Her classes, her blog, the daily care and interactions with her dogs filled her days. And since a casual dinner over soup and bread, she had the idea of a relationship—however far it went—with Simon to entertain her mind.
She enjoyed him, quite a bit. Maybe, she considered, because he wasn’t as protective and easy as her circle of friends or the two women who made up her family. He was a little hard, a lot blunt and, she thought, a great deal more complicated than most people she knew.
In many ways, since Greg’s murder, the island had become her sanctuary, her safe place where no one looked at her with pity, or particular interest, and where she’d been able to restart her life.
Not on bare ground, she thought. She was who she was, at the core. But like an island, she’d broken off from the mainland and allowed herself to change direction, to grow, even to re-form.
Not so many years before, she’d imagined herself raising a family— three-kid plan—in a pretty suburb. She’d have learned to cook good, interesting meals and would love her part-time job (to be determined). There would have been dogs in the house and a swing set in the yard, dance lessons and soccer games.
She’d have been a steady and supportive cop’s wife, a devoted mother and a contented woman.
She’d have been good at it, Fiona thought as she sat on the porch taking in the quiet morning. Maybe she’d been young to have been planning marriage and family, but it had all unfolded so seamlessly.
Until.
Until there was nothing left of that pretty picture but shattered glass and a broken frame.
But.
But now she was good at this. Content and fulfilled. And she understood she’d come to this place, to this life, to these skills because all those lovely, sweet plans had shattered.
The core might be the same, but everything around it had changed. And she was, because of or despite that, a happy, successful woman.
Bogart came over to bump his head under her arm. Automatically, she shifted, draped her arm over him to rub his side.
“I don’t think everything happens for a reason. That’s just the way we cope with the worst that happens to us. But I can be glad I’m here.”
And not feel disloyal, she thought, to Greg, to all those pretty plans and the girl who made them.
“New day, Bogart. I wonder what it’ll bring.”
As if in answer, he came to alert. And she saw Simon’s truck rolling down her drive.
“Could be interesting,” she murmured as the other dogs raced over to join her and sit, tails drumming.
She smiled at Jaws’s happy face peering out from the windshield on the passenger’s side, and Simon’s unreadable one behind the wheel.
She rose and, when the truck stopped, gave her dogs the release signal. “A little early for class,” she called when Simon stepped out, and Jaws leaped into the reunion with his buddies.
“I’ve got your damn tree.”
“And so cheerful, too.” She wandered over as he waded through the dogs.
“Give me the coffee.” He didn’t wait for the offer but took her mug, downed the rest of the contents.
“Well, help yourself.”
“I ran out.”
Because he looked surly, unshaven and sexy, she fluttered her lashes at him. “And still, here you are bright and early with a tree, just for me.”
“I’m here bright and fucking early because that dog chewed open five pounds of dog food somewhere before dawn, then opted to puke it up, bag and all, on my bed. While I was in it.”
“Awww.”
Simon scowled as the concern and attention went straight to the dog. “I’m the injured party.”
Ignoring him, Fiona rubbed the puppy, checked his eyes, his nose, his belly. “Poor baby. You’re okay now. That’s all right.”
“I had to throw out the sheets.”
From her crouch, Fiona rolled her eyes. “No, you clean off the puke, then you wash the sheets.”
“Not those sheets. He heaved like a drunk frat boy.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I didn’t eat the damn kibble.”
“No, but you didn’t have it stowed where he couldn’t get to it, or better yet in a lidded container. Plus, he’s probably not ready to have free rein in the house. You should put up a baby gate.”
His scowl only deepened. “I’m not putting up a baby gate.”
“Then don’t complain when he gets into something he shouldn’t while you’re sleeping or otherwise occupied.”
“If I’m getting a lecture, I want more coffee.”
“In the kitchen.” Once he’d stomped out of earshot, she let the wheezing laugh escape. “He’s mad at you, isn’t he? Yes, he’s very mad. He’ll get over it. Anyway”—she gave Jaws a kiss on his cool, wet nose—“it was his own fault.”
Rising, she walked to the back of the truck to get a look at her tree.
She stood there, grinning still, when Simon strode out with his own mug of coffee.
“You got me a dogwood.”
“It seemed appropriate when I bought it yesterday. But that was before this morning when I was reminded dogs are a pain in the ass.”
“First, it’s a beautiful tree. Thank you. Second, any and everything that depends on us can be pains in the ass. He booted on your bed because when he felt sick and scared he wanted you. And third”—she laid her hands on his shoulders, touched her mouth to his—“good morning.”
“Not yet.”
She smiled, kissed him again.
“Marginally better.”
“Well, let’s plant a tree and see what that does for you. Let’s put it over there. No...” She changed direction. “There.”
“I thought you wanted it back in the woods, where the stump was.”
“Yes, but it’s so pretty, and back there hardly anyone will see it but me. Oh, there, back there, just on this side of the bridge. Maybe I should get another one for the other side. You know, so they’d flank the bridge.”
“You’re on your own there.” But he shrugged, opened the truck door.
“I’ll go with you, give you a hand.” So saying, she hopped nimbly in the back of the truck and sat on the bag of peat moss.
He shook his head but maneuvered the truck around, eased to the bridge and parked again. When he got out to lower the tailgate, she slung the bag of peat moss over her shoulder.
“I’ll get that.”
“Got it,” she said, and jumped down.
He watched as she carted it over to the spot she wanted, set it down. When she came back, he took her arm. “Flex,” he ordered.
Amused, she obeyed, saw his eyes register surprise when he tested her biceps. “What do you do, bench-press your dogs?”
“Among other things. Plus, I just have excellent protoplasm.”
“I’ll say.” He climbed up to pull the tree to the tailgate. “Get the tools, Muscle Girl. There should be an extra pair of work gloves in the glove box.”
The dogs sniffed around but soon lost interest. He said nothing when she hauled over the bag of soil he’d bought to mix with the peat, still nothing when she walked back to the house trailing the dogs.
But he stopped digging to watch her walk back carrying two pails like some lean-muscled milkmaid.
“My hose won’t reach this far,” she told him—and he was gratified she was at least a little winded. “If it needs more water, I can get it from the stream.”
She set the buckets down. The dogs immediately began to lap at the water.
“I don’t know why I never thought to plant something pretty here before. I’ll see it whenever I come home, go out, from the porch, when I’m training. Them,” she corrected, “if I put one on the other side of the drive. Want me to dig awhile?”
It was probably stupid to take that as a challenge to his manhood, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ve got it.”
“Well, let me know.” She walked off to play with the dogs.
He’d never considered tough especially sexy, but despite the willowy frame, the soft coloring, the apparently bottomless patience, the woman had an underlayment of steel. Most of the women he’d been involved with hadn’t lifted anything more challenging than an apple martini—and maybe a five-pound free weight at a fancy health club. But this one? She shouldered a sack of dirt like a seasoned laborer.