She felt her chest squeeze a little. She turned the burner on.
She’d thought the biggest worry she might, might, have was that she was somehow feeling inappropriately toward the closest thing to a “local friend” she had. Now, she had a whole different set of concerns.
She swallowed. This was Otter, she told herself.
He was limping this way, she could tell. She could hear a sort of shuffling drag-thump down the hallway, then a staggered step down the stairs.
Her breathing went a little shallow. She glanced out the kitchen window. It looked like he had a big garage . . .
Wait.
The house had a carport beside it. So that would be a workshop?
Her throat went dry.
Oh, God, I am terrifying myself.
“I just wanted to thank you.” She heard him just before she saw him. “I hope it wasn’t too long a . . .”
Then he saw her and stopped, staring at her in disbelief.
She, on the other hand, felt her eyes widen and her eyebrows hit her hairline.
This was no kid.
He was about six foot one, easily, and built like a linebacker. Auburn hair, glinted through with gray. He had a beard that defined his jaw.
“I’m . . . you’re . . . ,” he spluttered, in that deep, rumbling voice, looking completely at a loss. “You can’t be . . . Boggy?”
She, on the other hand, suddenly had enough adrenaline in her system to wrestle a bear. Without thinking, she yanked open the nearby drawer, grabbing the cast-iron skillet she’d seen when pot hunting.
“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded, brandishing the pan with both hands.
He blinked.
Then he laughed.
“Yup,” he said, a deep, satisfied sound. “You’re Boggy, all right.”
CHAPTER 16
BEWARE THE QUIET ONES
Aiden stared at the tiny woman who was currently standing, wild eyed and wild haired, brandishing his cast-iron skillet. She was staring at him with a combination of fear and pure, unadulterated fury. She was wearing an oversize sweater that hung past her hips, and a pair of jeans that disappeared into a blocky pair of sheepskin boots. She looked biracial, if he had to guess—some kind of Asian?
From where he stood, he could see the pulse thumping in her throat, just along the column of her neck. She was going to stroke out if she didn’t calm down.
“It’s okay,” he said, holding up his hands gingerly, trying for soothing. “It’s just me. Otter.”
“You’re . . . Otter?” Her voice was sharp, and the pan didn’t move an inch, despite being heavy. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it.
“My real name’s Aiden, if that helps?” He put his air-booted foot out. “I really did break my foot. And I sent you the text, asking for your help, and you volunteered to bring me lunch. Which was really nice, by the way.”
Her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion, or at least, one of them did. The other was behind a long, frizzled lock of dark hair, shot through with strands of silver. She blew at it, still frowning fiercely, and he chuckled.
“We’ve been talking for weeks—well, texting,” he corrected. “Remember? We live texted that old movie—”
“Classic movie,” she interjected. The pan went down a fraction of an inch.
He grinned. “Classic movie, the black-and-white one. Where the old ladies murder people.” He laughed. “I thought maybe you were giving me a message.”
“Arsenic and Old Lace. And how are you this age—whatever age that is—and you don’t know Cary Grant?” she asked, shaking her head.
Her phone rang again. She glanced down for a minute, looking torn.
“Wait a minute,” he said as something clicked in his mind. “Didn’t I see you at Deb’s football party?”
Now she blinked slowly, and he could almost see the cogs whirling in her head. Her eyes were even darker than they’d first seemed, he noticed, with really long eyelashes. Presumably natural, since it didn’t look like she had any makeup on.
“You were petting Duchess?” she asked tentatively.
“You were grabbing your jacket.”
“Oh my God.” She put the skillet down, then wiped her palms on her jeans. The phone stopped, then rang again. “Hold on.”
She grabbed it and answered, her dark gaze never leaving his.
“Rosita, it’s fine.”
“Get the fuck out of there!” Whoever Boggy was talking to, she was loud. “I don’t care if he’s a tween, or a priest, or a fucking sex god, you get the fuck out of that house!”
“It really is fine.”
“You sent me a safety check out of nowhere, saying you’re at his house in the middle of the day and feeling nervous? Hello, red flags! You need to—”
“Rosy! It’s all right!” Her cheeks were now flaming red, he noticed, and she turned away. “False alarm. He’s a friend of my friend . . . it turns out I’ve met him before, I just didn’t know he was him. If you know what I mean.” She paused. “And . . . erm, he’s not a kid. Apparently.”
He grinned. “You thought I was a kid?” he mouthed.
She covered the mouthpiece. “I thought you were twenty, all right? Or twenty-one. Young.”
I’m old enough to be your mother!
It was kind of hilarious.
“You want to send her a picture of me? My address?” he asked softly, not wanting to interrupt.
She looked over at him, surprised.
“Is that him?” the woman yelled. “Put him on the phone!”
“Oh my God, I am not putting him on the phone,” Boggy said, sounding mortified. “It’s fine, I promise. I will call you tonight.”
“You’re goddamned right you are,” the woman said. “I went out on a pee break to make sure you weren’t being murdered. YOU ARE TELLING ME EVERYTHING.”
“I’ll, erm, send you a pic,” Boggy said. “Love you, talk tonight.”
“GRRRR!”
Boggy cut off the call, then held up her cell. “Um . . .”
He smiled as she took a picture. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked gently. “I should’ve thought it through. Going to any stranger’s house is going to be, y’know, kind of fraught. Especially for women. But you were Boggy, and I figured if anybody could handle herself, it would be you. Of course, you’re not exactly the way I, uh, envisioned you. So if there’s something else I can do to help you feel safe . . .”
“No, that’s fine,” she said. “And to be honest, I already sent my friend your address and told her where I was, before you walked in.” She said this with her chin up, completely unapologetic.
“Good,” he said, and meant it. “I mean, bad that you had to, that it’s the world we live in. But safety first.”
She looked at him, and her expression softened a fraction before she cleared her throat, looking grumpy again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That you’re old!”
He stared. Then he burst out laughing. Jesus, this woman. His chest warmed. Even in person, she cracked him up with her bluntness and energy.
“Not . . . oh, shut up. You know what I meant,” she grumbled.