by Melissa Blue
“Aye, right,” he agreed slowly. “If your food is any good I'll let you in.”
He didn't mean it. Despite himself, her smile had gotten to him. She'd be a shark in the boardroom. The people in his circle would see her as soft, a pushover, but he recognized the steel in her spine from the glint in her eyes. If he didn't give, she would have tried another tactic. That he could respect.
Turning his back to her, he strode to the kitchen. She waited at the door, likely craning her neck to watch him. She seemed like that kind of woman. Knowing that, he made a show of peeling back the foil, making noises at the sight of the food and then going to get a fork.
He cut a small piece in the corner of the tray and took his time chewing. The sweet tang of tomatoes paired beautifully with the sour bite of ricotta. What he wanted to do was swallow the dish whole. The lass could cook. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at her. He'd traveled to Italy, more than once, and hers was just as good.
Interesting. “It's store bought,” he accused.
She put a hand on her hip. “You let out this little groan. I'm not sure if you even noticed. I did. It's better than store bought. So I get to shower.”
He waved her in, giving her short, easy directions to find the bathroom and then took a bigger forkful. The food was cold and he didn't care. With his free hand he unraveled the other packet that had been next to the lasagna. Garlic bread.
Marcus groaned. He hadn't had a good home cooked meal in—he couldn't remember. There had been fancy restaurants, take-out and his own ham-fisted meals. The women he dated weren't exactly the domestic type. Smart and good in bed covered his needs. Apparently he should have required a cooking goddess. Without an ounce of shame, he stood at the kitchen table and ate the cold meal.
He had had more than his fill, and had put the dish away to leave himself something to eat for the next day, when she rounded the corner. She'd changed into black leggings and a long shirt with an American football logo across her breasts.
She didn't fit in his place. There was too much glass, wood and leather. The woman he'd hired to decorate his New York loft had promised him that modern and sleek fit his personality, and would impress any clients or women he brought home. From her quick glance and blank expression, Ivy wasn't impressed with his flat screen or the abstract art on the wall.
The only thing that didn't collide with her softness was the way his lamp threw shadows across her face—bonnie even when she frowned. A hum of attraction buzzed in his veins. He liked her so far. Liked the look of her too, and she'd piqued his interest. Not much did these days that wasn't related to business. He hadn't ignored his physical needs, but fucking would never replace a good conversation. And a great conversation could be foreplay. Ivy was probably fantastic at both.
Decided on his next plan of action, he asked, “Would you accept a glass of wine as a thank you for dinner?”
She bit the corner of her lip and then nodded as though reluctant to linger. He gestured to his couch. She hefted the bag first onto the leather and then plopped down. He scrounged up glasses then the wine and went back to her before she changed her mind.
Her brows rose when he sat the bottle down on the coffee table. “You just had this sitting around?” she asked.
It was a low-end wine but still expensive. “I'm waiting for the rest to be shipped. I'm going to refit a part of the basement.”
“A handyman with a wine collection,” she mused out loud but took the glass when he offered it. “That's interesting.”
Aye. There was a twinge in his gut at letting her believe that half-truth, but the less she knew the better. Marcus couldn't be sure if head hunters, or even private investigators would dig into his “new” life.
“It's a good year.” He settled into the couch beside her.
Tentatively she took a sip and hummed her approval. She met his gaze, her mouth slightly parted. “Are you hoping the wine relaxes me enough that I'll forget you were ogling me in my bathroom?”
Aye. He liked her. “I should apologize.” He took a sip of his wine, settling deeper into his couch.
She waited and then asked, “But?”
He tried to gauge her but she left her face expressionless. “Do you want the honest answer?”
“No,” she said and then laughed. “The honest answer is probably why you're giving me wine.” She rested her head on the couch inches away from his outstretched hand.
There was no guile in the movement. He could only guess she had no idea just how sexy she looked with her hair spread across the leather, her lids heavy. His invitation wasn't meant to be a seduction but the pull in his gut worked its way down to his groin. He balled his hand to keep from playing with the curls. The offer of wine was just a ploy to get to know her, feel her out in only a figurative sense.
“Partly why I'm giving you wine,” he confessed. “I also want to know what's wrong with your house. I have a feeling you're going to knock on my door often and I want to be prepared.”
“Depends on what you charge.” She took another sip of her drink, her expression open and relaxed. “I have some funds saved up. The house is paid off, but there's still insurance, taxes, etc. etc. I took in tenants to off-set most of that, but the house is getting old. I'm just doing my best to patch it up and make it mine.”
He'd been right. She hadn't chosen that ugly orange for the bathroom. She seemed like a warm color kind of woman. “And what needs patching?”
“Nothing big...”
At that he gave her a side long glance and she laughed again. “Okay,” Ivy added. “The long game is new cabinets, maybe a kitchen island. New stove. I like the bathroom as is, just you know, flood proof. The bedrooms are fine. I just have to put my touch on it. And maybe an entertainment center for the flat screen. I've already outfitted the basement for work.”
