Ex and the Single Girl (27 page)

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the couch, exhaling. The truth was, I couldn
’
t care less about Austen or the dissertation. I
’
d been watching six hours of one sexy
Brit because all I could think about was another sexy Brit, the one I
’
d given myself to last night when my eyes were closed. The one who
’
d given me a spectacular orgasm and didn
’
t even know he
’
d done it.

I sat up and tried to shrug the tension out of my s
houlders. Peter
’
s shift would be ending at noon, when Mags returned from whatever it was she was doing in the mornings. Although he hadn
’
t tried to make plans when I ushered him out the door the night before, I knew he
’
d probably be coming by. I also knew
I wasn
’
t ready to make any decisions about Peter. Maybe he had changed, maybe he hadn
’
t. I wasn
’
t ready to figure all that out now.

I looked over at my kitchen counter, where the ring box remained, untouched since Peter had set it there. I
’
d been eating an
d cleaning around it, but I knew it wouldn
’
t wait there forever.

I stood up, took one last drag on the cigarette, and stubbed it out. The one thing I wanted more than anything was to get some fresh air. To walk.

To pound some nails into the east wall of Mo
rris and Trudy Babb
’
s barn.

Why not? I thought as my heart raced. He said he
’
d missed me. He said he wanted me to keep coming by.

And he said he wanted to just be friends.

My eyes were drawn once again, almost magnetically, to the ring box. I decided a fri
end was exactly what I needed and went into my room to find a fresh towel.

“
Ian?”
I called as I stepped into the barn, holding my hand over my eyes and squinting as my vision adjusted from the bright outdoors to the dim barn where someone was moving wood a
round.

“
Portia, girl, that you?”
Bridge stood up straight and wiped his arm against his forehead.

“
Yeah. I just stopped by to help Ian with the restoration. What are you doing here?”

Bridge grinned, his white teeth shining behind the sawdust- covered moust
ache and beard. “
Pretty much the same. Didn
’
t feel right to let him do all the work on it, considering I
’
m the caretaker of the property.”
He sat down on the pile of wood and patted the spot next to him. “
Come sit with me for a minute. I was just about to
take a break.”

I sat next to him, facing the east wall. Most of the lower supports were in place, and some scaffolding had been set up at the second level.

“
I sure wish Trudy could see this,”
he said after taking a long swig of his water. “
I think she
’
d be
mighty pleased.”

“
Yeah.”
I kicked my legs out and let them fall back against the wood. “
You think she
’
ll ever come back?”

Bridge sighed. “
I like to think maybe. Morris Jr.
’
s in Fargo and Brenda
’
s in Wichita. She mostly summers with them and winters in Sar
asota with her sister.”
He shook his head. “
She ain
’
t been back to this place since...oh, must have been the August after Morris passed. She loves the place, all right, but it
’
s just hard for her to visit, you know. Memories can be hard on people.”

I stole
a glance at Bridge and gave a small smile. “
I know.”
He nudged me slightly with his shoulder. I nudged back. He took off his gloves, leaned over, and pulled a bag of carrots out of a cooler, and we munched in silence for a minute.

“
Where
’
s Ian?”
I asked a
fter practicing my inflection in my mind so I wouldn
’
t sound like I cared too much. “
Is he writing?”
Bridge shook his head. “
No. He had some business to do with Carl Raimi. Should be back before too long.”

“
Carl Raimi?”
The words caught in my throat as I r
emembered how close Ian and Carl had come to duking it out in the streets of Truly. “
What kind of business?”

Bridge raised one eyebrow at me. “
The kind of business that
’
s his business to tell.”
He shook his head. “
You
’
re just as nosy as ever, aren
’
t you?”

I feigned offense. “
You
’
re confusing me with Mags and Vera.”
I saw something in his eyes tighten when I said Vera
’
s name, but he recovered quickly. I might not even have noticed it if I didn
’
t know Bridge so well.

“
Portia, don
’
t you go fooling yourself,”
h
e said quietly. “
You
’
re a Miz Fallon, just like the rest of
’
em. And someday you might just realize that ain
’
t necessarily a bad thing.”

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. I didn
’
t want to extend a conversation that danced around Vera if i
t was going to make Bridge sad.

“
It
’
s good to see you again, Bridge,”
I said finally. “
Really good.”

He reached over and ruffled my hair. “
You too, kiddo.”

