Blue Smoke

overtired. Cops were prone to them. Nobody saw what they saw, touched what they touched, smelled what they smelled.
    But it would fade, as always. She could live with the images because the job meant she did something about them.
    She sat up, switched on the light. She’d eat something, get a little work done. That would ward off the three A . M . spell of wakefulness and worry.
    She was still muzzy-headed when she went downstairs. Gina was right, she decided as she trailed her fingers over a wall. She should get serious about paint, go pick up some chips, start making the house more hers.

    Commitment phobia? she wondered. She’d dragged her feet about buying a house, even though it had been something she’d wanted for years. Now she was dragging them over putting herself into the house, making it reflect her taste and style.
    Well, the first step was recognizing she had a little problem. So she’d buy some damn paint and make a stand.
    She’d get through this case, close it down. Then she’d take a week off and do something for herself. Paint and paper, some trips to the antique stores, the thrift shops. She’d plant some flowers.
    Without much interest, she poked around the kitchen. She didn’t actually feel like eating. She felt like brooding. It wasn’t her fault she was a cop and sometimes her work was unattractive and urgent. It certainly wasn’t her fault he couldn’t handle that.
    Commitment phobic, my ass, she decided. She’d been on the verge of making one to him—her first—and he jumps off the ship at the first rocky wave.
    Screw it.
    He was the one who came on to her. Dreamy green eyes, sexy mouth. Son of a bitch. She got out garlic, Roma tomatoes, began to chop as she mentally ripped Bo to pieces. Dream Girl? Bullshit. She wasn’t anybody’s dream, and had no intention of filling the slot. She was who she was, and he could take it or leave it.
    She heated olive oil in a skillet, got out red wine.
    She didn’t need him. Plenty of men out there if and when she wanted one. She wasn’t looking for some charming, sexy, funny carpenter to fill any gaps in her life.
    She didn’t have gaps.
    She sizzled garlic, then jolted at the knock on her back door. Wound up, she told herself, but she picked up the gun she’d set on the counter.
    “Who is it?”
    “It’s Bo.”
    Breathing out, she put the gun in her junk drawer. Rolled her shoulders, then unlocked the back door.

    Her chest was tight, and there was nothing she could do about it. Tight chest, dry throat, and there was a heaviness in her belly. All this was a new and unwelcome kind of dread when it came to a man.
    But she opened the door, gave him a small, casual smile. “Need a cup of sugar?”
    “Not so much. You get my message?”
    “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t get home until after four, then I had company. I caught a nap. Just got up.”
    “Figured. Your bedroom curtains were drawn when I got home, so I guessed you were getting some sleep. Thought I’d chance it when I saw the light back here. Something smells good—besides you.”
    “Oh, shit.” She dashed back to the stove, saved the garlic. “I’m just fixing some pasta.” She added the diced tomatoes, a dollop of the wine. Maybe she wasn’t hungry, particularly, but she was glad to have something to do with her hands. She added some basil, ground in some pepper, let it all simmer.
    “I guess you being good at that comes naturally. You still look tired.”
    “Thanks.” She heard her own voice, sour as lemons. “I love hearing that.”
    “I was worried about you.”
    “Sorry, comes with the territory.”
    “I guess it does.”
    “I’m going to have a glass of wine.”
    “Thanks.” His eyes stayed on hers. “That’d be good. Anything more you can tell me about what happened last night?”
    “Illegal entry, arson with multiple points of origin, messages directed at arson investigator. No loss of life.” She handed him a glass of red.
    “Are you feeling bitchy because you’re tired, because this asshole’s complicating your life, or are you pissed at me?”
    Her smile was as bitter as her tone. “Pick one.”
    “Okay, I get the first two. Why don’t you explain door number three?”
    She leaned back on the counter. “I did what I was trained to do, what I’m obliged to do, what I’m paid to do.”
    He waited a moment, nodded. “And?”

    “And what?”
    “That’s what I’m saying, and what? Who’s arguing?”
    She could be civilized, she