"Reimburs.e.m.e.nt for the sports package he sold you on the Z, but didn't tell you he sold you."

I blinked.

Then I shared, "The car came that way."

"Other Z's on that lot that come other ways, honey. You drive that Z like it's your grandmother's Buick. You need sports shocks like you need a hole in the head."

I pushed slightly up, or as up as his arms around me would let me go, and protested, "I do not drive my girl like the Buick!"

"Do you know what sport shocks are?"

I could make a wild stab, but the truth of it was I didn't really know what shocks were.

I decided not to answer.

He grinned at me and ordered, "Cash the check."

"It's not Bob's fault I'm an idiot."

His grin died, his hands slid up my back, pressing down so I was face to face with him.

"Cash. The. Check," he growled, his voice rough and commanding.

I stared in his eyes.

Then I said, "All right, honey."

Raiden looked to the ceiling and cursed under his breath.

I let him and when he looked back at me, I asked, "Do you want a late night sundae?"

His eyes got hot, his hands moved to my behind and he answered, "Absolutely."

Two days later...

I got the check from Bob.

Then I drove to Bob's.

We sat down and talked.

An hour later, I signed the check over to the local hospice where Bob's Mom died.

I walked out to my girl thinking KC was a genius.

Then I called Raiden and asked if he wanted to meet me at Rach.e.l.le's for lunch.

Three days later, early evening...

Raiden walked into the kitchen, came up behind me at the stove and kissed my shoulder.

I twisted my neck to grin at him.

He grinned back.

I turned my attention back to the pan thinking it was awesome Raid had a bunch of cargo pants, a trunk, a weight bench and not much else. It took his Jeep and my SUV, two hours that was mostly packing, and he was in.

And this living together business was the business.

"Babe?" he called and I turned to him.

"Yeah?"

He was standing at the opposite counter where my opened mail was piled. He had a piece of paper in his hand and was waving it.

"The Hospice?" he asked.

Oh boy.

That paper was a thank you letter from the Hospice for Bob's and my donation.

I said nothing and waited.

"Bob's check," he stated.

Raiden had put it together.

I bit my lip.

He shook his head, dropped the paper to the counter and grinned at the floor as he walked to the fridge, got a beer and walked out of the room.

I turned back to the stove.

Absolutely.

KC was a genius.

Chapter Eighteen.

I Wake Up Happy.

Three weeks later ...

I was rushing around my bedroom, getting ready. I'd spent too much time amongst my perfumes trying to pick one, only to go back to Agent Provocateur, the one Raid liked, so I was running late.

I ran to the closet and was faced with another decision regarding flip-flops when my cell on the bed rang.

I dashed to it, saw the display and put it to my ear.

"Hey, honey, I'm running late," I told Raiden.

"This is good since I am too," he replied. "You wanna save us twenty minutes and I'll meet you at Rache's?"

"Sure, I'll cycle in."

"Babe, drive."

Rough and commanding.

I ignored it. This was my baby. Willow was safe, but my Schwinn spent the night in my garage and nowhere else, except, of course, outside Raid's den. But Raiden didn't sleep at his den anymore, so now it was the garage and the garage only.

"That would mean I'd need to leave my Z in town overnight, and Rach.e.l.le will let me keep my bike in her back room."

"We'll leave the Jeep in town and drive your Z home. We can pick it up tomorrow."

This idea was a good one so I agreed to it. "Okay, sweetheart."

"See you there," he told me.

"Right. *Bye, sweetheart."

"Later, babe."

I stopped dashing around, which meant I had plenty of time to make the perfect flip-flop choice.

I did this, locked up the house and moved to the garage to get my Z.

"Yo!" Rach.e.l.le greeted on a shout when I walked into her cafe and the bell over the door rang.

I had failed to note that Rach.e.l.le's Cafe looked like it had been torn off the island of Nantucket and planted in Willow, Colorado. Of course, I'd never been to Nantucket, but I'd seen pictures, and Rach.e.l.le's Cafe was it. It had tables all through and a long counter ran down one side. The rest was all serene colors and breezy decor, and trust me, decor could be "breezy".

It was awesome.

Rach.e.l.le was behind the counter with her Mom in front of her.

"Hey," I called.

"Hey there, Hanna," Mrs. Miller called back.

I smiled and moved to them.

Needless to say, Raiden and I now living together, and regardless that he was out of town quite a bit, us having actual time together under our belts, we'd been to dinner at Mrs. Miller's house.

I knew her all my life, liked her all that time, and after going to dinner at her place I liked her better. She was as she always was: nice, friendly and easy to talk to, but I discovered she was also a good cook.

I also got to know her boyfriend, Gazza, better. Gazza was English, as in actually from England, but, like he'd been a mountain man his whole life, he incongruously carved logs into totem poles or eagles and the like. He did this for a living, selling them out of the front yard in his house up in the foothills.

He was a good guy that everyone liked. Mrs. Miller and Gazza didn't live together, but they'd been together for years and they somehow made being together in separate places work. It was also known in town that it was Ruthie Miller who wanted her own s.p.a.ce and Gazza loved her enough to accept her as she came, which, of course, made everyone like him more.

I thought it was even cooler, knowing now that she was a woman who had a man who was not all that great, so she only accepted life and love on her terms, but put the effort in to make it work.

Then again, I was learning the Millers (notwithstanding Mr. Miller, wherever he was) were cool all around.

I stopped and Rach.e.l.le asked, "Dinner or flyby for a coffee a la Rach.e.l.le?"

"Raid and I are going to the double feature at the Deluxe tonight, but he's running late so quick dinner, not a flyby."

For some reason, this statement made Rach.e.l.le roar with laughter, but Mrs. Miller's face grew bright.

"Dog Day Afternoon and French Connection?" she asked excitedly.

"Yep," I answered. "Kicka.s.s 70's Movie Night at the Deluxe, though they missed a great marketing opportunity by not naming it that and instead calling it 70's Masterpiece Theater at the Deluxe." She smiled big, and having taken in her earlier expression I offered, "Do you want to join us?"

She shook her head. "Love to. Plans with Gazz. Another time."

I nodded, looked at Rach.e.l.le and smiled through my hopefully not too nosy question of, "Can I ask why you were laughing?"

"My son," Mrs. Miller started to answer the question I'd asked her daughter, so I looked back at her, "was never a kid who sat around watching TV and playing video games. He also didn't go to movies. He climbed trees. He raced around on that skateboard of his, without a helmet, I'll add, no matter how often I got on him about that. He'd disappear into the woods or the foothills and be gone all day doing G.o.d knows what. Him sitting through a double feature is out of character," she explained, but it was not really an explanation for why that would be funny.

Then Rach.e.l.le gave me the explanation that Mrs. Miller was too well-mannered to give.

"Not even for his b.i.t.c.hes back in the day did he sit his a.s.s in a theater. If they didn't tramp through the woods with him or..." he eyes slid to her Mom, "whatever, they were toast. So it's hilarious seeing my big, scary, bada.s.s brother so... totally... whipped."

My mouth dropped open, but Mrs. Miller's snapped loudly, "Rach.e.l.le!"

She grinned unrepentantly at her mother and made a whiplash noise.

"I'm not sure Raiden is whipped," I shared, and Rach.e.l.le looked at me.

Then she laid it out.

Scarily, wonderfully, and as Rach.e.l.le had a tendency to do, hilariously.

"Your Honor, exhibit A: the pretty girl calls him Raiden when no one calls him Raiden because he f.u.c.kin' hates to be called Raiden," she said and I stared.

I didn't know that.