6. The Only Ones That Matter

Riggs

Early evening, Riggs caught sight of her while standing at his kitchen sink.

She was sitting on her pier, staring at the lake.

She was in the distance, but he could see she didn't move much, except she was drinking something.

She wasn't reading or talking on the phone.

Just staring at the lake.

And Riggs knew exactly what that was about. He felt it flow straight through his soul.

Goddamn.

Fuck him and fuck Harry Moran.

He'd enjoyed his last visit in town, grabbed some groceries, came back to his place and picked up the mess around his house.

Once he'd hit the shower, ran a comb through his hair and dressed, he went back to the window to see she wasn't on the pier.

Probably inside, making dinner.

It was time to head out.

He nabbed one of the bottles and made his way to the trail.

The lanterns on her back porch were lit, along with the line of lights Brenda had asked him to tack up around the edges of the porch roof. They were Christmas lights covered in alternating pink, blue, green and yellow plastic flowers. Dave had hated them. Riggs wasn't a fan either. Brenda was gleeful the minute she saw them up.

Now, he got it.

That tableau suited Nadia.

More to the point, it was peaceful and pretty, and it suited what Riggs felt Nadia needed.

He walked up the steps to the back porch and frowned at the screen door.

He'd had several conversations with Dave about that old wooden door with the big screen in it. The cabin needed a secure storm door, and not only because they got storms. It was safer. Anybody could jump right through that screen without much effort. A storm door would pose a problem to someone who wanted to get in that the person inside wanted to keep out.

Dave and Brenda had dumped a load into that cabin (mostly Brenda), and Riggs could understand why Dave tried to find things to save money on.

Nadia there now, Riggs reckoned they could have done without the flower lights and the fucking pillows everywhere and bought decent security doors.

He knocked on the wood, and his frown intensified because even the sound of his knuckles striking made it sound rickety.

She appeared at the top of the hall. Her mass of hair pulled in a high ponytail. No makeup, wearing a dark-green sundress with tiny pink flowers on it that hit above her knees, the thick straps tied in bows on top of her shoulders. Her feet were bare. Her skin glowed with a light tan.

In other words, she was just as fuckable as the last two times he saw her when her hair was a mess from sleep, she was wearing slouchy clothes and her blue eyes were shooting icicles at him.

Except more.

The thing was, she was wearing an apron with big, bright flowers over the dress.

Never in his life had he seen anyone wear an actual apron, not to mention one that looked thrown forward in time from the fifties.

Even so, it didn't surprise him in the least that she did—his prim and proper princess telling him the weekday rules were to quiet down at nine, and weekends at midnight.

Though, it did make him want to bust out laughing.

Fortunately, he didn't do that, and when her gorgeous face went cold at the sight of him, he lifted up the bottle of wine and said, "Peace offering."

She hesitated a moment before she moved down the hall and stood opposite him without making that first move to open the screen door between them.

She also didn't say anything, though she took a good look at the wine.

So he spoke. "I was a dick. You were right. I'm not used to having anyone living close, and I didn't factor that into my plans for last night. I get that you wouldn't feel safe coming over and asking us to keep it down. I also get you shouldn't have to. In future, I'll have a mind."

She didn't say anything or move, which sucked, but considering the little he knew of her, it also wasn't surprising.

So he bent, put the bottle on the porch to the side of the door and straightened.

"Don't know wine, and you should know, I have it only on dubious authority that's a good bottle. Still, hope you enjoy."

She tipped her head slightly to the side, but that was it.

He made to turn.

But then he didn't turn.

The woman wore an apron, for Christ's sake.

He drew in a big breath and said, "My father was a piece of shit."

Her body moved like she'd sustained a blow, and he got that too.

But he went on.

"Abusive to my mom. Abusive to me and my sister. Stepped out on Mom all the time. Didn't even try to hide it. Mom got shot of him, but he'd still come around and give her grief, give it to all of us, even after she got a restraining order. He did time in county jail, a lot. In prison, twice. If he had money, you could bet the way he came by it wasn't legal. But he didn't often have money, which was usually why he stopped by to give Mom grief. The man never worked an honest job, not a day of his life. He fucked over any friend he made, any woman who gave her heart or body to him. He hated the cops, for obvious reasons. And he was on the run from them, high speed chase, when he went over a cliff."

