Part 72 (1/2)
Fixing a thin sneer on her face, she deliberately lowered her toolbox, then let it fall with a terrible clatter. That he jumped like a rabbit under the gun pleased her.
”Christ Jesus!” He sc.r.a.ped his chair around, thumped a hand to his heart as if to get it pumping again. ”What's the matter?”
”Nothing.” She continued to sneer. ”b.u.t.terfingers,” she said sweetly, and picked up her dented toolbox again. ”Give you a start, did I?”
”You d.a.m.n near killed me.”
”Well, I knocked, but you didn't bother to come to the door.”
”I didn't hear you.” He blew out a breath, scooped his hair back and frowned at her. ”Well, here's the O'Toole come to call. Is something broken then?”
”You've a mind like a rusty bucket.” She shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair. ”Your oven there hasn't worked for a week,” she reminded him, with a nod toward the stove. ”The part I ordered for it just came in. Do you want me to fix it or not?”
He made a sound of a.s.sent and waved his hand toward it.
”Biscuits?” she said as she walked by the table. ”What kind of breakfast is that for a man grown?”
”They were here.” He smiled at her in a way that made her want to cuddle him. ”It's a bother to cook just for myself most mornings, but if you're hungry I'll fix something up for the both of us.”
”No, I've eaten.” She set her toolbox down, opened it, started to rummage through. ”You know Ma always fixes more than enough. She'd be happy to have you wander down any morning you like and have a decent meal.”
”You could send up a flare when she makes her griddle cakes. Will you have some tea in any case? The pot's still warm.”
”I wouldn't mind it.” As she chose her tools, got out the new part, she watched his feet moving around the kitchen. ”What were you doing? Writing music?”
”Fiddling with words for a tune,” he said absently. His eye had caught the flight of a single bird, black and glossy against the dull pewter sky. ”Looks bitter out today.”
”'Tis, and damp with it. Winter's barely started and I'm wis.h.i.+ng it over.”
”Warm your bones a bit.” He crouched down with a thick mug of tea, fixed as he knew she liked it, strong and heavy on sugar.
”Thanks.” The heat from the mug seeped into her hands as she cupped them around it.
He stayed where he was, sipping his own tea. Their knees b.u.mped companionably. ”So, what will you do about this heap?”
”What do you care as long as it works again?”
He lifted a brow. ”If I knew what you did, I might fix it next time.”
This made her laugh so hard she had to sit her b.u.t.t down on the floor to keep from tilting over. ”You? Shawn, you can't even fix your own broken fingernail.”
”Sure I can.” Grinning, he mimed just biting one off and made her laugh again.
”Don't you concern yourself with what I do with the innards of the thing, and I won't concern myself with the next cake you bake in it. We each have our strengths after all.”
”It's not as if I've never used a screwdriver,” he said and plucked one out of her kit.
”And I've used a stirring spoon. But I know which fits my hand better.”
She took the tool from him, then s.h.i.+fting, stuck her head in the oven to get to work.