Angels Fall

sheets in the washing machine.
    "Shit."
    He shoved away from the desk, headed downstairs to the utility room and the elf-sized washer and dryer. Once he had the sheets tumbling, he turned back to survey the kitchen.
    The breakfast dishes were in the sink. Okay, so were last night's dinner dishes. The local paper, and the pages of his daily copy of the Chicago Tribune he subscribed to—old habits die hard—were spread out on the table, along with a couple of his notebooks, assorted pens and pencils, a pile of mail.
    He accepted the fact he'd have to clean it up, which was only a minor pain in the ass. And since that was offset by the guarantee of a good, hot meal and the distinct possibility of sex, it was a reasonable use of his time.
    Besides, he wasn't a pig.
    He pushed up the sleeves of his ratty, and favorite, sweatshirt, then took the piled dishes out of the sink. "Why do you put them in there in the first place?" he asked himself as he squirted in soap, ran hot water. "Every single damn time you do this, you have to pull them back out again."
    He washed, he rinsed, he wished the cabin had a goddamn dishwasher. And he thought of Reece.
    He wondered if she'd kept her appointment with Doc Wallace. He wondered what he'd see in those big dark eyes of hers when she walked in his door that evening. Ease, nerves, amusement, sorrow.
    How would she look working in his kitchen, putting food together the way an artist creates. Using shapes and colors and textures and balance.
    Then there would be the scents, the tastes—of what she prepared and of her. He was getting uncharacteristically wrapped up in the scents and tastes of her.
    He set the dishes to drain and got to work on the table. It occurred to him he'd never really shared a meal with anyone in the cabin. Beer and pretzels maybe, if Doc or Mac or Kick dropped over.
    He'd hosted a poker game a time or two when he'd been in the mood. More beer again, chips, cigars.
    There'd been wine and scrambled eggs at two a.m. with the delightful Gwen from L.A. who'd come to ski and had ended up in his bed one memorable night in January.
    But those casual interludes didn't have quite the same resonance as having a woman cook you a meal and share it with you in your place.
    He took the papers into the utility room, to stack on the pile he hauled out for recycling weekly. Though he frowned at the bucket and mop, he gathered them up.
    "See, not a pig," he muttered as he mopped the kitchen floor.
    He should straighten up the bedroom, probably, in case things went that way. If they didn't go that way, at least he wouldn't have to look at the mess while he suffered through a restless night alone.
    He scrubbed a hand over his face, reminding himself to shave. He hadn't bothered with it that morning.
    She'd probably want candles, so he'd dig some out. Pretty sure he had something that would do, and he had to admit it was nice to sit down to dinner with a pretty woman in candlelight.
    But when he caught himself wondering if it was the right time of year for tulips, he stopped short.
    Absolutely not. That was crazy thinking. When a guy went out and bought a woman flowers—especially her favorite flowers—he was just asking for her to pick up serious signals. Dangerous and complicated signals.
    No damn tulips.
    Besides, if he bought flowers he'd have to buy something to stick them in. He just wasn't going there.
    A clean kitchen would have to do it. and if she didn't like it…
    "Wine. Damn it."
    He knew without looking all he had was beer and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Grumbling, he prepared to leave the housekeeping for a drive to town when inspiration struck.
    He dug out the notepad that held phone numbers and called the liquor store.
    '"Hey, has Reece Gilmore been in there for wine today? Yeah? What did she— Oh, okay. Thanks. I'm good, thanks. How you doing? Uh-huh." Brody leaned a hip into the counter, knowing payment for the information that he and Reece would be dining on something that went with Chenin Blanc was a few minutes of conversation and gossip.
    Bu he straightened back up when his informant mentioned the sheriff had been in earlier that day with a copy of Doc Wallace's sketch.
    "Did you recognize the woman? No. Yeah. I saw it. No. I can't say I thought she looked anything like Penelope Cruz. No, Jeff, I really don't think Penelope Cruz was in the area and got herself murdered. Sure, if I hear anything, I'll let you know. See you later."
    Brody hung up, shaking his