4.
Jenessa stood outside Mitchell Cooper’s brownstone duplex and balanced parcels in one arm and a still-hot towel-wrapped crock-pot in the other. She was surrounded by so much Christmas cheer that she had a mind to start whistling “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” just to bring some balance to the universe.
The neighborhood of Catarina was loud and boisterous. All around, people were making merry. Christmas music seeped from under café doors, and cars drove by banging out Christmas rock, Christmas rap, and good old Johnny Mathis. From inside the houses she could hear laughter.
She enjoyed visiting this quaint and vibrant little corner of Santa Amata. It was home to all the best ethnic restaurants, and when she yearned for something other than her conservative corporate wear, she could always find some funky treasure, handmade bangles or a print skirt, in one of Catarina’s many nooks and crannies.
So this was where Cooper lived. It felt miles away from her apartment in Augustine, although the distance between the two neighborhoods was more a matter of character, and less one of geography. As a chill wind ruffled her hair, she looked up at the building, taking in the warm glow of lights in the windows, the potted plants on the windowsills, and the lopsided holly wreath nailed to the front door. Either Cooper’s niece was experimenting with arts and crafts or he was a lousy wreath-maker.
“Right, Sterling,” she muttered as she climbed the four steps to his door. “You coulda picked up a few slices of deli turkey and baked yourself a potato, but you didn’t want to spend Christmas in an armchair in your living room, a.k.a. Loserville, population you, with a plate on your lap. You just had to have company. So suck it up. It’s only dinner.”
Only dinner; if she believed that, then her months of loneliness and sexual famine were gnawing away at her brain. The prospect of a home-cooked meal wasn’t the only thing that’d drawn her out tonight. There was another reason, a bigger one . . . and that reason had green-gold eyes and the kind of grin that made you forget your own name.
The man made his interest in her known with the subtlety of a herd of Pamplona bulls. He’d been checking her out for some time; how long, she couldn’t guess. But he wasn’t hiding the fact that he was willing to take this thing—whatever you wanted to call it—as far as it would go. And, okay, since she’d brought it up in the confines of her own thoughts, she’d admit that this ‘thing’ was plain old lust, the kind that sucker-punched you every time the person caught your eye.
Question was: how far was she willing to take it?
She squared her shoulders and flicked her hair back, tucking a dangling lock behind her ear, a gesture that always gave her confidence. It was as if lifting that overlong bang out of her eyes and stowing it securely out of the way, baring her face, was her way of assuming her superhero identity.
As she set foot on the top step and struggled with her parcels to free her arm long enough to ring the doorbell, she heard the thump-thump-thump of footfalls on the steps behind. Panic thundered through her. She was wearing $400 shoes, and her deep red wool skirt suit could have graced any runway in Milan—and probably had. Her pearl earrings and necklace would make any pawn shop owner jump for joy. Surely she wasn’t . . . surely some street thug wasn’t going to mug her on Christmas day!
As she felt the presence of a warm, bulky male figure next to her she cringed, trying to shield her body from the blow to come. Big hands yanked the presents from under her arm. Jenessa clamped her teeth down and promised herself she wouldn’t scream.
“I’ll take these.” The voice was deep, but not rough. There was an underlying quality to it, like a plucked violin string whose note wasn’t true. It didn’t sound aggressive: it sounded . . . young. “Here you go, Miss.”
Huh? When several seconds passed and her assailant hadn’t shoved her to the ground and run off with her stuff, she opened her eyes. The person standing before her was as big as an army surplus ATV. Red-blond hair fell down over his forehead but did nothing to minimize the sparkle in his ice-blue eyes. In spite of his size, he didn’t look more than fifteen.
“I . . . pardon?” Her heart was high up enough in her throat to choke her.
The width of his grin made him look even younger. “You were having trouble getting the doorbell?” He cradled her pile of presents in his arms like he was rocking a baby to sleep.
