“Okay. What’s your point?”
“No point, just an observation. I have to make some calls. I can’t just pack. I’ll need to contact my clients, at least the ones coming tomorrow, and let them know I’ve moved the school. Temporarily,” she added, as much for her benefit as his. “James’s number is four on my speed dial. If you call him, he’ll come and help us move the outside equipment.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll need to have calls forwarded to your number—from my house phone. For clients, and in case we get a search call.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, wearily now. “I appreciate what you’re doing, especially because you’re not altogether happy about doing it.”
“I’d rather feel a little hemmed in than have anything happen to you.”
She let out a half laugh. “You have no idea, you really don’t, how sweet that is. I’ll do my best not to hem you in too much. Go ahead and tell Sheriff McMahon you won. I’ll start putting things together.”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d won as he’d now have four dogs and a woman under his feet, but he stepped outside. McMahon broke off a conversation with his deputies and crossed toward the porch as Simon walked down.
“She’s packing.”
“Good. We’ll still come by here a couple times a day, check things out. When she’s going back and forth to hold those classes of hers—”
“She won’t be. She’ll do it at my place. I’m calling James so he can help me break down and move all that.”
Eyebrows lifted, McMahon looked over at the equipment. “Better yet. Tell you what, Matt here’s about to go off duty. He’s young and got a strong back. He’ll give you a hand. Won’t take much time. Those are your chairs, right?”
“They’re hers now.”
“Uh-huh. What I’m wondering is if you do porch gliders. My wife and I got an anniversary coming up next month. I’ve got a little shop, do some Harry Homeowner stuff, a little this and that. Thought I might try my hand at a glider. I proposed to her on one. I found out pretty quick building one was above my pay grade.”
“I can do that.”
“Something with those nice wide arms would be good. And she’s partial to red.”
“Okay.”
“Good enough. We’ll talk about the details later. You go ahead, get the tools to break what needs to be broken down. I’ll get Matt started on what doesn’t.” He started back, stopped. “Are you really making a sink out of a stump?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s something I want to see. Matt! Haul some of this dog playground business into Simon’s truck.”
He ended up calling James anyway, for the third pair of hands and the second truck. And with James came Lori, and with James and Lori came Koby.
Simon’s initial annoyance with having so many people and animals swarming around gave way to the realization that sometimes people didn’t get in the way, but helped make a necessary and tedious job go smoother.
It wasn’t a matter of a couple of suitcases’ worth of clothes, not when it was Fiona. It was suitcases, dog beds, dog food, toys, leashes, meds, dishes, grooming equipment—and that didn’t begin to factor in platforms, the seesaw, the slide, the tunnel. Or her files—and Jesus the woman had files—her laptop, her packs, her maps, the perishables in her refrigerator.
“The flower beds and vegetable garden are on a soaker hose,” she said when he objected to hauling over her flowerpots, “so they’ll be fine. But these need regular watering. Besides, we’ll enjoy them. And besides besides, Simon, you asked for it.”
And that he couldn’t argue with.
“Fine, fine. Just... go start putting some of this crap away, will you?”
“Any preference to where?”
He stared at the last load and wondered how the hell she’d fit all of that into her Seven Dwarfs-sized house. How had it all tucked in so tidily—and that didn’t count what she’d left behind.
“Wherever, I guess. Dump the office stuff in one of the spare bedrooms, and don’t mess with my stuff more than you have to.”
He walked back to help James put the training equipment back together.
Beside Fiona, Lori rolled her eyes and grabbed a box of files. “Lead the way.”
“I’m not entirely sure of it, but I guess we’ll take this first load upstairs, find the best spot.”
As they started in, Lori glanced around. “Nice. Really nice—a lot of space and light and interesting furniture. What there is of it. Messy,” she added as she started up the steps, “but really nice.”
“Probably three or four times as much space as I have.” Fiona glanced inside a room, frowned at the weight machine, gym equipment, tangle of clothes, unpacked boxes.
She tried another. A stack of paint cans, some brushes, rollers, pans, tools, sawhorses. “Okay, I guess this’ll work. I’m going to need my desk and chair. I didn’t think of that.”
She winced a little at the dust on the floor, the film on the window. “It is messy,” she murmured, “and I know what you’re thinking. Messy makes me twitchy.”
She set down her box of office supplies, turned a circle. “I’ll live with it.”
And him, she thought. For now.
Twenty-Three
She opted to set up her office space first. Which, in this case, meant cleaning the space first. She’d live with messy. It wasn’t her house. But temporary live-in lover or not, she wouldn’t work in dust and disorder.
While Lori and James set out to get her desk and chair—and lamp, and desk clock—she hunted down cleaning supplies. And, as Simon apparently believed in only the barest of basics, called Lori to add a list from her own supplies.
How, she wondered, did anyone—especially anyone with a dog—live without a Swiffer?
Working with what she had, she cleaned several months of dust from the windows, the floor, the woodwork, and discovered what she’d assumed was a second closet but was actually a bathroom.
One, she thought with a long huff of breath, that surely hadn’t been cleaned since he’d moved in. Fortunately, its primary purpose seemed to be gathering more dust.
She was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor when he came in.
“What are you doing?”
“Planning my next trip to Rome. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning this bathroom.”
“Why?”
“That you would have to ask explains so much.” She sat back on her heels. “I may, at some point, have to pee. I find this occurs with some regularity on any given day. I prefer—call me fussy—to engage in this activity in sanitary surroundings.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets, leaned on the jamb. “I haven’t been using this room or this john. Yet.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.”
He glanced around the now dust-free bedroom where paint cans stood in stacks tidily beside sawhorses, rollers, pans and brushes on neatly folded tarps.
“You’re setting up in here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. Did you wash the floor out here?”
“Damp-mopped. Let me point out, as someone who works with wood, you should take better care of your floors. You need some Murphy’s at least.”
“I’ve got some. Somewhere. Maybe.” She was making him twitchy. “I’ve been busy.”
“Understood.”
“You’re not going to go around cleaning everything, are you?”
She swiped a hand over her forehead. “Let me give you my solemn oath on that. But I’m going to work in here. I need a clean, ordered space to work. I’ll keep the door closed so it doesn’t shock your sensibilities.”
“Now you’re being bitchy.”
Because she heard the amusement in his tone, she smiled back. “Yes, I am. Move back so I can finish this. I appreciate what you’re doing, Simon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do, and I know it disrupts your space, your routine, your privacy.”
“Shut up.”
“I just want to thank—”