nodded.
“Do you really want to know the best way to get him to agree to develop the game for you?” Jenny enticed.
“Oh, absolutely.” She would do almost anything to make this deal happen, even if it meant donning kid gloves and an asbestos suit in order to handle Beau Thibbedeaux.
Jenny grinned. “Then play with him.”
4
WITH ANNA TROTTING at his heels, Beau sauntered toward the two-story detached garage, whistling under his breath, determined to ignore the walnut of agitation lodged low in his belly. That’s what fast-paced people excelled at—disturbing the rest of the world with their high-pressure hurry, hurry, hurry, go, go, go tactics, twisting everyone else into knots.
Well, he wasn’t going to let her get away with it. So, Marissa had shown up here unexpectedly. He was calm. He was cool. He was unruffled. He would think of a creative, easygoing way to get rid of her.
The tortoise eventually bests the hare.
Grinning at the naughty idea brewing in his brain, he opened the garage door and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. He squeezed past Jenny’s little red Honda Civic, parked too close to the lawn tractor and the other gardening equipment, and made a beeline for the staircase.
Upstairs in the loft he found what he was looking for. The boyhood treasures his father had bought for him and Francesca would never let him keep at her house.
While Anna sniffed around searching for hidden treasures, Beau dug through his past, unearthing an electric train set his dad had mounted on plywood. He found a pogo stick. Stilts. A skateboard. Two bikes. A football gone flat. A seasoned baseball glove. Model airplanes. Plastic army soldiers. A box of broken crayons. Board games—Monopoly, Clue, Life, Backgammon, Twister.
In one corner hunkered his drum set. As a kid, whenever he felt perturbed with his life, he would sneak up here to bash away his demons. He sank down on the stool behind the drums and blew a layer of dust off the cymbals. He reached for the drum-sticks. The grip had eroded to a smooth groove from years of practice. He drummed a couple of riffs and Anna took off.
Bang, crash, bang.
A familiar serenity stole over him and he felt the tension drain from his shoulders. And as he played, he plotted.
Hmm, what would drive an express-lane kind of woman like Marissa around the bend and over the edge of her emotional cliff?
Anything slow or plodding.
Anything she might deem trivial or frivolous.
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