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never took his phone when out climbing himself, but as
teacher and guy in charge, he kept it clipped to his harness, ringer off, in
case of emergency. He pulled it free to see if he could locate Damon. He’d
missed a call. His Dallas realtor. She had a prospective buyer for the loft and
wanted to be sure the place was in show-worthy condition.
    Was it ever. A week earlier, he’d moved his bike,
racquetball gear, skates, assorted junk—more or less all the sports equipment
he’d accumulated to support the last couple of years hobbies, a considerable
pile, as he seemed to go through hobbies almost as quickly as he did women—to
the storage locker for his unit in the building’s underground garage.
    The ungodly collection of shoes that accompanied said
hobbies clogged the back of his Jeep, most of them sealed for aromatic
freshness in what had become the footlocker of the damn.
    That had eliminated most of the clutter around the loft. And
he’d always been pretty good about making the bed. A guy who went through
girlfriends as quickly as he did learned to keep his place
first-impression-worthy.
    Which brought him back to thoughts of the orange-breasted
lioness and wishing he could throw himself at the wall for the next hour or
two. Where the hell was Damon?
    * * * * *
    Where the hell was Charlie? Her texts and calls went
unanswered. Same for calls to the apartment he and Gina shared. He’d promised
to provide muscle for her Space Craft closet-organizer installation at Mrs.
Avery’s house, so Isabelle hadn’t called any of her usual helpers. Charlie might
not be the world’s most responsible guy, but money had become a more reliable
motivator for him since he’d been laid off a few weeks earlier. Not that he had
to do her heavy lifting to get her help. She’d tucked extra cash in the
rainy-day pot she kept on the mantel so he could take whatever he needed
without having to ask. It was just that he’d volunteered for this.
    She ran errands to give her brother a chance to get it
together, and returned to a message from Stacey, wanting her to call. Nothing
from Charlie.
    As she stood there in the living room, the phone rang. Maybe
Charlie received her mental nudge—some sort of stepsibling telepathy. She
grabbed the receiver.
    “Is he still there?” Steven.
    Crap.
    “Who?”
    He laughed. “I thought so.”
    What did that mean?
    “I talked to my buddy Bob,” Steven said. “Is it true your
‘real man’ is a plumber?”
    He’d talked to Bob after the party? Isabelle’s stomach
gurgled.
    “Kim is a plumber, yes,” she said. She wanted to stick to
the truth as much as possible, not that Steven had ever understood the concept.
Isabelle considered it simple respect, and she owed Kim Martin that much for
his kindness.
    “Your girlfriend Stacey said you’d never mentioned him
before.”
    “I don’t see how the details of my life are any of your
business.”
    There was a pause. Isabelle pictured Steven taking a breath,
trying to work out what she wanted to hear, gearing up to ask about the ring
she wasn’t yet ready to let him know she’d found.
    “You’re right,” he said, “I apologize.”
    “Thank you.” She hung up before he could say more. It was
the most pleasant finish to a conversation with Steven she could remember.
    The phone rang again. She picked it up. It might be Charlie.
    “Why did you hang up on me?”
    No such luck. “I have nothing to say to you. Keep bothering
me and I’ll make your life hell. You know how I can get.” She knew her voice
had become nasty. It happened whenever she thought about how he’d tried to make
his every thoughtless moment her fault. You know how you get.
    “I have to have my box back, Isabelle. Let me come and get
it. Please. You have no idea how important it is to me.”
    Her stomach clenched with anger. Yesterday, it had been an
heirloom. Today it was his box. Weird thing to say if it were an heirloom.
Steven always was a sloppy