Justine Davis - One of These Nights

“I…sure. I think I have some soda or even a beer if you want.”

“Soda’s fine. Whatever you have.”

When he came back, she was working again, and for a moment he just stood there, watching the smooth, easy way she moved. Then she straightened and turned to him, swiping her brow with a gloved hand, leaving a trace of soil on her forehead.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the cold can he held out to her.

He liked that she didn’t apologize for her appearance, as he thought most women would. She was working hard in a garden; she was going to sweat and get dirty. And her casual attitude silently said that if you couldn’t handle that, it was your problem, not hers.

Of course, most women probably wouldn’t look as good as she did doing it, he thought when she took a healthy swig of the drink. And then she rested the cold can against her neck, and he felt a ripple of an odd sort of heat that had nothing to do with the sun.

It was lucky for her Ian Gamble was no party animal, Sam thought as she watched him pacing his office from her lookout window seat. She’d been here for nearly a week now, and he didn’t seem to have any social life at all. She didn’t understand. He was an attractive man. She supposed the frequent usage of historical rather than contemporary analogies she’d noticed might bother some, and some women would find his frequent slides into deep thought, sometimes midconversation, disconcerting. But there had to be someone out there who would find the traits rather endearing. And impressive, given what those slides into thought often produced.

Not, she told herself, that it mattered to her job why he was the way he was. She was curious, that was all.

Just accept it and be grateful that you don’t have to tail him all over town.

She ran the brush through her damp hair once more. If he ran true to form, he was in for the night. Only once had he gone out after he’d arrived home, and since he’d walked she’d been able to follow easily enough. The ice-cream place had been his destination again, and once more she’d had to laugh at his idea of walking distance; it was at least two miles each way. But it was also why he was able to indulge without it showing, she supposed.

But tonight he seemed settled in, so she chanced ten minutes with her blow dryer to finish her hair. Then she returned to her seat and took up the vigil.

When he finally turned out the lights at close to midnight, she stayed put, watching. At one in the morning she added a dark knit cap to her black jeans and sweater and went downstairs. It was time. And she knew he had a meeting in the morning, so it was the right time.

He’d left his car in the driveway, as usual. She wondered why he didn’t use the garage, then guessed with a grin that it probably looked something like his office did, so there wasn’t enough room. Whatever the reason, it was making things easier for her.

It took her under three minutes. She was back inside in five, again watching the house until she was sure he hadn’t heard. Finally she went to bed, with the window still open, knowing she would awaken at the slightest out-of-place noise.

The quiet of a California summer night settled in.

“Damn it,” Ian muttered, slapping the steering wheel of his uncooperative car.

He turned the key again. Nothing. Not even a click to indicate it was thinking about turning over.

He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised. Cars tended to break down on him. Something about forgetting maintenance. He just had better things to do with his time and his mind, that’s all. How could he be expected to keep track of things like oil changes and tire rotations when he was trying to solve this damned adhesion problem?

Maybe he should have taken Josh up on the offer of a Redstone company car. He’d said no because he tended to ding them up, and no matter that Josh had said that didn’t matter, he would be too embarrassed to turn the thing in at the end of the lease period. It would only add to the perception of him as the absentminded professor.

He’d have to call a tow truck. Then he’d—

“Problem?”

His head snapped up. Samantha was standing beside the driver’s side window; he hadn’t even heard her approach. And she was dressed in a sleek navy pantsuit with a long jacket and crisp white blouse that made her look sharp and businesslike, totally unlike the casually dressed woman he was used to seeing. He wondered if she had to have things custom-made for those long legs.

“Won’t start,” he muttered, feeling as if he was stating the obvious.

“Dead battery?”

“Could be,” he said, not wanting to admit he had no clue at all. Guys were supposed to know all about these car things. How could he explain he’d never spent any time mulling over things that had already been invented? “And I’ve got a meeting this morning.”

“Come on, then. I’ll drop you off. You can worry about the car later.”

He hesitated but only for a moment. This meeting was important. Stan would have a cow if he didn’t show up; he was picky about things like that. The man was picky about anything he thought reflected badly on the efficiency with which he ran his department. And as much as Ian was focused on the Safe Transit project, there were others already in the pipeline, and he’d insisted on being kept in the loop by marketing and production. He could hardly be late for the meeting they’d set up to fulfill his own demand.

And she did go the same direction, he’d seen her, he told himself.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching over to gather up his briefcase and the traveler’s mug of coffee he usually downed by the time he got to Redstone.

As he climbed into the passenger side of her sleek—and dingless—blue coupe, he couldn’t help thinking how nice it was that she’d been there at just the right moment.

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