“That’s okay. I’ll pick you up at five. That’ll give us time to get into town, get a bite before the opening act. The Stationhouse Grille has excellent bar food. Beer battered haddock nearly as long as my forearm. Burgers, if you prefer.”
“I’m familiar. Good choice. If you’re going to pick me up, though, you’ll need to know where I live.”
Ramsey tapped the side of her head with a forefinger. “Got it.”
One of Sullivan’s eyebrows arched. “How?”
“I did a search, of course.”
18
Sullivan wasa tad embarrassed by how much he was looking forward to their date night; therefore, he never mentioned the concert to anyone at the station for fear of giving himself away and subjecting himself to endless razzing. That and the possibility that talking about it would jinx the evening. He was superstitious that way.
He was ready thirty minutes before she arrived, and although he went back and forth to the front window half a dozen times in anticipation of her arrival, he still missed seeing her pull into his driveway. The first he knew she was there was when he heard the doorbell.
She looked great, and he told her so. Her thick hair was gathered in a casual knot with lots of stray, curling tendrils framing her face. There was a light blush to her cheeks and a gloss on her splendid mouth, which brought the phrase “gilding the lily” to mind. She was wearing fingertip length khaki cargo shorts and a black tee sporting a Warhol Marilyn Monroe silkscreen. She had strappy, wedge-heeled sandals on her feet and red-orange polish on her toenails. He realized he was staring because she wiggled her toes.
“What color do you call that?”
“Perky Pimen-toes.”
Sullivan grinned. “Nice.” After checking his jeans pocket for his wallet, he announced he was ready to go. Ramsey, he noticed, wasn’t in a particular hurry. Although she hadn’t moved from the carpet runner inside the door, she was looking around, making an assessment of all that was visible.
“Nice place,” she said. “Lovely, really, but I didn’t know if you’d appreciate that assessment.”
“And yet you said it.”
“I figured you could at least tolerate ‘lovely.’ Very warm. And not a single deer head.”
“I don’t hunt. Do you want a tour?”
“Maybe later.”
Sullivan wondered how hopeful that should make him, but her expression gave nothing away. Would it have hurt her to take a last long look over her shoulder at the stone fireplace? Maybe a second glance at the woven hearth rug lying in front of it? It was an inviting space. A lingering space. He was the one regretting it was August, not October, and she was the one turning to walk out.
“We should go,” she said.
Sullivan followed, climbed in her SUV, buckled up, and waited patiently for her to start the car. Belatedly, he realized she was staring at him. “What?”
“Are you going to be all cop-judgy about my driving?”
“Nope. Man-judgy.”
“All right. I just needed to know which rule book applied.”
He understood what she meant when she bore down on the gas pedal once they hit the highway. In traffic, she slipped sideways, back and forth between the lanes with only an occasional indication that she meant to do so. In his head, he cited her for about six violations, including a rolling stop and changing lanes in the tunnel, but he never said a word until they were sitting at the bar in the Stationhouse Grille.
“Admit it,” he said, lifting his beer. “You were testing me.”
Ramsey gave a sly, sideways glance. “Hmm?”
“You know. Your driving into town. That was a test.”
“If it was, and I’m not saying it was, then you passed. You didn’t say a word.”
“Couldn’t. I was biting down so hard I tasted blood.” He stuck out the tip of his tongue and pointed to it. “Thee.” He retracted it and repeated, “See?”
She stared at his mouth. “Don’t pull the trigger on that again.”
