Second Chances (Nugget Romance 3) (4 page)

“No dinner,” he muttered.

“I insist. Pick a nice restaurant. Maybe something at one of the casinos in Reno.”

That seemed to startle him. “I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can.” Was the guy some kind of throwback that he wouldn’t let a woman pay for his meal?

“No, I can’t. So just drop it, please.”

He said it so adamantly that for the life of her, Harlee wondered what she’d done wrong.

C
olin felt like the world’s biggest prick for turning down her invitation in the way he had. She’d only been trying to show her appreciation and he’d all but bitten her head off.

But he had a good reason for saying no. For him to go to a restaurant was simply impossible.

Crowds and small closed-in spaces scared the hell out of him to the point where Colin couldn’t breathe and felt like he was dying. Clinically, the diagnosis was social anxiety disorder, also known as demophobia, and claustrophobia. The former affliction made any kind of large gathering unbearable. The panic attacks came on so fast and furious—like a vise squeezing all the air out of his chest—that he avoided public places the way most people avoided gang-infested neighborhoods.

Outdoor functions, like the farmers’ market, were about the only kind of large group gatherings he could tolerate. Something about being in the open, where he could see the sky, eased his anxiety. Inside, he could manage a half dozen people, but more than that sent him into a tailspin—sweats, nausea, and heart palpitations.

If he had to go into the Nugget Market or the Ponderosa for food or business, he waited until there were only a few customers. Sometimes it meant stalking the places for an hour. On job sites, he found ways to work alone, where no one would discover his dysfunction.

The phobias weren’t anything he advertised—Colin firmly believed you kept your crazy in the closet where it belonged. For that reason, he spent a lot of time at home or in his workshop.

At least the claustrophobia he’d gotten a firmer grip on. If he did his breathing exercises and concentrated really hard, Colin could usually endure a tight space for a short time, despite feeling like the walls were closing in on him. Good thing, because in construction he found himself in a lot of cramped quarters. Basements. Attics. Closets. You name it.

He hadn’t always been this screwed up, but like the shrinks said, he had extenuating circumstances. And until he could conquer his fears—so far, Colin hadn’t had much luck in that department—he wasn’t going to any restaurants.

Hopefully, he’d make amends by building Harlee a toasty fire and lending her a space heater. There was probably one in his garage somewhere. That pretty woman was so ill equipped for mountain life it made Colin scratch his head and wonder why she’d come here in the first place. Especially in winter, when the weather could be deadly. Her ridiculous car wouldn’t make it one day in the snow.

Clearly, she’d run away from home because she was having some sort of crisis. Job related? Boyfriend related? Who knew? His policy was to never ask too many questions. Besides, she asked enough for both of them. Nosy little thing.

“Reporter,” he huffed.

He’d set her up with heat, let her use his shower, but that was it. He didn’t have time to be her mountain guide, and he had plenty of reasons to keep his distance.

One of those reasons sat at the bottom of his driveway when he got home.

Al Ferguson got out of a gray Crown Vic, the outline of his shoulder holster plainly visible through the cheap fabric of his suit jacket. “Long time no see.”

“No offense, but I haven’t missed you.”

“None taken.” Al shielded his eyes as he watched Colin come toward him. “Were you on a hike?” That was Al code for: Why aren’t you working?

“What’s going on, Al?”

“Just routine. You know the drill.” Yes, Colin knew the drill.

He opened his front door and waved Al across the threshold. Al went straight for the coat closet, turned on the light, and methodically ran his hands between Colin’s coats and jackets, checking the pockets, tapping the walls, and examining the floorboards. Satisfied, he followed Colin into the great room and stared out the mammoth picture window, letting out a low whistle.

“I still can’t get over this view.” He pivoted around the room. “You’ve always been a neat freak. You sure you’re not OCD?”

Colin ignored the gibe—Al’s lame attempt at humor.

Next, he let himself into Colin’s office, rifled through his desk drawers, and turned on his computer. “You’ve got mail,” he said, perusing Colin’s in-box. “Looks like you’ve sold a couple of rockers today.”

Colin stood over Al’s shoulder reading the orders. Good. He needed the money to buy a new wood shaper.

