Lightning Strikes. Colleen Collins
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kind of plant?” she muttered to herself, squinting to decipher objects in the shadows. “Potato?” She set the toolbox on the floor, crossed to the windows, and opened the drapes. Sunlight flooded in, lifting the gloom.
With a pleased sigh, Blaine turned around and paused.
“What is he? A monk?”
She’d never seen such a sparsely decorated place. It was almost as though no one lived here. In the far corner of the living room was a seen-better-days, plaid recliner with a standing pole lamp next to it. Against the right wall was a bookshelf, filled with hardback and paperback novels, and one shelf of CDs. On top of the bookshelf was a CD player, bracketed with two square speakers.
And no plant.
She glanced to her right. Set back, more a nook than a separate room, was the kitchen. Except for a few objects on the counter, it was white and bare.
“That’s it?” she said to herself, her gaze traveling back over the apartment. “No TV?” She couldn’t imagine a guy not watching sports or cop shows. Maybe he kept it in his bedroom…the room that housed her gorgeous bed.
Time to get to work. Blaine picked up her toolbox and headed for the hallway, which had two doors. One to the bathroom, one to the bedroom.
And in the latter, she saw her bed. Her beautiful, fantasy-drenched bed.
It sat in the center of the room, sparkling from the sunlight that fell in yellow slants through blinds on the window on the back wall. The streams of light fired spots of gold and copper on the brass. Blaine just had to stop and take in an appreciative breath at the sheer majesty of it.
She sneezed. Pulling another tissue from her pocket, she swiped at her nose and glanced again at the window. Sure enough, it was cracked open.
Enough to let in a flood of pollen.
Time to pop another allergy pill.
She typically took only one a day, but today she’d taunted the pollen gods by spending the better part of this afternoon outside—walking to Jerome’s, walking to the travel agency to cash in her ticket, hanging outside Henry’s, her dad’s buddy’s, to borrow the pickup. Which had no air-conditioning, so she’d driven over here with the window rolled down.
But before taking more medicine, she wanted to quickly scope out the bed, see how it was assembled.
She headed toward the magical, sexy object.
Crackle.
She looked down. She’d stepped on some big leaf.
In her mind, she heard Milly’s raspy voice. “Be careful of his plant.”
Blaine gingerly lifted her foot and eyed the humongous leaf. Had to be the size of a dinner plate. Her gaze traveled to where it was attached to a vine that curled along the floorboard to the far corner of the room. There, it led up to a clay pot, that housed some Jack-and-the-Beanstalk number with more leafy vines that coiled up the wall and along the top of the window.
That’s no plant. That’s a roommate.
Blaine leaned over, and ever so gently, pushed the vine closer to the floorboard so there’d be no more accidental steppages. She momentarily pondered how the delivery guys hadn’t destroyed part of the plant, which only made Blaine feel all the guiltier for stepping on it.
Well, just because I could play sports didn’t mean I was coordinated in everyday life. How many times had she knocked over a vase or tracked mud and dirt into the house?
Setting down her toolbox, she swiped at her suddenly watering eyes.
Damn allergies. She needed to see before she could even scope. She’d take a pill and hope it kicked in fast. With the way she was feeling, she’d wanted to post-pone this bed delivery adventure, but she had to take care of it today because Sonja had hinted about all kinds of maid-of-honor and sisterly tasks up until Saturday, the day of the wedding.
Blaine retraced her steps to the kitchen. There, she opened several cupboards, which were more sparse than the rest of this guy’s apartment. A few plates, bowls, cups and water glasses. She filled a glass with tap water, then retrieved her plastic vial from her shirt pocket. Tapping out a pill, she popped it into her mouth and washed it down.
On the way back to the bedroom, an object on the bookshelf caught her eye. She paused and picked it up. An old, chipped pocket knife. Why keep an old tool around? She loved her tools the way other girls loved clothes and makeup. And one of her pet rules was to keep her tools in mint condition, clean and ready to use. She’d never keep an old, battered pocketknife.
Blaine turned the knife over in her hands. Besides the plant, this object seemed to be the only decoration in this place.
Placing it back on the shelf where she found it, Blaine headed back to the bedroom, yawning.
For the next fifteen minutes, she checked out how the bed was bolted together. Then she opened her toolbox and extracted a wrench.
Sleepy. I’m so sleepy.
Blinking, she positioned the wrench around the bolt. She yawned again, a long tired yawn. This wrench felt so heavy. Her eyelids felt heavier. The medication was unusually strong.
Foggily, she thought back. She took one pill after buying the bed. Another before driving Henry’s truck over here. And one a few minutes ago.
Ohhhhh. Instead of her usual one, she had inadvertently taken three.
Distant thunder broke the silence.
An oncoming summer storm. The rain would be great, but the preceding winds would only kick up more pollen. She could already smell the ragweed, the flowers, the…
Ah-chooo!
She extracted her tissue and blew her nose.
When will that last pill kick in? Better take a breather, rest, wait for the storm to pass.
Besides, if she tried to keep working on this bed in her druggy state, she’d undoubtedly keel over on that plant and do far more than simply crunch a leaf.
Blaine hoisted herself on top of the bed. Ahhhhhh. This mattress was so big and soft, it was like sitting on a cloud. A sensuous, seductive cloud that promised a world of fantasy and dreams come true…
Too hot to sleep in my clothes. She began tugging off her T-shirt.
A few minutes later, Blaine fell back, barely aware of her head hitting the pillow.
2
THE TAXI DROVE AWAY, its motor fading into the night air as Donovan Roy unlocked the door. A breeze riffled the air, infusing it with the rich scent of earth and grass. Must have rained earlier. He was partial to this time of year in Colorado, when an afternoon storm could rush in like a giddy schoolgirl, all breathless and flustered, then unleash its passion like a seasoned woman.
He shifted his overnight bag on his shoulder, catching another scent. Roses. Or was it honeysuckle? No, that had been in San José. Lilacs? Could be. They’d grown in wild abundance, purple and fragrant, outside his hotel room in Cincinnati.
San José.
Cincinnati.
As he shoved the door open with his shoulder, his thoughts struggled. Which city was he in this time?
His memory was always sharp, damn near perfect, except when he pushed himself, mentally and physically, to the limit. Shouldn’t have taken this last job. Should have taken a break. But he’d needed the money.
He paused on the threshold, squinting at the shadows in the room.
Hell, it’s home!
He kicked shut the door behind him and dropped his bag, which hit the hardwood floor with a solid whoomp. He tugged off one of his boots and tossed it next to the bag.
God, I’m wiped.