Mr. Write (Sweetwater) by O'Neill Lisa Clark

Author:O'Neill, Lisa Clark [O'Neill, Lisa Clark]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2014-05-03T16:00:00+00:00

SHRUGGING into a clean shirt, Tucker came into the kitchen to find Mason leaning against the counter, drinking a beer.

Good. A handy target.

“Have a nice day?”

Mason eyed him warily over the rim. “Better than you have, I’d wager.”

“You deserted the field last night.” He yanked open the refrigerator. Found two more beers, a bottle of Tabasco and a carton of rice that was growing hair.

It made him yearn for a pastrami on rye like a lost lover.

Mason shrugged. “Sarah came in. I figured you might actually get off your arse if I weren’t around. Although judging by the look on her face when she left here, your skill in handling women remains as finely honed as usual.”

He didn’t want to talk about Sarah.

“How’d you get home?”

“These things on the end of my legs. I believe they’re called feet.”

He slammed the refrigerator door and was in Mason’s face before it had shut. “Are you screwing around with Allie Hawbaker?”

“I…” Something shifted in his eyes. “No.”

It was said just mournfully enough to have Tucker drawing back.

“I walked her home… back to the store, anyway.”

“Your bedroom door was shut.”

Mason’s stare was bland. “Because I assumed one of us might actually know how to talk a woman into his bed, and might appreciate a little privacy.”

“You went somewhere with her today. Her car was gone.”

“What, you’ve joined Scotland bloody Yard now? Why are you so concerned, anyway?”

“You mean aside from the fact that I’m fond of her?”

“You’re fond of your beer, too, but you don’t get all brassed off when I have one. Oh, fine,” he said when Tucker bared his teeth. “Help a woman out and suddenly I’m a villain.”

“Depends on the kind of ‘help.’”

Mason drained the rest of his beer, chucking the bottle into the trash can. “I noticed a clicking noise when she pulled away last night. Like when my Jag had a worn CV joint. So I stopped by today, mentioned that I thought it sounded off, and she may want to have it looked at. Ah, Josie, the old woman, sort of insisted that that happen right away. And that I should be the one to take the car in, since I seemed to know my arse from my elbow.”

Tucker crossed his arms over his chest. “You took her car in to have it serviced.”

“If I hadn’t, there’d probably be a wax likeness of me somewhere with little pins in it.”

“And you walked her home last night. In the dark. During a storm. And then watched her drive away.”

His busy mouth turned sulky. “So?”

“So.” Tucker couldn’t believe it. “You struck out.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s a baseball analogy, dumbass. You hit on a woman, and you struck out.” He grinned. “There is a God, after all.”

“I did not strike out.” He dragged both hands down his face, and went to the fridge for another beer. Giving the top a vicious twist, he muttered: “I choked.”

“You choked?”

“I just couldn’t bring myself to…” He whirled, pointed a finger. “I’ve clearly been living with you too long.

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