“You get that seller’s permit I told you about?”

“Yep.” Colin rolled his eyes. “And I pay my taxes too.”

“Good.” Al got up. He was a big dude with an inch on Colin, who was six-two. Colin put him somewhere in his forties. Though his face looked lived-in, he took fine care of himself—hadn’t let his muscle go to fat.

Colin got the impression no one messed with big Al.

After finding the master bedroom, Al searched the walk-in closet, then pulled up Colin’s mattress, running his hands over the box spring. In the bathroom, he took his time going through the medicine chest.

He made quick work of the other rooms, peering under the guest bed, scouring storage spaces, checking the linen cabinets, and prying open the vents. Then he headed to the kitchen, sticking his head inside the refrigerator, moving around various containers of leftovers, and sorting through the produce drawers.

“I see you’re eating healthy.” He gave Colin a full appraisal.

Under the sink, he crouched down to pull out a number of cleaning supplies, lay on his back, and felt around the drainpipe. Finished, he sat up and put everything back in place.

“Is this going to take much longer?” Colin wanted to know.

“Why? You have an appointment?”

No way was Colin telling him about Harlee. Al would find her and ask a lot of unnecessary questions. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Who’s stopping you? In fact, I’ll follow you out to your shed.” Follow? Al led the way, doing a thorough search of the wood shop’s small bathroom, nosing around in Colin’s toolboxes and generally making himself right at home. “Where you working these days?”

“I’m building a house on the other side of town for the two women who own the Ponderosa.”

“How is that place? I keep meaning to eat there.”

“It’s good.” Colin said it out of loyalty to Sophie and Mariah, but he’d prefer Al not eat there. In fact, he’d rather Al get the hell out of Dodge and go back to Quincy, where he came from, before he stirred up a whole lot of crap Colin didn’t need stirring.

“How come you’re not working today?” Al asked, continuing to snoop through Colin’s workspace.

“I did. But we let out early on account of the crew having to finish another job.”

“It’s a good job?” More Al code for: Is the work legitimate? Are there permits? No under-the-table pay? No illegal substances on site?

“It’s all good, Al.” God, he resented these questions.

Al gazed up at the cathedral ceiling. “How you doing with the phobias?”

“Great,” Colin lied.

“You seeing that therapist?”

“I did. But I don’t like her.”

“Why not?” Al asked.

“Because she judges me.”

Al shook his head. “You do know that’s part of your demophobia, right? Feelings of inferiority. Make another appointment.”

He sat in one of Colin’s rockers and tested the feel of it. “How much does something like this go for?”

“Two hundred fifty. But for you, five hundred.”

Al laughed. “How’s everything else going?”

“Fine and dandy.”
Now get the hell out.

“What about your social life? How’s that going?”

What social life? He couldn’t even accept a dinner offer from a neighbor. A smoking hot neighbor. “Terrific.”

Al wasn’t fooled. “Work on it, Colin.” He stood up and paced the workshop, stopping every once in a while to admire a piece of furniture. Colin was surprised he didn’t take every piece apart. “It’s important to be part of the community. To have friends—upstanding friends.”

Yup, he’d get right on that as soon as Al left.

But unfortunately Al wasn’t leaving. He was still talking. “You seeing anyone?” he asked.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Al. Of course I’m not seeing anyone. I can’t step foot in a goddamn movie theater. How am I supposed to date?” Not to mention that the kind of woman he’d want to date, wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

Al let out a sigh. “Look what you’ve accomplished here. Give yourself a little credit, Colin.” This from the man who just moments ago had had his head down Colin’s toilet tank, looking for contraband.

“On another note, how’s that new police chief working out?” Al asked, and Colin froze.

The last thing Colin needed was Al making waves for him in this town. In the three years he’d lived here, he’d gotten along with the people just fine. He’d even made a few nice acquaintances. The police chief’s wife being one of them. “Why?”

“Just curious. I remember last year he shot that meth dealer in his wife’s inn. Weren’t you the guy who found the lab in the basement?”

