92 Pacific Boulevard - Debbie Macomber [92]
“Okay, I’ll explain,” she said, her fingers nimbly working the yarn. “You have a ‘tell.’“
“A ‘tell’?“
“Yes,” she said, brightening. “I’ve been watching that poker show on TV. I don’t know how I got started, but now I’m hooked.“
“And a ‘tell’ is?” He knew very well what it meant, but he wanted to hear her definition of it—and, even more, what she felt his “tell” was.
Faith’s response was enthusiastic. “You’ve noticed that a lot of poker players wear dark glasses? The reason, according to the commentators, is that other players can read their eyes and know if they’re bluffing or not. I saw one player who shuffled his chips every time he was dealt a good hand. I could tell he had decent cards by his body language.”
“In other words, you can read me the same way you read that poker player?”
“Yes,” she answered smugly.
Troy was enjoying this. “Would it be divulging too much to ask what my ‘tell’ is?“
She smiled again and stopped knitting for a moment. Leaning forward slightly, she said, “You squint.“
“I most certainly do not,” Troy said.
“Oh, but, Troy, you do. Your eyes narrow and you frown. It’s like you’re trying to read tiny, tiny print.”
As if to prove the opposite, he widened his eyes, which made Faith laugh outright.
“When did you first see this ‘tell’ of mine?”
“Christmas.“
The only real interaction he could remember was at the Christmas tree farm, where Megan and Craig had dragged him for their annual outing. Faith had been with her son and her grandchildren, and they’d met there.
“Can you be more precise?”
She lowered her eyes as though her knitting suddenly demanded her full attention. “The night I ran into you at the tree farm,” she said.
So he was right. “Ah, yes.”
“I knew the instant I saw you that you didn’t want to be there.”
That much was true. The only reason he’d gone was for Megan’s sake. The choosing and chopping down of the Christmas tree had long been a family tradition, and although he’d tried to beg off, his daughter had insisted.
“You were furious with me, as I recall.”
“Yes, I was,” she said.
“But you aren’t anymore, right?”
Faith shook her index finger at him. “You aren’t going to distract me. We were talking about your ‘tell,’ remember?”
He gestured toward her. “By all means, continue.”
“As I was saying,” she said, her mouth quivering with a smile. “You squint. You squinted that night when you saw me.”
“And you pretended you hadn’t noticed me.”
“Not as successfully as I’d hoped,” she said, amusement still evident on her face.
He grinned, too. “I guess this means I should never play poker,” he said lightly.
“Not with me, you shouldn’t,” she told him, as her fingers moved quickly, looping the yarn onto the needles.
Troy had never asked her what she was knitting. He thought of the socks she’d made him; he still wore them but never without a pang of nostalgia—and remorse.
He reluctantly set his coffee aside. “Nothing’s been going on around here, has it?”
Faith looked away. “Nothing of significance.”
“Faith…”
Sighing heavily, she stared down at her knitting. “Someone, probably a kid trying to make trouble, overturned my garbage can. No harm done.”
Troy rubbed his face. “I wish I knew why you’ve been targeted for this vandalism.”
“I wish I did, too.”
“If only we—”
“I’ve done everything you’ve suggested,” she broke in, a bit defensively. “Scott was over last week and set up motion detector lights over the garage. Don’t worry, Troy, nothing’s happened since my tires got slashed.”
“Good.” He stood and glanced at the door. “You’ll call if anything else comes up?”
“I will,” she promised.
“I mean it, Faith.”
She walked him to the door and wrapped her arms around him. Troy held her close, loath to release her. He wanted to kiss her, but needed a sign, an indication that she wanted his kiss. It came a few seconds later when she turned her lips to his. Their mouths met softly—sweet and comforting.