High Noon

it.”
    “My head is actually spinning.” She laid her hand on one side of it as if to keep it centered. “Why do you think I could do all that?”
    “You are doing it. You’d just keep doing it—except for the boxing and shipping, depending on how you want to handle it. Here, come with me a minute.” He grabbed her hand as he pushed back from the table, pulled her into the dining room.
    “What do you call that?”
    She frowned at the long runner she’d designed in soft pastels for the dining room table. “A runner.”
    “A runner. Got it. So, if you were to make one just like that and sell it, what would you charge?”
    “Oh, well.” She had to calculate. She’d made one very similar for a client once, and several shorter ones for others over the years. She gauged the price as best she could without a calculator.
    Duncan nodded, did some rapid calculations of his own. “I could give you fifteen percent more than that, and still make a decent profit.”
    Her cheeks went white, then flushed warm pink. “Fifteen percent more?” She grabbed an end of the runner. “You want it now? I’ll box it right up for you.”
    He grinned. “You keep that one, and start thinking about making more. And whatever else you’ve a mind to make. I’m going to need some time to get this up and running, but I guarantee we’ll be rocking by the Christmas shopping season.” He held out a hand. “Partner?”
     
    Duncan considered it a really good day if by seven, regardless of what had come before, there was pizza and beer on the veranda.
    He’d lit candles, as much to discourage the bugs as to add some light. His bare feet were propped on the padded wicker hassock. He’d left the TV on in the living room, angling himself so he could watch some basketball action through the window if he wanted. Or just listen to the play-by-play and stare off into the soft dark.
    He’d had enough of people for the day. As sociable as he was, he hoarded his alone time. And he liked to listen to the sounds of the game, but he just simply loved the sounds of the night.
    The quiet swooshing of air through the trees, the hum of insects, the incessant music of peepers entertained him. It was a good spot—veranda, chair and hassock—and the best time of day to figure things out. Or to let them go.
    He’d been tempted to hang out in Essie’s kitchen until Phoebe came in from work. So why hadn’t he? Hang around too much, he decided, and become a fixture. Or an annoyance. It was all a matter of balance, to his way of thinking. And intriguing the woman in question so maybe she was just a little off hers.
    Besides, every time he saw her, he wanted to grab her. Considering what she’d been through, he didn’t think she was at the grabbing stage yet.
    He finished off a slice of pizza, contemplated another. Then glanced over at the sound of a car. His brows lifted when he realized the car wasn’t passing by but heading in.
    He didn’t recognize it, but he recognized the woman who stepped out of it. And this, he thought, was a better way to end the day than pizza and beer.
    “Hey, Phoebe.”
    “Duncan.” She pushed at her hair as she walked to the veranda. “I was at the bridge before it occurred to me you probably weren’t here, and then it was too late not to keep going. But here you are anyway.”
    “I’m here a lot. I mostly live here.”
    “So you’ve said.”
    “Want some pizza? A beer?”
    “No, and no. Thank you.”
    The formal tone had him lifting his eyebrows again. “How about a chair?”
    “I’m fine, thanks. I want to ask what you’re doing with my mother.”
    Okay. “Well, I asked her to marry me, but she avoided giving me an answer. I don’t think she took me seriously so I settled for the cookies.”
    “I’m wondering how seriously you take her, or yourself.”
    “Why don’t you tell me why you’re pissed at me, and we’ll go from there?”
    “I’m not pissed. I’m concerned.”
    Bullshit, he thought. He knew a pissed-off woman when she was standing on his veranda ready to chew holes in him. “About?”
    “My mother’s bursting with excitement over this business you talked to her about.”
    “You don’t want her to be excited?”
    “I don’t want her to be disappointed, or disillusioned or hurt.”
    His voice was as cool as his neglected beer. “Which would be the natural consequence of excitement over the project we discussed. Which, as I recall,” he added, “doesn’t involve