“
Portia?”
A jolt ran through me at the sound of Ian
’
s voice, and I turned my head to see him enterin
g the barn. My face started to heat up and my heart pounded so fiercely I thought sure they
’
d both see it right through my T-shirt.

It wasn
’
t him last night. It was Peter. Get a grip, Portia.
“
Hey,”
I said, hopping down off my perch. “
We were just talking
about you.”

Ian smiled, tossing his jacket on the spot where I
’
d been sitting. “
Nothing bad, I hope.”

“
No,”
I said. “
How
’
s Raimi?”

Ian glanced at Bridge, then back at me.

“
Seems to be well.”
He cleared his throat. “
He
’
s dropping the charges against your mo
ther.”

“
Really?”
I crossed my arms and eyed him suspiciously. “
I wonder why.”

Ian shrugged. “
I don
’
t know. I, uh, bumped into him in the, uh, the store...”

“
The Piggly Wiggly,”
Bridge offered. I glanced at him and he looked away. Men sticking together.

“
Ye
s, the Piggly Wiggly. I asked after his cows, and we got to talking and...he told me he
’
s dropping the charges.”
He motioned toward the scaffolding. “
Good job with the scaffolding, Bridge.”

I thought about pushing the subject, delving into his obvious lie,
but I didn
’
t want to put Bridge through that. The poor guy was still in love with a Miz Fallon. He
’
d been through enough. Bridge cleared his throat. “
Thanks. It
’
s a specialty.”

Ian smiled at him. “
I
’
d have been happy to help if you
’
d waited for me.”

“
I wa
ited
’
bout as long as I had the patience to wait,”

Bridge said, lowering himself off the pile of wood. “
Portia
’
ll tell you, I
’
m not long on patience.”

Ian smiled and picked up a plank of wood. “
Well, then, let
’
s get down to work, shall we?”
He looked at me
and nodded toward the pegs on the back wall, where a tool belt was hanging. “
I suppose you should suit up, Portia.”
He paused and looked at me. “
Assuming you
’
re here to work?”

I smiled. “
Why else would I be here?”

“
All right. I
’
m done. My arm is going to
fall off if I hammer one more nail.”
I pivoted my arm around in a circle and sat down, swinging my legs over the side of the scaffolding and folding my arms over the metal support pole. Warm, fading daylight filtered through the wide opening in the south
w
all. Bridge had left an hour before, and Ian and I had worked at a furious pace since, just now starting to slow down.

Ian put a plank of wood on the pile and looked up at me, his eyes tight on mine.

“
She is fair,”
he said softly, “
and, fairer than that wo
rd, of wondrous virtues...Her name is Portia...”

I stared at him for a moment, speechless. “
What?”

He blinked, and seemed to snap back from wherever he
’
d been. “
Merchant of Venice”

“
Yeah,”
I said. “
I know.”

We locked eyes in silence for a long moment, and
then he smiled. “
I
’
ve been trying to remember that quote for a while. I kept meaning to look it up. Kept forgetting. But it hit me when I looked at you just now.”
He laughed and lowered his eyes to his hands. “
It just came back to me.”

There was something
twisting in my chest at the way he looked standing there, staring at his hands. A little confused. A lot vulnerable. I wanted more than anything to hop off that scaffold and wrap myself around him, but as we were mere days away from the let
’
s-just-be-frie
n
ds bit, I opted for a sympathy subject change.

“
You know,”
I said, “
someday Marlowe
’
s gonna get proper credit for that.”

Ian laughed and leaned his rear end against the pile of wood. “
Oh, you
’
re still on about Marlowe, are you?”

“
Have you not read
Dr. Faustus
? Isn
’
t it obvious the same author wrote the plays attributed to Shakespeare?”

“
Frankly, no.”
He grinned. “
Not to me, nor to five hundred years
’
worth of scholars, I might add.”

I huffed. “
You don
’
t think it
’
s a coincidence that an illiterate fa
rmer started writing works of genius in 1593, the very year that Marlowe supposedly died?”

He smiled. “
Coincidence is all well and good. You have no proof.”

“
I
’
ll get it.”

“
How?”

I gave him a playful stare through narrowed eyelids. “
I
’
ll go to England and
find it. And then I
’
ll get a big plate of crow and serve it up for you nice and hot.”

His grin faded a touch, replaced by a softer, more thoughtful smile. “
I
’
ll look forward to that.”

This followed by intense eye contact hurtling through an electric silenc
e. I had to say, based on appearances, we were both sucking pretty bad at this just-friends thing.