her forearm. “I don’t know if it will raise a bruise. I shouldn’t have said that. And you”—here she jabbed an index finger in his direction—“shouldn’t be here. Don’t you have speeders to catch, cats to rescue, meth labs to raid?”
“Firemen rescue cats. That’s their thing.”
“Oh.” Her lips twitched. “I stand corrected.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Go on. Get out of here. I have to finish this report.”
He nodded, but he was putting down roots where he stood. “If your arm hurts later and you want to cancel our date, it’s okay.”
Ramsey frowned. “Are you looking for trouble?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“I mean it sounds as if you’re looking for a way out. Are you having second thoughts?”
Now it was Sullivan’s turn to frown. “No, not at all. I just wanted you to know that I’d understand if you had to cancel.”
“Look, Sullivan. You are confusing the hell of out me.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. It’s probably better if you just stop talking.”
“I can do that. Maybe.”
“I’ll be ready Friday morning at eight.” If she had to dress with her arm in a sling, she’d be ready. She wasn’t letting him off so easily. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and one of her dark eyebrows lifted a fraction. “And you better be early or I’ll think you’re not coming. It’ll piss me off.”
Sullivan could not quite keep his smile in check but his gray eyes remained steady and serious. “I wouldn’t like that,” he said gravely.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Nodding once, firmly, Sullivan left.
12
Ramsey examinedthe purplish bruise on her forearm when she got out of the shower. Oddly enough, or perhaps not oddly at all, it was the size of a spud. It was tender to the touch but not painful. If she wore long sleeves, there was every chance that she’d forget it was there.
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table, saw she had sufficient time to dither, and picked up her phone for weather information. When the app informed her that the outside temperature was cool enough to wear jeans, she used up several dithering minutes to locate her favorite pair. After rummaging through drawers and the closet with no joy, she was struck by a vague memory of having actually washed them. She found them in the laundry room lying neatly over the ironing board. Tossing them over her shoulder, she hurried back to her bedroom to exchange her towel for a lemon-yellow bra and matching thong. She carefully stepped into the faded jeans to avoid poking her toes through the knees that were less denim and more string and wriggled into them. She added a lime green long-sleeved tee and sat on the bed while she put on no-show socks. One was lime green; the other lemon yellow.
Without benefit of a mirror, Ramsey braided her hair and tied it off with a purple elastic band because she couldn’t find one in either lime or lemon. What remained of her dithering time was used up deciding what she wanted for breakfast. She settled on a hardboiled egg and a piece of buttered rye toast. She was wiping crumbs from the counter when the doorbell rang. She opened up the dishwasher, swept the crumbs inside, and closed the door with her hip.
Ramsey peeked through the front window before she deactivated the security alarm. Sullivan had already moved away from the door by the time she opened it. He stood at the edge of the porch, one shoulder resting against a column, his arms folded casually across his chest. She met his frank gaze, returned his crooked smile with a tentative one of her own, and then stood still for his head-to-toe inspection.
“You’re going to want to wear a jacket,” he said. “At least until it warms up.”
It was then that Ramsey took notice of what Sullivan was wearing. Except for his leather jacket, they were dressed in a similar fashion, so similar that Ramsey had an urge to run back in the house to change her clothes. His green tee was a shade closer to shamrock than lime, but his faded jeans had blowouts at the knees just like hers.
