Part 270 (1/2)

”No.” He brushed her aside. ”I can make the d.a.m.n coffee. Conroy, if

you don't shut up I'm going to tie your tongue around your neck.”

In defense, he took the chips and set the bag on the floor for the dog

to enjoy. ”What time is it?”

Emma cleared her throat. She decided it would be unwise to point out

that there was a clock on the coffee maker. ”About twelve-thirty.”

He was scowling at the coffee scoop in his hand. Obviously, he'd lost

track. As he began to add more, Emma lifted her camera and shot. ”I'm

sorry,” she said when he glared at her. ”It's reflex.”

He said nothing, but turned to root through the cupboards again. His

mouth felt as though he'd dined on chalk. There was a jazz combo

jamming gleefully in his head. He was sure his eyes had swollen to the

size of golf b.a.l.l.s, and, he discovered, he was out of tucking cereal.

”Michael ...” Emma trod carefully, not because she was intimidated,

but because she was deathly afraid she would laugh. ”Would you like me

to fix you some breakfast?”

”I can't find any.”

”Sit down.” She had to clear her throat again as she pushed him to a

chair. ”We'll start with coffee. Where are your cups?”

”In the kitchen.”

”Okay.” After a search, she found a package of Styrofoam cups, jumbo

size. She poured the coffee. It looked as thick as mud and just as

appetizing, but he guzzled it. As the caffeine kicked in, he saw her

with her head in his refrigerator.

She looked great, absolutely great, with a little cropped blouse and

breezy summer pants in pale blue. Her hair was loose. He liked it best