Warm relief flowed. “Oh. Thank you.” She smiled at him, hoping she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt. Hoping he hadn’t guessed she’d pegged him for a mugger. She poked at the doorbell aggressively, willing Cooper to open up and let her in so she could escape the awkwardness of her middle-class, uptown assumptions.
And open it did. Cooper was standing there in an olive-green sweater, with a broad, welcoming smile. “Jenessa,” he said, as though the sight of her was enough to make his Christmas star shine brighter. “Right on time.”
“Hey, there, Mr. Cooper!” the oversized boy at her shoulder enthused, like an Eagle Scout greeting his leader. He held out Jenessa’s presents as if he’d arrived at the manger with an armload of frankincense.
Cooper scooped them up and slapped the youth on the back. “Hey, there, Axel.” Then, by way of introduction, “Axel’s my next-door neighbor. My niece and his sister are best friends.”
She was clutching her crock pot protectively to her chest, so she didn’t have a hand free for shaking, but she nodded in the direction of the teen, gave him a sheepish smile and said Hi.
The boy said Hi back, turned with a wave and bounded away, leaping up his steps as if he had springs for feet. That left her alone on the front step—with her host.
Who didn’t intimidate her, she reminded herself. Not one bit. She wet her lips, gave him a confident look and asked, “You letting me in?”
“Wouldn’t do to have you freezing on my doorstep, would it?”
“Staring into your window like the Little Match Girl, while you’re warm and cozy inside?”
“You don’t look like a Little Match Girl.” He escorted her in and shut the front door with his foot.
The interior was welcoming and warm. Downright nesty. She didn’t even bother to pretend she wasn’t looking around. The house was compact and neatly put away, with not a square foot wasted. A pair of bikes hung from a rack on the wall. The smaller, lavender one was a standard girl’s bike. The larger one could have belonged to none other than Cooper. But if a game show host was to ask her, for the jackpot, whether it was a road bike or mountain bike or a racer or a damn trick unicycle, she’d have been forced to slink off the set with a lifetime supply of corn chips as a consolation prize.
She followed him inside, taking in the book-strewn shelves on practically every wall. He liked light; there were ceiling lamps, standing lamps and wall lamps everywhere. In the living room, he stopped. She thought it would be a good idea for her to do the same.
She made a conscious effort to shut her mouth, swallowing down the taste of surprise seasoned with a hint of disappointment. Everything was tidy, cheerful, homey and comfortable. The apartment had the kind of lived-in feel that made her want to flop down on her belly on the couch and listen to some good jams.
What had she expected, though? Beer-can pyramids, poker-playing dogs, and overflowing ashtrays on the floor? Again, her middle-class assumptions were working overtime. Just because his office wasn’t situated in the executive wing didn’t mean he lived in a dump.
But wasn’t that sort of what she’d been hoping? Wouldn’t that have made it all easier, given her a legitimate excuse to back out of . . . well, whatever it was they were headed for?
He was still holding the presents. He lifted them slightly, his raised eyebrow asking a question.
“Oh, yes,” she said hastily. “I, uh, got these for you guys. Merry Christmas.” The hint of nervousness in her voice annoyed her. She coughed softly to clear her throat. “The ones in the red wrapper are for your niece. Ruby, right? I haven’t met her, so I wasn’t too sure what to get her. But you said she’s 12 and.
. . . ”
He smiled. “I’m sure she’ll love it, whatever it is.”
She blabbed on. “You wrote your numbers for me on the back of a receipt for some Ariana Grande stuff, so I guessed she might be a girly girl. . . . ” Then she added, as if he couldn’t figure it out himself, “And the one in the silver wrapping . . . it’s, uh, for you.”
Shopping for Ruby had been tough, but shopping for Cooper meant unearthing her latent mind-reading abilities. She barely knew the man, unless you counted a couple of slow dances so jarringly intimate she almost felt as if she knew him, knew him. But that was plain stupid. He’d asked her to dinner. She couldn’t walk into his house on Christmas night with empty hands. So what should she get him?
Car stuff? She didn’t know what he drove. A toolbox? Men couldn’t get enough tools. . . then she remembered what he did for a living. He probably already owned every tool she could imagine, and a few more besides.
