“What?”
“I was speaking to my dog. Otherwise, he’d…object when you draw your weapon.”
“Wouldn’t want that.” Brooks passed Abigail the wine, put on the glasses and the ear protectors.
“You use a Glock 22,” she noted. “It’s a good weapon.”
“Gets the job done.” Now he took his stance, loosened his shoulders, fired six rounds.
He glanced back at the dog as he holstered the weapon. Bert hadn’t moved.
Abigail drew in the target, stood a moment, studying the grouping that was a near twin of hers.
“You’re also an excellent shot.”
“I always figure if you carry, you’d better hit what you aim at. I got a good hand with a long gun. My mother’s got a flower child’s objection to guns, could be why I honed a skill with them. Standard rebellion, I suppose.”
“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Have you shot anyone?”
“Not so far. I’d like to go on saying that. I had to draw my weapon a few times, but it never came to firing it.”
“Could you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know if you never have?”
“Protect and serve.” He looked at her, those changeable eyes sober now. “Protect comes first. I’ve got no business having a badge if I can’t protect. But I’d be happy if it never came to putting a bullet into anyone.” He, too, picked up his brass. “Have you?”
“Shot anyone? No. But then, I’d say that even if I had. To say I had would only lead to more questions.”
“You’re not wrong. Could you?”
“Yes. I could.” She waited a moment. “You don’t ask how I know.”
“I don’t have to. Have you got any of that pie left? And before you ask why, I’ll tell you. Now that we’ve shown each other what good shots we are, I thought we could crack that bottle open, have a glass of wine and a piece of pie.”
“The wine was a ploy.”
“In part, but it’s still a pretty good wine.”
He had his mother’s charm, she decided, and very likely the same skill in getting his way. There was no point denying she found him physically attractive. Her hormonal reaction to his looks, his build, his demeanor, even his voice? Completely natural.
“I can’t eat all the pie. It’s too much for one person.”
“Shame to waste it, too.”
She stowed the protective gear in the seat of the bench. “All right. You can have the pie and the wine. But I won’t have sex with you.”
“Now you hurt my feelings.”
“No, I haven’t.” Deciding to make her position clear, she started for the house. “I like sex.”
“See there, we just keep finding common ground. If this keeps up, we’ll be best friends inside a week.”
“If I wanted friends, I’d join a book club.”
Loosening up, he thought, delighted with the sarcasm. “I like to read, which is another check mark on common ground. But we were talking about sex.”
