Sins & Needles(30)

“I didn’t know you were such a handyman,” I told him as he unlocked his front door. It was just a simple deadbolt, nothing too fancy. I hadn’t heard or seen any motion detectors or cameras either, though I knew from experience that it didn’t mean there weren’t any. There was a large hedge of desert rose between the side of the house and the main street, which blocked this door from prying eyes. That was a plus.

He glanced behind me as he opened the door and let me in. “Ah, I’m not so handy, believe me. I dabbled in the sign making business for a bit and sometimes do it for fun.”

The shop had a beautiful sign out front. “Did you do the Sins & Needles sign?”

“Took me a hell of a long time. Luckily when you screw up doing woodwork, the wood doesn’t cry out in pain and sue you.” He shut the door behind us. “Well, this is the part of my life most people don’t get to see.”

To the left of us was a door that I assumed led into the shop. To the right was another door that looked like it went into the garage. Then of course there were the stairs we were climbing. That left three ways to get out of the house if I had to. Not too shabby.

“How do we get to the backyard?” I asked him as we went up.

“Through the garage,” he said as he paused at the top.

The upstairs was absolutely stunning. Hardwood floors and Mexican rugs, white-washed walls above peeling-paint baseboards that looked like they were salvaged from a barn. Huge pieces of original artwork hung from the walls, along with a display of guitar necks that went in a diagonal slash from floor to ceiling. The ceiling itself was made of copper panels.

He took me into the kitchen, which was small but homey. To my delight, it was a bit of a mess, with empty beer cans stacked in the corner and toaster crumbs on the counter. Just like Camden’s ears had brought him down to earth, the fact that he wasn’t 100 percent neat and tidy made his shabby chic home easier to take.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a painting of a woman above the driftwood table. It looked like Picasso’s Woman in Blue, except that it was done from a photograph. The woman’s face was blurry and covered with a wash of dark hair, but her figure was exquisite.

“I love that,” I told him. “Did you do that?”

I looked over my shoulder at him. He gave me a small smile. “I did.”

Tattoos, sign-making, painting; Camden was the epitome of an artist—complete with the occasional mood swing as well.

I was about to ask who the painting was of, but I decided against it. From the tight look in his eyes, I knew it was his ex-wife. I wondered why on earth he kept the artwork in the kitchen. Did he really want reminders of her all over the place?

Of course, that train of thought was coming to you courtesy of a woman who drove her ex-boyfriend’s car and had a memory of him permanently inked on her arm.

I whirled around and clapped my hands together. “This is amazing, Camden. Come on, show me the rest!”

He took me out into the living room, which had couches of mahogany leather and white fluffy throws and a wonderful working fireplace. It got shockingly cold in the winters here and many homes didn’t have central heating, so the fireplace must have been a major selling point.

Also, a major sexing point. Any date that ended with two people drinking wine near a fire also ended with a woman’s thong being thrown across the room.

Before I could fixate on that thought too much, next was the spare bedroom, which had a single bed shoved in the corner. The rest of the room was crammed with paint supplies.

“Not your office then?” I asked.

“My office is downstairs between the hall and the shop. This is just for Ben, if he ever comes to visit.”

“Has he?”

He shook his head and flipped off the light. There was a nice bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a basin-like sink. Then it was his room.

Like the kitchen, it was a bit messy. He looked sheepish before he scampered across the room and started shoving all his clothes into a laundry hamper.

“Sorry, I’m not used to much company.”

“You’re also a man.” With flaws, thank god.

I walked across the room, trailing my hand over the cozy flannel bedspread and stopped at the window. We were right above the front of the store and could see down into the rock garden and the main street. The sun was starting to get low in the sky, casting long shadows in the golden light.

“So does that mean you’re neat and tidy, since you’re a woman?”

I scrunched up my face. “Are you kidding? I used to buy paper plates just so I wouldn’t have to do the dishes. My idea of vacuuming is borrowing someone’s dog for the day and having them eat all the crap off the floor.”