Ivy wasn't getting less interesting the more he talked to her. And fuck she looked so soft on his couch. He drank more wine for fortitude to keep his hands to himself.
“What's your calling, lass?”
She frowned at him. “That's an interesting choice of words.”
“Seems right with you. A job is a means.” He gave in and wrapped a finger around one of her curls. Soft there, too. “I don't imagine you do anything you don't want to. Also, if you hated your job you wouldn't make space for it in your home.”
She slid deeper into the couch, her breathing deep and slow. “Floral design. I mostly make wedding bouquets, but that's not everything I do.” She finished half her wine and now her face held a soft glow. “How did you become a handyman?”
Tricky. “My father and his brother grew up knowing the trade. They're stubborn bastards, cheap ones. So they learned how to fix things—more so my Uncle Douglass. He runs a pub and there's always something that needs fixing. They handed that knowledge down. My cousin was a carpenter. My brother is a wood craftsman, pretty good with antiques. You can say working with my hands is in the blood.”
Her lip lick was probably a nervous gesture, but—Jesus Mary Joseph—now her mouth was plump and wet. His blood heated with want. Without thinking he leaned in. Her eyes widened like that subtle action scared her. If he'd lunged maybe her reaction would make sense. Odd...and he took note.
She swallowed. “But you can't fix a broken pipe valve?” Her voice was smooth, free of nerves.
Despite that, Marcus knew he'd shaken her. He dropped his hand down to his knee and gave her back the space he'd stolen. “I'm a limited handyman,” he said, softening his tone, still confused by her reaction. “I can help you with your cupboards and your stove. Maybe even make an entertainment center, if you need it. Fix your floors if I want to be arsed, but I don't.”
“Huh. Interesting.” She scrunched up her face. “How are you going to make any money?”
Ah, fuck. He wasn't as good at one-on-one subterfuge with non-business people as he thought. “I'll get by.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You're full of shit. What do you really do?”
She chuckled. “You look so relieved.”
Because he was, he just smiled. “I really have to get that.”
“I'm not going to forget the question,” she murmured as he stalked to the kitchen.
Not likely but a man could hope. He winced when he saw the number. Only one person would call him at that Scotland International extension. “It's my friend. I'm going to have to take this.”
He moved deeper into the kitchen near the back door and whispered, “Grant, this is a really bad time.”
“You're going to want to hear this.” A tense excitement thickened his friend's brogue.
He braced a hand against the door. “What?”
“Neil is the new CEO.”
Since this news was coming from the CFO it was a done deal, not rumors. Then again, he and Grant had been friends for the past decade. Of course Grant would give him the goods. They worked their way up the ranks together. They knew all the key players, not just in their company, but anyone they worked with or planned to.
“Neil?” Marcus shook his head, astounded at the choice. Decisions like that was why he'd left. “How much money has he already lost?”
“Fifty million the first day. Arseholes. They should have courted you harder and now I'm stuck with this bawheed as my right hand.”
He could almost see Grant's sour expression. Marcus snorted. “You can always move out to California.”
“And leave Scotland?” Grant scoffed playfully. “I'd miss the rain.”
“Auch.” His friend would hate America so he let it be. “Did you get the details I asked for?”
“Did I whore myself for you, you mean? Aye. I took some old farts out to lunch and pumped them for information. Bain Corp. is your best bet.”
“Marcus?” Came Ivy's sultry voice from behind him. “I think I'm going to head out.”
“Hold on, Grant.” But it was too late. She'd finished her glass and had lugged her purse up to her shoulder. Her hand was on the door. “Ivy—”
She gestured to the coffee table. “Thank you for the wine.”
“Ivy, I'm just going to be—”
“If I decide to hire you, I'll let you know.” Her voice wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either.
What woman liked to be lied to? None he'd ever met. He'd told her he was a handyman, but he'd taken a late night call that sounded so far from blue-collar work it wasn't funny. If nothing else during their short conversation, Marcus had learned she was smart and she'd know his lies.
That right there was why he didn't have relationships. Work came first. Always. If that meant skirting the truth, he did it. If it meant missing important events, he'd skipped them. He gave his all for a deal. What did he have to lose? Who exactly would he disappoint if he fucked up? Ivy wasn't sweet or innocent, aye. She could be a shark, but she wasn't bloodthirsty like him.
Let her go. Let her leave. You're no good for her anyway.
He tightened his jaw, pushed out a breath and then said, “Aye, right.”
She threw him a smile before leaving, making him think she hadn't written him off completely. Her smile made him daft and hopeful so that wasn't saying much.
He put the phone back up to his ear. “We got sidelined for a bit. What were we saying?”
“Who was that?” Grant asked.
Marcus sighed and knew where this conversation ended—with his friend in his business. “Ivy, my neighbor.”
The line went quiet for a moment. “Are you dating her?” There was a bit more than curiosity in his friend's voice.