She gasped.

Riggs kept going.

"His car exploded on impact and set off a wildfire. Took out fifty acres and three houses before they contained it. And I'll tell you, the man was very dead, but still, I know down deep in my gut, he'd be pleased as fuck his last act on this earth was to burn down all the worldly possessions of three families. He'd love that to the marrow of his bones. That was just how big of a piece of shit he was."

She stood, still as a statue, but he wasn't feeling a chill from her anymore.

Not even close.

Her face was pale, and those blue eyes were big, her lips were parted, and he could see her tits rise and fall fast, taking the apron with them.

"So, I get it," he concluded. "I didn't do any of that shit, and I had to live it down. He died ten years ago, and sometimes, I still have to live it down. It sucks. Huge. But you learn, the people you know, who know you, are the only ones that matter."

She remained silent.

He'd said his piece.

He tipped his chin toward the bottle and bid, "Hope you like it, Nadia."

That was when he turned to leave.

He'd only taken a step when he heard the screen door open.

He turned back and she was reaching for the bottle.

After she grabbed it, she was still bent in half when her head went back.

She swung the bottom of the bottle side to side, and asked softly, "Have you had dinner?"

He felt one side of his lips draw up and ignored what her invitation caused in his groin before he answered, "No."

She straightened fully. "It's nothing fancy. Just spaghetti."

"I like spaghetti."

She nodded and let the door go as she turned to move inside.

Riggs caught it before it closed.

He followed her in, and for the first time, he understood Brenda's vision.

Lights were lit, not all of them, just enough to chase the shadows away and make the space inviting. Though, the kitchen was fully lit, and he smelled the garlic before he hit it, the kind of smell he knew, it wasn't just spaghetti, but garlic bread.

His stomach suddenly reminded him he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

He and Dave had told Brenda repeatedly that she was alienating at least half of the rental market with the girlie way she decorated.

But now, he saw it, and thought maybe Brenda was a weird kind of genius.

Because straight up, he wouldn't mind hanging a good long while in this space with Nadia.

She'd made it her own, he could see, with more books in the bookshelves and framed photos scattered around. There was a candle lit on a nightstand, and a bunch of them around the fireplace. The door to the walk-in wasn't fully closed, and it was a big closet, but from what he could tell from the glimpse he got, she'd filled that fucker up in a way he was guessing that most of the boxes he helped Dave lug for her were clothes and shoes.

She also had a digital photo frame on the far end of the back kitchen counter that scrolled through pictures.

Happier times for Nadia, and it looked like she had a lot of friends.

Those happier times included the picture that came up when he stopped at the island.

Nadia with an attractive older woman who looked a lot like her, a much older man, and a good-looking blond guy in a tux.

Nadia was wearing a wedding dress.

She looked amazing, happy, and only someone like Riggs would notice the pain shadowing her eyes.

"That's my mom, my grandfather and Trevor," she stated, taking his attention to her, and catching her watching him staring at her frame. "My husband. He died."

This was succinct, matter of fact, and it was seven years ago, so he could see that. He could also see she said it in a way that meant she didn't want to talk about it.

He should have told her that he knew, but he didn't want her to know people were talking about her.

She'd know, obviously, especially considering how he earned his invitation to dinner.

But she didn't need to know how much he knew, nor did she need that shit in her kitchen.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"I am too."

Time for another topic.

"Anything I can do?" he offered.

She put a wine key by the bottle of wine on the counter, along with a big-bowled, sparkling clean wineglass.

A vodka princess who kept her wineglasses sparkling clean and did that herself.

A piece of wisdom he liked to know about her, at the same time he wished he didn't.

"You can open the wine so it can breathe," she replied.

She took her glass, which was used but empty, to the sink and rinsed it out.

"Place looks nice," he noted.

"Have you been in here before?"

"Sure, I renovated it."

This made her stop drying her wineglass and stare at him.

"I own a contracting business. We do mostly renos and refurbs all through central Washington," he shared. "So I'm journeyman electrician, plumber, welder and a licensed contractor."

She kept staring.

He pulled out the cork.

"That seems a lot of education for a man your age," she remarked.

