might have just had it all delivered, but it did seem odd that not one thing was open except the coffee, and he’d opened that bag last night.
She didn’t know anybody who finished everything in the cupboard before restocking. There was always an open box of cereal, or crackers or something in the cupboard or fridge. Always.
He must be the ultimate clean freak. Or maybe he ate out, and just kept food on hand in case.
She sighed and stretched widely, loosening muscles that had tensed from hours bent over her computer. At least her writing had gone well. Very well.
But with only the sounds of the city to keep her company all day, even though she was not alone, another kind of tension seemed to have crept in. Nothing like the feeling in her condo of course, but tension nonetheless.
A bad feeling loomed over her, and she hated it, especially when all she had to point to was that unnerving sense of not being alone in her condo. Was she losing her mind?
No, she reminded herself. Creed had sensed it, too. And then insisted that pewter plate had been thrown at him. Much as she wanted to dismiss it, she couldn’t. That plate was too heavy to move on its own, nor had it been set in such a way that it could just fall. But every time she told herself he must have been kidding, she remembered the look on his face. He believed it had been thrown. So either he was totally crazy or it was true. Believing him crazy would have been easy except for what she had already experienced herself, especially last night.
Of course, he was beginning to seem a little less like a paragon of sanity, given the state of his fridge. The darn things never looked that clean and his looked as if it had never really been used.
A quiet little laugh escaped her at her own ridiculous thoughts, just as she heard the door behind her open. She swiveled immediately and saw Creed emerge from his bedroom. It was just now dusk, she hadn’t yet turned on any lights, and he appeared like a mysterious figure, almost otherworldly.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Did your day go well?” He asked the question as he bent to turn on a lamp. Now that he no longer appeared quite so mysterious, she noted that he apparently awoke looking every bit as awake and put together as he had the night before. No sleep-puffed eyes, no helter-skelter hair.
“Fine,” she answered, summoning a smile. “I was just calling it a day on my work.”
“I hope you found enough to eat.”
Which led her to the question that had bothered her all day. “Don’t you ever eat at home? I couldn’t find anything open.”
He paused. “Well, actually, I mostly keep food on hand for guests. I’m no cook and when I want something I just order it. I hope you didn’t hesitate to open things so you could eat.”
“Well, not for long. I got too hungry.”
“Good.”
Suddenly realizing she was being rude, she hopped up from her chair. “You must want your desk back.”
“Not yet. Relax. Jude will probably be here shortly, and I hate to get involved in something and then have to stop.”
She nodded, understanding that feeling well.
He came farther into the living area—almost cautiously, she thought—and settled on an armchair. Was he afraid of frightening her? If anything about him frightened her, it was her attraction to him. It seemed to be growing, and she wished she knew of some way to bridge the distance between them. Of course, that assumed he found her attractive, too. Maybe he didn’t, despite what he had said last night as they were leaving the elevator. He wouldn’t be the first guy to feel that way.
She sighed.
“Something wrong?”
“Other than that I can’t go home? Not a thing.” And not entirely true.
“If anyone can take care of your problem, it’s Jude,” he said firmly.
She wandered closer and sat on the couch, still made up as a bed because she hadn’t been sure whether to fold things up. Folding them up would make more work for Creed if she needed to stay here another night. “You have a lot of confidence in Jude.”
“I’ve seen what he can do. And what it costs him. I have every confidence in him.”
“What does it cost him?”
“What does it cost a homicide detective? Or in Terri’s case, a medical examiner? Some jobs just leave scars.”
She nodded, not knowing how to respond. “I hope I meet Terri eventually.”
“I’m sure you will. She’s a very likable lady. You mentioned writing. What kind do you do?”
“I’m a novelist. I write fantasy, usually.”
“So you create worlds?”
“One mostly. I write a series.”
“Six-legged blue cows?”
She had to laugh. “I try not to jar my readers that way. The trick is making the world seem close enough to the one we live in so that it seems familiar, yet different enough to establish that it is another world.”
“That would be an interesting challenge. Tolkien did it incredibly well.”
“Something to aspire to, certainly. But most of us don’t have the luxury of spending the better part of a lifetime creating one world.”
“His command of the language was impressive, especially. A true storyteller’s voice. I can pick up any of those books, start reading at any point, and become totally absorbed again. Some day you’ll have to tell me one of your titles.”
“Not if you’re going to compare me to Tolkien.”
He smiled, certainly one of the most attractive smiles she’d ever seen. Had her heart skipped a beat? Thank goodness he couldn’t possibly know.
“What makes you so certain I’d be critical?”
“Nobody measures up to Tolkien.”
“Well, if you take that as a given, you don’t need to be concerned, do you?”
“Are you always impeccably logical?”
This time he laughed, a warm, rolling sound. “It’s the job. It creeps into the rest of my life.”
“I never met anyone who worked for a think tank before.”
“Think of it as being a highly paid professor. The job isn’t really very different, except I don’t teach. I spend my nights reading, researching, pondering ideas, putting bits and pieces together into some kind of coherence and insight. Apparently I succeed well enough that they keep on paying me.”
“That’s always a good sign.”
“I