“Yeah.” Colin had been helping to restore the Lumber Baron, which at the time had been so neglected that it should’ve been condemned, when he found a cache of chemicals and cooking equipment. Given his history, he’d seriously considered walking away and not telling anyone, knowing that it could come back to him. But he blew the whistle anyway, worried that someone might get hurt. Or worse: blown to bits. Rhys Shepard, the police chief, wound up killing the dealer during a hostage situation.

“So you get along with him okay?” Al asked, watching Colin closely.

“We’re fine. Why the third degree, Al? I’ve been behaving.”

“Just want to make sure you’re staying out of trouble and maintaining good relations with the local law. It’s my job to babysit your ass.”

“The chief’s father just died,” Colin blurted, not knowing why he’d felt the need to throw that into the mix. It wasn’t like it had anything to do with Al.

But the old man’s death had hit Colin hard. Shep Shepard used to drop by the house sometimes, mostly because his Alzheimer’s made him loopy and he’d get lost. On those occasions, he’d confuse Colin for Rhys. Colin supposed that watching a guy lose his mind had helped him put his own issues in perspective. Because of the demophobia, he hadn’t been able to attend the old man’s funeral.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Al reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small urine container, and nudged his head in the direction of the john. “Before I go, I’ll need a sample. And, Colin, leave the door open, please.”

 

Harlee suspected that Desmond Hopper IV was too good to be true. And he was.

In his online dating profile, he boasted of being rich, successful, and single. Unfortunately, he’d failed to mention that his business was in Chapter 11, there were two liens against his Pacific Heights Edwardian, and the bank was foreclosing on his wine country pied-à-terre. For all intents and purposes, Desmond was broke.

And while Harlee’s client might be able to fall in love with a poor man, she sure as hell wasn’t looking for a married one.

The jerk also had a wife.

Apparently Mrs. Hopper was home—probably avoiding calls from collection agencies—while her douche-bag husband was trolling online dating sites.

Desmond was definitely a no-go, Harlee told herself as she quickly finished filling out a background report and emailed it to Frances Guthrie. The woman had become DataDate’s best client.

Frances would surely be disappointed, having had high hopes for this one. But Frances paid Harlee to leave no stone unturned, and that’s exactly what she’d done.

She turned off the computer and went downstairs. Luckily, her propane was getting delivered today. It had only taken three days of badgering for the Reno company to finally get off its butt. And good old Brad had offered to pay for it, since he’d been the last to use the cabin and hadn’t gotten the tank refilled.

In the meantime, she’d made do with Colin’s space heater, the fireplace, sponge baths, and a free shampoo from Darla. She’d also ordered two cords of firewood, which were coming tomorrow—just in time for her mother’s weekend visit.

Things were shaping up at DataDate central. She’d spent the morning cleaning the cabin until it shined and had even gotten two new clients. To celebrate, she and Darla were having lunch at the Ponderosa. On her way out, she grabbed a coat, hat, and gloves. The temperature had dropped enough that Harlee wouldn’t be surprised to see snow.

 

Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the square, found a place to park, and made her way inside the Western-style saloon and restaurant. The place had been completely made over since the last time she’d been there. Lots of red pleather banquettes, dark paneled walls, and Victorian light sconces. Kitschy, but fun.

Darla sat in a booth in the back of the dining room and waved her over. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Harlee air-kissed her, hung her coat and hat on the wall rack, and grabbed the other bench. “It is so cold.”

“Yet look how cute you look.”

Okay, maybe the Kate Spade dress and the four-hundred-dollar boots were a little overkill for Nugget, not to mention that the weather called for down and fleece. But she didn’t want to look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man at her first ladies’ lunch.

“You too,” she told Darla, who had ditched the hairpiece in exchange for clip-on hair extensions. Magenta.

“See that guy over there, sitting at the bar?” Harlee whispered in Darla’s ear. “He keeps staring at you.”

“I see three guys sitting at the bar,” Darla said.

Harlee thought two of them were gorgeous. But it was the third—a cop with big ears—who was doing all the goggling. She nudged her chin at the uniform. “Him. What do you think?”

“Why?” Darla asked.

“He seems interested.”

“Well, he’s not.”

“How do you know? Do you know him?” Harlee asked, because it was obvious that she did.