Wounded (a mystery and a sweet romance)

Wounded: Chapter 8

But Malcolm had stepped in that direction when he moved to let her in. “May I hang your bag?” He waved at her purse.

“Sure, thank you.”

As he did so, she tried to sneak a peek at his bookcase, but the pegs for hanging jackets and bags were right next to it, so his body continued to block the view. Was it possible he was doing it intentionally? Had he missed his book, and did he suspect she had stumbled across it? Before she could come up with a reason for skittering around him to admire his collection, he turned back to her and gestured toward his little dining area.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Malcolm asked. “I was getting ready to start cooking. I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

Figuring she’d have time to peruse the books later, Tara let him guide her to the table, a split log piece that made her feel like she was in some rustic mountain lodge. Two place settings waited, along with his tablet. Malcolm plucked items from the refrigerator and pulled pots down from a rack over the stove. The counters had been bare when she had entered.

“Were you really getting ready to start cooking, or were you playing games?” Tara waved to the tablet and smiled, wondering if she should apologize for coming so early. Maybe he had thought city girls ate dinner late.

He glanced at the tablet, his expression growing sheepish. “Not games exactly, but you said... I mean, your plan said I should blog. And make instructional videos. I don’t have anyone to film me being instructional, but I figured I could write something up. I did lose track of the time a little.”

“Oh!” Pleased that he was already taking her advice, Tara grinned and forgot her wariness about the book. “Can I read it?”

“If you want to punish yourself.” Malcolm came over with two glasses and a bottle of red from one of the wineries in Port Townsend. “I thought I should start with some foundational information, but it may have gotten a little dry.”

More curious than ever, she would have grabbed the tablet and dug in, but he opened the bottle, and she thought she ought to wait attentively while he poured the glasses. She would drink sparingly, in case she needed judgment later. Not that her sober judgment had been all that helpful of late.

“Did you bring any holes for me?” Malcolm asked.

If Tara had been drinking, she would have choked. As it was, she threw him a startled look and blurted, “What?”

“To sew,” he said blandly.

“Ohhh.” If her cheeks had been warm before, they were threatening to catch fire this time. “I did actually. But you don’t have to repair anything for me. I was joking around.”

“I wouldn’t mind showing off my superb needle-threading skills.” Malcolm placed a full glass in front of her. “I can usually manage within ten or twelve tries.”

“That’s all? Impressive adroitness.”

“I’m better with a sewing machine.” Malcolm pressed the power button on the tablet. Tara thought he would show her the blog post, but he tapped the email program. “I’m waiting for a response from a professor at U-Dub. I have a hunch about your trees, but I’m not sure if—” Malcolm tilted an ear toward the driveway, then lifted a finger and walked to the window beside the door.

Given how few random visitors one was likely to receive this far off the main road, Tara could guess who it might be. After Sam’s irritation that morning, she might very well have complained to the police again.

Malcolm’s shoulders slumped. Tara slipped out of her seat and joined him at the window. A state patrol car had pulled up to the cabin along with a Clallam County Sheriff’s vehicle.