“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.”

He laughed, a total belly-aching shake. What a fucking beautiful sound.

“All right, come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and leading me away from the window. “Let’s keep the Day of Fun moving by going in the backyard and cracking open a bottle of wine.”

“I guess the tour’s over.”

“No more house to see, unless you want to see my office and the garage.”

“Sure, whatever.” I shrugged like I didn’t care.

But moments later, after we had put away the groceries and took two glasses for our wine, he showed me the office. A place I very much wanted to see.

It was small and simple. The door downstairs led into the office and another door led from the office to the shop. The only locks were on that door. There was also a small window that I could easily fit out of. That would most likely be my escape route. I tried to get a sense of where the window opened up to the outside without seeming overly suspicious, but it looked like it was still on the hidden side of the hedge.

He had a nice, retro-looking desk, mint in color, and a couple of metal filing cabinets beside it. A swanky iPod dock and speakers sat in the corner on top of a thick stack of magazines while a Mac computer ran a slideshow of beach photos. A pair of glasses rested on the keyboard. Beside it was a framed photo of a boy on a beach, throwing a rock. You couldn’t see his face because of his hat, but I assumed it was Ben.

I didn’t see a safe anywhere, not even under the desk. Shit. Maybe I’d be robbing the register, and as crammed as it looked, it almost seemed insulting to steal it from him.

“Where do you keep all your tattoo equipment?” I asked.

He opened a closet that sat between the two doors. This was better organized than the rest of the house, with built-in shelves that housed plastic boxes affixed with post-it notes and labels. And at the very bottom of the shelving unit was the safe. It was bolted to the ground—not too easy to pick up and run away with—but with only a three-number combination lock. Although three number locks were easier to decode than six number ones , they were also easier to remember and usually nixed the need to be written down somewhere near the safe. Eight times out of ten, if someone had a six-number combination lock, they had that code written down somewhere in the room.

I just had to guess Camden’s three numbers. I didn’t have the time and patience to listen for the contact points and wheels and graph the results, and I certainly wasn’t about to do any drilling. I would need to get in, crack the code on only a few tries, and then get out. No fingerprints, no sound. The only thing I’d leave was some sort of sign that made him think a pro didn’t do it. Evidence of sloppiness.

Naturally, I was counting on the safe being actually full of cash or something valuable, when for all I knew, Camden used it for mementos and prized comic books. I hoped the bank transaction fees for a small business were high enough that he made a deposit just once or twice a week. I’d just have to chance it. I didn’t want to think about Plan B yet.

I made sure to let my eyes gloss over the safe only once and then looked at Camden. “Is this where you come to think? Your office?”

He shut the closet with a click. “Actually I go outside. Care to join me?”

He held out his arm and I gleefully took it, carrying the glasses with my other hand. I fought back the pinpricks of guilt that had started building inside my throat, and by the time we made our way through the garage that smelled like ponderosa pine, we were in his backyard.

The rock garden from the front continued in the back, surrounding a large stone patio that was hedged by sagebrush. But beyond the rocks was a small patch of lawn and two lawn chairs. It looked like it hadn’t been mowed in a while, but the grass was so stiff and wide out here that it didn’t look unruly. Beyond the lawn was the neighbor’s fence, though you couldn’t see it thanks to the layers of flowering bushes and the occasional small palm tree.

“This is beautiful,” I whispered, taking in the fragrant air. All the night-blooming flowers were opening as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, leaving us in a blue haze.

“Just you wait,” he said. He put the wine down on the wrought-iron table and flicked on a light switch on the wall. Suddenly the yard was swamped with small white lights, making it look like we were surrounded by a million fireflies.

“You do realize you have, like, the bachelor pad of all bachelor pads, right? Talk about a babe magnet.”

He held his hand out for the glasses. “Babe magnet? I don’t know if you’ll be saying that once I’ve got my outfit on.”

I grinned and handed them to him. His arms flexed deliciously as he wrestled with the wine bottle’s cork. “Well, for the record, cross-dressing Tom Sellecks turn me on.”

And at that, the cork came out with a pop. You know, for extra emphasis.

He shot me an irresistible smile. “That’s lucky, considering Ellie Watt turns me on. And she doesn’t have to be wearing anything at all.”

Shit. I was blushing again. “Where is this Ellie Watt, I’ll kill her,” I joked, looking around and making a fist.

“You tell me,” he said softly. “Is she here?”

His tone brought me down to earth. Yes, unfortunately Ellie Watt was here for once. I didn’t know how my other identities would handle this.

“I can show you my ID,” I said, taking the wine glass from him and swirling the liquid around. I kept my eyes focused on him and he did the same.

He opened his mouth to say something but then quickly closed it. He raised his glass instead.

“To our Day of Fun,” he said, voice warm and rich.

“And to the night,” I answered.

***

Some of the best laid plans are foiled by wine. Though, perhaps in our case, they were made better.

The first bottle of wine went down like a treat and straight to my head. I only had a hotdog and fries at the driving range, and the copious amount of grease ingestion did nothing to slow the wine. Then someone had the idea to break out the second bottle. It was probably me. Anyway, that went down too, all while Camden and I lay sprawled in his lawn chairs, staring up at the satellites as they went across the black sky.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have massive déjà vu about the whole thing, back to the time when Camden and I used to lie on top of his trampoline and listen to music. He must have been reminded of that too, because when he ran back inside the house to get a third bottle of wine from his rack, he picked up his iPod dock as well.

A few songs into Calexico’s Feast of Wire (my choice), when the bottle was half-drunk, we suddenly remembered we wanted to eat food. So Camden ran back inside to get the asparagus and steak—and a bag full of our thrift store clothes.

He threw the bag onto the lawn chair beside me and started firing up the grill.

“You know the rules, Ellie,” he said. “We can’t eat until we’re wearing that stuff.”

“You just want to get my clothes off, don’t you?” I teased, rifling through it. There was my skanky halter top (really nothing more than a bikini top) and Peggy Bundy pants.

“I can get your clothes off in other ways,” he shot back. He buried his devious smile behind the action of squirting lighter fluid onto the charcoals.

I have no doubt about that, I thought. I was fortunate, too, that I hadn’t said it out loud. Drunk Ellie needed to keep herself in check. And with that, I made a point of savoring the rest of the wine in my glass. Even though I was having the most fun I’d had in a very, very long time, I couldn’t forget who I was and the real reason I was there.

Even though every part of me was just screaming to let go.