The Search by Nora Roberts Page B

so loud. Listen—”
    She broke off again when he pulled a remote from a pocket of the tool belt, shut down the music. The silence roared like a tsunami—and woke the puppy.
    He yawned, stretched, then spotted her. Insane joy leaped into his eyes as he sprang up, did a kind of bouncing dance, then charged her. Fiona crouched, held out a hand, palm facing dog so he bumped into it first.
    “Hi, yes, hi, good to see you, too.” She rubbed his head, his belly. She pointed a finger at the ground. “Sit!” His butt vibrated a moment, then plopped down. “Aren’t you smart, aren’t you good?” She grabbed him when he spotted Newman, sitting patiently outside. “Can he go out? I’ve got Newman, and he’ll watch out for him.”
    Simon simply shrugged.
    “Okay. Go play.” She laughed when Jaws took a flying leap out the door and belly-flopped into the grass. When she glanced back, Simon remained by the table saw, watching her.
    “I’ve interrupted you.”
    “Yeah.”
    Blunt, she thought. Well, she didn’t mind blunt. “I’m heading into the village and thought I’d see if you needed anything. Sort of a payback for playing sounding board.”
    “I’m good.”
    “Okay, then. We both know the do-you-need-anything’s just an excuse, but we can leave it at that. I’ll—Oh my God, that’s beautiful!”
    She headed straight for the cabinet across the shop, skirting benches and tools.
    “Don’t touch it!” Simon snapped, and stopped her in her tracks. “It’s tacky,” he added, in an easier tone. “Varnish.”
    Obediently, she linked her hands behind her back. It was the varnish she smelled, she realized, and sawdust, and freshly sawed wood. The combination merged into a fascinating aroma. “Those are the doors? The carving’s just exquisite, and the tones of the wood. Delicious, really.” As delicious as the scent that soaked the air. “I want it. I probably can’t afford it, but I want it anyway. How much?”
    “It doesn’t suit you or your place. It is elegant, and a little ornate. You’re not.”
    “I can be elegant and ornate.”
    He shook his head, then walked over to an old, squat refrigerator, took out two Cokes. He tossed her one, which she caught one-handed.
    “No, you can’t. You want something either simpler, cleaner or going the other direction into fanciful. A little tension with the primarily Mission and Craftsman style you lean toward.”
    “Is that where I lean?”
    “I’ve been in your house,” he reminded her.
    She yearned to run a finger over the deep carving—elongated hearts—on the raised panel of the door. “This could be tension.”
    “No.”
    Sincerely baffled, she turned to him. “You actually won’t sell it to me because I’m not elegant?”
    “That’s right.”
    “How do you sell anything?”
    “On commission or direct sale. By designing what works with the client.” He eyed her while he took a deep drink. “Rough night.”
    Now she jammed her hands in her pockets. “Thanks for noticing. Well, since I’m interrupting and I’m not suitable to buy your stupid cabinet, I’ll leave you alone with your monster saw.”
    “I’m taking a break.”
    She drank, studying him as he studied her. “You know, given my line of work, really crappy manners such as yours don’t bother me.”
    “If you’re thinking of training me like my dog, you should know I’m intractable.”
    She only smiled.
    “So, if the need-anything-in-town was an excuse, are you hitting on me?”
    She smiled again, wandered. She saw a lot of clamps and chisels, a skinnier saw and a stationary drill thingee that looked as scary as the monster saw.
    She saw tools she had no names for and empty coffee cans full of nails and screws and other strange things.
    What she didn’t see was any semblance of organization.
    “Hitting on you? Not yet. And given your behavioral flaws, I’m reconsidering.”
    “Fair enough, and to be fair back, you’re not really my type.”
    She stopped examining