Silent Confessions

“You got a short, all right, and I can fix that. But you’ve got all sorts of problems. Like I told you before, the wiring in this old building is terrible.”

Ronnie sighed. As far as she knew, the place had never been rewired. “And that’s why the alarm didn’t work?”

“I’m surprised anything works.” He flashed her a nice smile. “As my grandpa used to say, you’re held together with spit and a prayer.”

She laughed. “Story of my life. Okay. I guess I need to just suck it up. Can you fix the short and then give me an estimate on coming in and taking care of everything? No offense, but this piecemeal stuff is really adding up.” Over the last year, Ethan had done quite a bit of work throughout the building, but just Band-Aid repairs. She needed to spend the money to do it right once and for all.

She’d already committed to fixing the air conditioner in her apartment. Ethan had taken a look at it that afternoon and deemed it in dire need of parts. She’d authorized the order, of course, but that meant more days of living in a sauna—and then one more large check for the work.

A complete overhaul of the electrical system would be even more expensive, and she certainly didn’t need to add to her debt. But she also didn’t need the alarm not to trip or a short to spark a fire. Heaven forbid.

After Ethan agreed to get an estimate to her in the next couple of days, she headed to the second floor and pulled the copy of Tropic of Cancer from the climate-controlled area. She’d asked Joan to put out all the collectible editions in case anyone who attended the talk wanted to make a purchase, but apparently her assistant hadn’t gotten around to it.

With the book in her hand, she headed back to the main room, stepping behind the counter just in time to hear the door jingle. Detective Parker sauntered in, his suit jacket flung carelessly over his shoulder, his tie slightly askew, and his shirt looking remarkably fresh despite the heat. For that matter, the detective looked cool and refreshing, and Ronnie bit the inside of her cheek against the sudden overwhelming urge to take a little dip in that pond.

In truth, exploring some of the more enticing parts of the Miller work had been fodder for a secret fantasy that had run through her head all afternoon. She’d selected three passages to discuss in particular, each exploring hidden desires and latent passions. She’d let her imagination run wild, allowing herself the luxury of pretending that Detective Parker figured out she’d selected the text with him in mind...and then insisted on doing a little firsthand investigation of the passages.

Now, though, she realized just how foolish she’d been to start thinking such decadent thoughts. He was yummy, no denying that, but now was not a good time to lose her cool. She was about to stand up in front of a group of eight people and host an informal lecture on Henry Miller. Henry Miller. Known for his intimate and explicit descriptions of all things sexual.

What was she thinking inviting this man to watch her lecture? Detective Parker alone was enough to turn her knees to jelly. Combine him with Miller’s prose, and she was going to simply melt into the floor and beg him to take her. Not exactly the way to appear scholarly and academic to the small group gathered in her store.