She’d thought about and discarded the idea of a beer brewing kit, a shower radio, and a gift basket. Cheesy, cheesy, and extra cheesy. Cooper was ace at picking presents—the memory of the book of erotic poetry made her flush hot. And although her competitive spirit baulked at the idea of giving him anything less awesome, she’d slunk away defeated with a box of high-end men’s toiletries. It wouldn’t be his most imaginative present ever, but she remembered how good he’d smelled when they’d danced, and that made her shiver.
“I’m sure I’ll love it, whatever it is.” He was looking at her, searching her face, with an expression that was almost bemused.
It made her feel uncomfortable; part pleased, part defensive. “What?”
“I was wondering if you’d chicken out.”
“I don’t chicken out of anything.”
“Nothing?” Something in his eyes transmitted a message. His implication was clear.
“Nothing.” Which was pretty much the only acceptable response to a challenge like that, although the blood pumping in her throat made her wonder if her bravado was going to get into more trouble than she could get out of.
He didn’t jump all over that one like he could have. He pointed at her crock pot. “More goodies?”
She laughed self-consciously. “I almost forgot. I baked a pork loin. My great-aunt’s recipe. I hope you like lots of ginger.”
He took the pot from her, pulled aside the towel and lifted the cover. Immediately the tantalizing scent of sweet fresh herbs, allspice, and ginger overpowered the perfume of pine needles emanating from the Christmas tree behind him. He soaked in the scent. A half-smile played on his lips.
Bingo. Jenessa felt a sharp spike of pleasure. She had two great vanities in life: one was looking good, and the other was cooking good.
But he was shaking his head regretfully. “Oh, Jenessa, this smells fantastic.”
“It’s my specialty,” she informed him, a little confused between what he was saying, and the verbal signals he was sending. He looked ready to grab a knife and fork and dive in, but he was saying. . . .
“Sorry, but my niece and I don’t really eat pork.”
She smacked her forehead. That had not crossed her mind. “Oh, my God! I feel like such an idiot. I should’ve called. I should’ve asked. Are you . . . is it for religious reasons?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, nothing like that. I used to; a few years ago I would have polished off half this loin all on my lonesome. But. . . . ” He drew his lower lip in between his teeth and hesitated. “My wife died of a heart condition. It was congenital, and I know what she ate or didn’t eat had nothing to do with it. But living with a heart patient made me extra sensitive to issues like diet. I stopped eating a few things. Even though she’s been gone a long time, I guess I just got into the habit.” He gave a rueful smile. “I gave up smoking. Saturated fats. Creamy desserts.”
That explained why he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, but the idea still boggled the mind. “You don’t eat cheesecake?” For Jenessa, that was like saying red, white and blue didn’t go together.
He considered her carefully. “On special occasions, I make an exception. I still haven’t lost my sweet tooth.”
She held out her arms for the crock pot, mortified, blustering apologies. “Give it to me. I’ll . . . .” She’d what? Toss it out into the snow?
He refused, turning a little to shield the bowl from her. “Not on your life.” He walked into the dining room and set it down on the table. “I’m definitely having a taste, and I’m sure Ruby will have a nibble too.”
“Not for my sake,” she protested uncomfortably.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You worked hard on this. Besides, as I said, I make exceptions for special occasions.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “In any case, it’s a godsend. Ruby and I are on lunch duty at a rehab center downtown Saturday. They’d be more than happy for the rest of it, so don’t feel bad.”
“Rehab center?” The idea made her skin crawl. What the hell was he thinking? Hanging out with a bunch of dirty junkies was enough, but taking his niece there? She was sure they didn’t teach that in Parenting 101.
He nodded. “I visit once or twice a week; see how I help out. Always something that needs fixing, you know how those places can be.”
She didn’t know how those places could be, and didn’t want to know, either, but she nodded sagely.
He gestured for her to follow him back to the living room, talking enthusiastically as he went. “It’s way overcrowded, and a couple of friends and I have been trying to . . . ” He stopped, and flashed her a grin. “Oh, let me stop before I really get started. I didn’t invite you over here to bore you.”
