“I have to go down beneath the porch. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to it. Who knows what’s under there?” he said, turning toward me. All I could see was bandage, and the bruises that were fading from purple to yellow around the edges, and the spell was broken.
Still breathing a little heavy, I warned him to watch out for dolls. And watched as he hurried down the steps, around the side of the house, and began removing the latticework cover on the side of the porch with the utmost care.
What the hell! Lusting after a librarian, when there was a cowboy on the loose? It was clear that lusting after Hank had addled my brains. I was seeing things, imagining things, getting hot over the slightest touch, even from a guy like Clark.
The wind blew more forcefully across the porch, and I shivered. What the hell was taking so long?
“Hey! You want to put a little hustle on over there?” I finally called out, when the third piece of lattice was placed carefully onto the porch.
His head popped up over the edge. “Do you have any idea how old this is?”
“Do you have any idea how much it’s going to suck if you’re caught underneath there in the rain?”
He looked at the sky, getting darker by the minute. “Point taken.” He pried off the last of the lattice, then disappeared.
I could hear scrambling coming from beneath me, and then I could feel the ground shifting a little under my stuck foot.
“Vivian? It’s just me. Don’t be alarmed.”
“No kidding, Clark. Who else would it be?”
“Well, pardon me all over the place. I was just concerned that if you were surprised, your first instinct would be to kick. So let’s see what we can do about getting this free.”
Then he put his hands on my leg. Wrapped his hands around my ankle, turning it slightly. “Okay, it’s wedged into a cement block, but I think I can get it loose. Bear with me a moment, Vivian.”
“It’s Viv. And be careful, huh?” I called down.
“Impossible woman,” he muttered. His hands traveled a little farther up my leg, inside, and then around the back of my knee. And then I felt . . . well, it felt like . . .
“Clark! Did you just lick—”
“No!” he yelled, wrenching my foot free at that exact moment and pushing it up through the porch. I fell backward, my leg pulling clear of the wood and my heart pounding. I saw him crawl out from beneath the porch, dust himself off, and then walk toward me.
I pointed at him. “You licked my leg.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” he said. But the tips of his ears were red.
Flap-flap-flap-flap.
“Ah crap, I forgot about that.”
“You’re kind of a two-crisis girl, aren’t you?” He laughed, reaching behind his toolbox and picking up a lacrosse stick.
“That’s what you brought to kill a bat?”
“It was either this or my squash racket.” He took a few practice swipes at the air. “Besides, we’re not going to kill it. We’re going to catch it, then let it go.”
“There is no we. There’s a you, as in you are going to get the bat!”
“It’s your house, you should be helping me,” he said. “And for someone who acts so tough, you sure are scared of a little thing like a bat.”
“I’m not scared!”
When he had the nerve to make a bowing gesture, as if to say well then, go ahead on in without me, I grumbled, “Okay fine—I’m a little scared. I’ll help you, but you’re going in first.” I stood up and brushed off my shorts. I now had another scrape to match the one on the other leg. Honestly.
I rummaged in the garage until I found a rake and a bucket, then rejoined Clark on the porch. Stepping over the hole, I huddled behind him as he opened the front door. We went inside, alert and listening.
“Is something burning?” he asked, sniffing the air.
“Dammit, my dinner!” I wailed, rushing past him and into the kitchen. “Motherfucker!”
“Vivian!” Clark exclaimed, hurrying past me to turn off the burners.
Smoke billowed from the oven, my chicken breasts now charred beyond recognition. Rice? Now a cake in the bottom of the pan. And the vegetables? Crust. I started throwing the pots into the sink, probably slamming them a little harder than necessary. I was pissed at the porch, pissed at the house, pissed that my leg hurt, and pissed off that I still had a bat in the house. A bat in the house!
“Were you expecting someone for dinner?” Clark asked from the doorway to the dining room. His face looked tight—hurt?
I glanced past him and saw the candles burning on the table. “No, that was just for me,” I replied, pushing past him and blowing out the candle.
“You lit candles just to eat alone?”
“Yeah. So?” I asked, turning back to him. I saw the bat. It was perched on the lacrosse stick, just behind his head.
“Oh. Boy. Um, Clark?”
“I think if you want to light candles, even if it’s just you, that’s perfectly okay,” Clark said.
“Right. Agreed. But right now? You need to—”
“I mean, after all, if you don’t think you’re good company, no one else will, right?”