He unscrewed the cork, set it and the wine key on the counter, leaned into a hand and raised his brows. "How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know, thirty-three, thirty-four."

He chuckled. "Now you're just being nice."

"Actually, I'm not."

Well, shit.

"I'm thirty-eight."

Her astonishment was unhidden.

But she said, "That's still young for that amount of training. It's my understanding it takes years for each of those trades."

"It does," he confirmed. "And it helps that I started early, seeing as I skipped third and sixth grades. With my dad being my dad, it wasn't easy entering high school at twelve. But even without my dad, it wouldn't have been easy."

"Wow," she said quietly. "Not easy, but it's impressive."

He wasn't so sure about that.

"It's why I'm called Doc," he told her. "My teachers started to talk to Mom about moving me up in second grade. She said I had to be a genius and began calling me that as a joke. It stuck, and everyone started calling me that. Even my teachers. The name I was born with was Jonathan Andrew Riggs, Jr. But my dad was such a dick, when I was twenty-four, I went in front of a judge and changed it to Andrew Doc Riggs, and obviously dropped the junior. Andrew was my granddad's name. Mom's dad. He was the shit. The judge knew my dad. Didn't ask a single question. Slammed down his gavel, though I figure he didn't need to do that, he just did it for the fun of it, also since he knew when my dad found out I'd changed my name he'd pitch a fit, and he granted the change. Dad was pissed as all hell. It was a brilliant ‘fuck you' I was glad I could deliver before he went up in a ball of flame."

Her lips tipped up and her eyes lit, and he liked both.

"Sure way to piss me off," he carried on, probably due to that light in her eyes and curl in her lips, "is call me John. Dad went by that, so did I when I was younger."

"So now it's Doc," she noted.

"That or Riggs, whichever works for you."

She nodded, ducked her head in a shy way, and turned to the stove where she dumped an entire box of spaghetti in boiling water.

She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the long lengths of pasta, saying to the pot, "And you know who I am."

"Yeah, Nadia," he said gently. "Went into town today, heard word. I know that sucks, but in a twisted way, you should be glad. Means I'm gonna stop being a dick to you."

Her ponytail had fallen down to hide part of her profile, so she peeked around it to look at him and give him a tentative smile.

And damn.

He liked that too.

She pulled it together, put the wooden spoon down, picked up another one and started to stir the sauce, commenting, "You do apologies really well."

Now he was uncomfortable.

So much so, he had to clear his throat before he said, "It's not the same, but there are similarities to our stories, and misery loves company."

She turned fully to him and said outright, "Your openness means a lot, Riggs."

So she picked Riggs.

Not many people did, but that's how he thought of himself, more than Doc.

And there was something about the fact she called him what he thought he was that started getting under his skin.

Though, if he was completely honest with himself, she'd done that when she told him not to run through her yard.

"I was talking about the wine," she continued. "A five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine is a pretty classy apology. I'm not sure how dubious your authority actually is. They know good wine."

And now it was Riggs who was staring.

"What?" she asked, putting down the spoon and going to the fridge.

"Got that bottle from a bud of mine. Keeping the honesty going, it cost a whack, but not that big of a whack. And after we're done with it, I'm going to have to take the bottle home with me because, I'm not certain, but better safe than sorry, so I'm gonna have to get rid of the evidence."

She laughed as soft and sweet as she spoke when she wasn't pissed off.

No surprise, he liked that too.

"He knows right from wrong," Riggs went on. "He just chooses to ignore one side of that on occasion."

The laugh she gave him after he said that was bigger, but it wasn't louder.

"How long we gotta let this shit breathe?" he asked.

She was pulling out a bowl to toss the bag of Caesar salad mix she'd taken from the fridge.

She set the bowl on the counter and went to the bottle. She checked the label closely and said, "Half an hour."

"So you know wine," he noted.

A slight shrug.

She knew wine.

"Would you put together the salad while I set the island?" she requested.

"You got it," he agreed.

He hadn't done anything truly domestic with a woman for years.

But as he tossed that salad, and she put out placemats, cloth napkins, cutlery and pasta bowls, that thought didn't enter his mind.

It wasn't until a lot later he realized how easy he fell into it.

And how bad that was.