“What’d you invite me over here for?” she shot back flirtatiously, before she could stop herself.
His hazel eyes glided over her, taking in her glossy sheaf of hair and perfect makeup. Her garnet jacket fitted snugly over a pearl-white blouse, topping a matching, pencil-thin skirt. The well-tailored curves of her outfit were at one with the well-toned curves of her body. His eyes met hers again.
“To offer you a Christmas drink, for starters.” He turned away, leaving her with a sharp stab of disappointment. Any other guy would have countered with something fresh and ego-boosting. Instead, he said, “What can I get you?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she said, trying to sound like her usual, pulled-together self.
“Cold outside,” he commented. “A bourbon toddy to warm you up?”
“That would be wonderful.” Her voice was nice and level, but something inside her yelled and make it a double!
As she watched him pour their drinks, carefully dressing them with long lemon twists and adding woody cinnamon sticks as stirrers, her mind was still chug-chugging along the train tracks that led to his interest in a drug rehab center. Was he a former junkie? He didn’t smoke, didn’t eat unhealthy foods. Was there such a thing as a health-obsessed drug addict?
The couch sank as he sat next to her and held out her drink. As she accepted it, its warmth permeated her fingers, but compared to the rush that rippled through her when his hand came into contact with hers, it was like holding a candle up to a blast furnace. Once settled, he wasn’t close enough to touch her again, but his presence reached out to her, as if his aura were an independent, tangible entity. Being next to him felt awkwardly intimate. Jenessa hoped she wasn’t visibly squirming.
He, on the other hand, seemed utterly relaxed and confident. Which was pretty much like saying water was a little bit damp. She wondered if he was ever unsure of himself. What did it take to rattle his cage?
He held up his glass. “Joy to the world.”
“Joy,” she agreed fervently, and considered adding and here’s to not spending Christmas alone, but decided that was too pathetic. She had a fleeting, achy moment of missing her mother and sister. It must’ve been written across her face in fat Magic Marker, because he softly added, without lowering his glass, “And here’s to absent loved ones.”
She murmured so
mething in response, and could have spent the next minute or two feeling sorry for herself, but then she caught something in those eyes, and it wasn’t pity for her. It was something else, a muted longing for the wife who should have been warming his feet and his heart on this frosty Christmas night. She wasn’t the only one who hated the idea of being alone at Christmas. He took a deep drink from his glass and his eyes closed for a moment. Then the ripple of melancholy was gone.
“You’d feel a lot warmer if you got it into you,” he pointed out. “If I wanted you to just warm your hands, I’d have tossed you a baked potato.”
She laughed self-deprecatingly and began to raise her glass to her lips when she was halted mid-movement by a clatter at the front door. The door blasted open with the force of the wind, and a rainbow-colored blur stumbled inside. The girl had on a red sweatshirt with a print of a duck standing on its head, grasping a daisy in one webbed foot. Two mismatched scarves were wound around her neck: one a black and white check, the other a hand-woven hodge-podge of purples, greens and oranges. A flouncy denim skirt just covered white lace leggings, and her thin, straight legs plunged into a startling pair of deep green pleather boots with an embossed crocodile-skin pattern. She looked like she’d been on the losing end of a paintball war.
The fierce wind made it difficult for her to get the door shut, and she leaned into it with both hands, looking like a mime doing a walking-in the-wind routine. With an indulgent chuckle, Cooper got up, and with one easy stroke of the arm showed the door who was boss.
The girl wrapped an arm around his waist and gave him an exaggerated cuddle. “I knew I could count on you, Uncle Mitch.” She glanced immediately into the living room and broke into a grin. “You did come! Uncle said you mightn’t-a—”
“Jenessa, this is my niece, Ruby,” he said, slipping hastily between them to offer introductions. “And Ruby, this is Jenessa Sterling, my colleague from Bianchi’s.”
The Irresistible Mr Cooper Page 4
