again. “I’ve never noticed.”
“Do you ever have happy thoughts? Things that would make you smile?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A pleasant memory. Maybe a funny movie you’ve seen that makes you laugh when you think about it.”
“I don’t recall the last comedy I saw.”
She glanced his way. “Are you serious?”
“Why would I lie?”
Shaking her head, she turned her gaze back to the road. “So what do you do for grins?”
“I enjoy playing computer games.”
She spun a finger in the air. “Whoopee.”
“What do you do for fun?” he asked, neatly turning the tables on her.
“There’s very little I do that’s not fun. Going out to dinner or to the movies with friends. Working in my garden. Taking pictures.”
“Taking pictures doesn’t count. That’s a job.”
“Just because it’s a job doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.”
Realizing that she had unwittingly offered him the opportunity to probe into her life for that weakness he needed, he decided to take advantage of it. “If you enjoy photography so much, why have the bed-and-breakfast? Why not be a full-time photographer?”
“At one time, that was my plan. I was going to travel the world, taking pictures, then publish them as books.”
“An album of your personal travels?” he said, as if doubting there was a market for such a thing.
“It wouldn’t be personal,” she told him. “At least, not in the way you mean. The pictures would be of people, places and things that share a theme or tell a particular story.”
“What do you mean, ‘tell a story’?”
“Well, let’s say I wanted to do a photographic study of an Amish family,” she said. “I’d photograph them at work, at play, in their home, in their community, capturing their lives, as well as their lifestyle on film. The pictures would tell the story.”
“Isn’t that the same as theme?”
“In some ways, yes. But when I think of theme, I think in terms of a single topic. Take poverty for instance,” she said. “If I were to choose that as my theme, I might travel around, photographing examples of poverty in different parts of the country or even the world. Poverty would be obvious in all the pictures, but the people and the settings would be different.”
That she enjoyed photography was obvious in the enthusiasm in her voice, the light in her eyes. “And if you chose families as a theme, you’d photograph different families, not just one.”
“Score!” she cried and held up a hand to give him a high five.
Amused, he slapped her hand. “As interesting as all that is, it doesn’t explain why you’re running a bed-and-breakfast and not focusing on photography.”
“Long and depressing story,” she said, and slanted him a look. “Sure you want to hear it?”
He opened his hands. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“Oh, wait,” she said, straining to look at something up ahead. “There’s Callahan’s. Do you mind if we stop?”
“What’s Callahan’s?”
“A store. I need to pick up a bag of birdseed for my feeders.”
Though disappointed that the stop would interrupt what he hoped would be an enlightening view into her life, he shrugged, thinking he’d pick up on the conversation again later. “Fine with me.”
“Thanks. It’ll save me making a trip later.” She checked the rearview mirror for traffic, then changed lanes and turned into the parking lot. After shutting off the engine, she reached over the back seat for her tote. “Do you want to come in?”
He looked at the storefront, considering, then figured what the hell. There didn’t appear to be many customers. “I believe I do.”
As they entered the store, Ali nudged his arm. “Aren’t you going to take off your sunglasses?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Someone might recognize me.”
With a roll of her eyes, she went in search of her birdseed. He watched her walk away and his gaze slid unerringly to the sway of her hips. Yeah, she was stacked, all right, he confirmed. He watched until she disappeared from sight, enjoying the view, then turned down an aisle to explore the store’s merchandise on his own.
The place reminded him of the general stores he’d seen in Western movies, carrying everything from horse tack to Western-style clothing. He paused beside a display of cowboy hats and, curious, plucked a black one from the rack. He snugged it over his head and leaned to check out his reflection in the mirror behind the counter.
“Looks good.”
He glanced over and saw Ali had joined him. Feeling foolish, he dragged off the hat. “I don’t wear hats.”
“Really? You should. Especially a cowboy hat. You look sexy in one.”
He gave her a doubtful look.
“Well, you do,” she insisted. “Sort of like a bad-ass gunslinger. You know. The kind who can empty a saloon by simply walking in the door.”
Hiding a smile, he ran a finger along the brim. “Maybe I should buy it and wear it to my next board meeting.”
“Couldn’t hurt.” She took the hat from him and placed it on his head again. She studied him a moment, and he’d swear he heard wheels begin to churn in her head.
“Come on,” she said and grabbed his hand. “If you’re going for the gunslinger look, you’re gonna need jeans and boots.”
He hung back. “I was kidding.”
She gave him an impatient tug. “I wasn’t. Besides, you know what they say. When in Rome…”
Garrett discovered the woman was a whirlwind when on a mission. Within minutes, she had him in a dressing room, trying on jeans, shirts, boots and what she referred to as a “duster,” which was nothing more than a long trench coat with a Western-style yoke and a slit up the back so that a man could sit in a saddle while wearing it.
“Aren’t you dressed yet?” she called impatiently from the other side of the door.
He hooked the silver belt buckle at his waist, then glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. He did a double take, startled by the change the style of clothing made to his appearance. “Yeah,” he said staring. “I’m dressed.”
“Well, come on out. I want to see.”
He
