River’s End

nitwit. You might as well. Damn it!”
    Liv’s eyes widened as he leaped inside the door. She could hear him cursing. Curiosity won and had her following him inside.
    He jabbed a code into a security panel just inside the door. “Just had this installed. I keep forgetting it’s here. If I set off the alarm again, my neighbors are going to lynch me. There.” He blew out a breath when the signal light blinked on green. “Another small victory of man against machine. Have a seat.”
    “I can’t stay.”
    “Uh-huh. I’ll just get us a glass of wine while you think of the reason you can’t sit down for fifteen minutes after driving all the way down the coast.”
    “My aunt and uncle are expecting me.”
    “This minute?” he asked from the kitchen.
    “No, but—”
    “Well, then. You want some chips with this? I think I have some.”
    “No. I’m fine.” But since she was here, what harm would it do to have one civil glass of wine?
    She thought his living room was sparsely furnished, no-frills male, but not unattractive. Then she remembered he’d told her his home had been trashed. It certainly explained why everything looked showroom fresh and unused.
    “I was glad to hear your friend’s going to be okay.”
    “It was touch-and-go the first couple of days.” And the thought of it could still give him a raw sensation in the gut. “But yeah, he’s going to be okay. In fact, he’s going to be great. He got his skull fractured, fell in love and got engaged, not necessarily in that order—in just over a two-week period.”
    “Good for him, on two out of three anyway.”
    “We just bought her a ring this morning.”
    “We?”
    “He needed guidance. Let’s drink to Mike.”
    “Why not?” She touched the rim of her glass to his, then sipped. Then lifted her eyebrows. “Pouilly-Fuisse on a weekday evening. Very classy.”
    His grin flashed. “You know your wine.”
    “Must be the Italian from my grandmother’s side.”
    “And can the MacBride half build a Guinness?”
    “I imagine.” It was just a little too comfortable, being here, being with him. It smacked of old patterns. “Well, if you’d call—”
    “Let’s go out on the deck.” He took her hand, pulled her to the sliding door. He wasn’t about to let her shake him off that quickly. “Too early for sunset,” he continued, releasing her long enough to slide the door open. “You’ll have to come back. They can be pretty spectacular.”
    “I’ve seen sunsets before.”
    “Not from this spot.”
    The breeze fluttered in off the ocean, whispered warm over her face. The water was bold and blue, chopping in against the shore, then rearing back for the next pass. The scent was of salt and heat, and the light undertone of sunscreen from the people sprinkled along the beach.
    “Some backyard.”
    “I thought the same thing about yours when I saw your forest.” He leaned against the rail, his back to the view, his eyes on her. “Wanna come play in my backyard, Liv?”
    “No, thanks. You’ve got a nice hand with flowers.” She flicked a finger over the soapwort, johnny-jump-ups and artesisa sharing space artistically in a stone tub.
    “It shows my sensitive side.”
    “It shows you know what looks good and how to keep it that way.”
    “Actually, I learned out of compassion and annoyance. My mother was always planting something, then killing it. She’d go to the nursery, and the plants would scream and tremble. Once, I swear, I heard this coreopsis shrieking, ‘No, no, not me! Take the Shasta daisies.’ I couldn’t stand it,” he continued when she laughed. “I started having nightmares where all the plants she killed came back to life, brown, withered, broken, trailing dry dirt that crumbled from their roots as they formed an army of revenge.”
    “Zombie zinnias.”
    “Exactly.” He beamed, delighted with her, fascinated by the way her face warmed when she was amused and relaxed. “Vampire violas, monster marigolds and gardenia ghouls. Let me tell you, it was pretty terrifying. In fact, I’m scaring myself just thinking about it.”
    “As a naturalist, I can certify you’re safe. As long as you keep them alive.”
    “That’s comforting.” He trailed a finger down her arm, from elbow to wrist, in the absentminded gesture of a man used to touching. She stepped back, the deliberate gesture of a woman who wasn’t.
    “I really have to go. I called Uncle David from Santa Barbara, so they’re expecting me by