But if she was in town somewhere, he could just . . .
His mind switched gears as he noticed his back door open to the screen, and the pots of flowers beside it. He sat where he was a moment, then tossed his sunglasses on the dash. When he stepped out of the truck, he heard the music pouring through the screen door.
Where the hell did the plants come from? he wondered as fresh irritation banged against an already full-blown headache. And why the hell was his door open?
He wanted air-conditioning, a cool shower, and five damn minutes to shake off the worst of the day. Now he had flowers he'd have to remember to water, music blasting, and somebody who'd require attention and conversation in his house.
He trudged up the steps, scowled at the plants, pushed through the screen door.
And there she was, singing along with the radio-which was blasting through his aching head, cooking something on his stove when he'd set his system on take-out pizza, and his spare keys sat on the counter beside a vase of enormous sunflowers that made his eyes throb.
She shook the frying pan with one hand, reached for a glass of wine with the other-then saw him.
"Oh!" She laughed when her hand jerked on the handle of the pan. "I didn't hear you."
"Not surprising, as you're entertaining the neighborhood with . . . Jesus, is that ABBA?"
"What? Oh, the music. It is loud." She gave the pan another shake before adjusting the heat under it. With an easy side step, she picked up the remote, lowered the volume on the stereo. "Cooking music. I thought I'd surprise you with a ready-made meal. These scallops just need another minute. The sauce is already done, so you can have a little something right away. How about a glass of wine?"
"No. Thanks." He reached over her head into the cabinet for a bottle of aspirin.
"Hard day." In sympathy, she rubbed a hand down his arm as he fought open the bottle. "Michelle told me. Why don't you sit down for a minute, get your bearings?"
"I'm filthy. I need a shower."
"Well, you're right about that." She rose on her toes to brush a light kiss on his lips. "I'll get you some ice water."
"I can get it." He moved past her to the refrigerator. "Michelle gave you the key?"
"She said you were stuck out on a job, and having a bad day. I had the food out in the car, so . . ." She shook the pan again, turned off the flame. "I've got a flank steak marinating. Red meat ought to help your headache. You can just clean up and relax. Or I can hold dinner awhile if you want to stretch out until you feel better."
"What is all this, Emma?" Even at the lower volume, the music scraped against his nerves. He grabbed the remote, turned it off. "Did you haul those pots up here?"
"Chip did the heavy work. I had the best time picking out the urns, the plants." She sprinkled the scallops with a mixture of cilantro, garlic, and lime, poured on the sauce she'd prepared. "They really pop against the house, don't they? I wanted to do something to thank you for New York, and when inspiration hit, I juggled a few things and hit the road."
She set the empty bowl in the sink, turned. Her smile faded. "And I miscalculated, didn't I?"
"It's been a lousy day, that's all."
"Which I've added to, clearly."
"Yes. No." He pressed his fingers to the drill trying to bore through his temple. "It's been a bad day. I just need to smooth out some. You should've called if you wanted to . . . do this."
Without thinking, out of sheer habit, he picked up the spare keys and shoved them in his pocket.
He might as well have slapped her.
"Don't worry, Jack, I didn't hang anything of mine in a closet, put anything in a drawer. My toothbrush is still in my bag."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"My trespassing only went as far as the kitchen, and it won't happen again. I didn't run out and make a copy of your precious keys, and I hope you won't give Michelle any grief for giving them to me."
"Give me a small break, Emma."
"Give you a break? Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have to tell her I didn't have a key? To know we've been sleeping together since April and I can't be trusted."
"It has nothing to do with trust. I just never-"
"Bullshit, Jack. Just bullshit. Every time I stay here-which is very rare because it's your space, I have to make sure I don't leave so much as a stray hairpin behind because, dear God, what's next? An actual hairbrush? A shirt? Before you know it I'll actually feel welcome here."