Dropping his hand, he glanced up at the ceiling, searching for patience. “No, and most likely won't be.”
“What's wrong with her?”
“Nothing,” he bit out. “Why are we talking about this?”
“You never let a woman in your house you aren't about to fuck.” His friend mused for a second. “I take that back. You also let the maids in.”
He paced. It was the only logical thing to do to burn off the annoyance simmering in his chest since he couldn't choke Grant. “You were saying something about Bain being my best bet.”
“Touchy. She shot you down.” Grant laughed.
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I didn't like you...”
“But you do. As for Bain, they are close by. I'd check them out. I'll email you the details on the three other companies. They've been asking around about you.”
“Good. Are you dropping hints about my career change?”
“I've been very vague. Give Neil two more days to fuck up and they'll hunt you down. I still say stop playing games. Go with Bain. Just the thought of heading into Scotland International put you in a pish mood for the last three years. Move on.”
His feelings toward his former employer played a big part in why he'd seen the house in California and decided to move and fix it up. He'd spent most of his adulthood on the fast track. What did he have to show for it? Money. He had gobs of it. Some days it wasn't enough, but it was the only thing he could rely on.
“I'm not going back to them. Not after they gave Neil the job. He's going to cause the kind of damage I don't want to fix anymore. I just need them chomping at the bit.”
“Aye,” Grant replied. “Now this woman you don't want me to ask about...”
Marcus ended the call, but knew his friend would only laugh his arse off. He rolled his shoulders and strolled over to the bay window that faced Ivy's home. A single light was on, probably her bedroom.
Maybe another time in his life he would have ignored his mobile, charmed her, coaxed her into a kiss...or more. He would have taken serious note of just how comfortable he'd felt with her, as though he'd known Ivy all his life. They were just picking up the conversation where they'd left it. To a softer man, a man who wasn't bloodthirsty, that would have meant something.
But Marcus wasn't that man. He had a warm woman with doe-eyes on his couch and he'd dropped her to talk business. He'd leave domesticity for his brothers and cousins. Somehow they'd managed to shake their DNA. Marcus had embraced his for far too long to change. Fuck, did he even want to?
He turned away from the light. He had plans to make. Once again he had to remind himself that none involved her.
Ivy stepped back and admired the view. Her bathroom walls were now a soft shade of blue. Her towels and bathroom mats were tan. Gold-plated bands held the curtains apart. Unfortunately, if she stood in front of the mirror, she had an unobstructed view of Marcus's backyard. He wasn't outside.
Work ate a week of her life since she'd last talked to him. Three weddings, a wedding anniversary and her usual delivery to Mary Hendrix. The woman paid a king's ransom to have her home filled with fresh arrangements.
When she wasn't working, she spent time fixing up the bathroom. Not that she went out of her way to catch glimpses of Marcus outside. As far as potential partners went, he topped the list of men women should never date.
Something she reminded herself of every time she'd glanced out the window and there he was working. Sometimes shirtless and sweaty. One day that week he even brought a friend, or probably a relative. They stood around the same height. The visitor was much more bulky, but he had an easy smile that could probably tempt a saint.
Since she hadn't given in and searched the garage for binoculars, she couldn't say for sure they were related just by looks. But they moved the same, almost graceful and definitely masculine, as though they owned every piece of dirt they stepped on.
Snapping a pic of him to send to her sister didn't mean she was interested or a stalker. The snapshot lent proof to the theory Marcus intended to kill her with sex appeal. He seemed ruthless enough to use his shirtless work as a ploy to get her to forget his lies about being solely a handyman.
No. She took that back. He never really lied. She assumed that's what he did for a living, not just as a hobby. He hadn't corrected her. She'd
asked how he became a handyman and he'd said the skill ran in the family. She'd thrown out how much would he charge her for a job and he'd deflected with what he could help her with. His omissions weren't malicious. She couldn't call them misdirection either.
None of it made sense and it's why she kept to herself despite the fact she'd loved just talking to him. He was perceptive, scarily so. He didn't pull his punches. When his charm came out it was kind of blinding. That was just the surface, because they'd only really talked twice, both for a short period of time.
And still Ivy had never felt more at home with a man, which was insane. She'd dated a lot. Clicked with some men. None had ever—None had ever made her feel like she could say or do anything and he wouldn't blink.
What was he hiding?
“Ugh,” she muttered.
It was driving her crazy, and she shouldn't have cared. He was the wrong man. And that was the crux every time she saw him outside. She needed to stay away from him. Far, far away. That only made the longing to know his secrets stronger. Of course.
But that wasn't the important thing. It was Saturday and she'd finished all her work projects. The bouquets and centerpieces had been picked up that morning. Any disaster on-site would be dealt with by her assistant and her crew. She wasn't needed. Now that she'd finished the bathroom too she was left with idle hands, and worse, a wandering mind. She only had one option to fill the rest of her day. It didn't include anything with her neighbor though.
Ivy trudged down to her basement, pulled out the slats for her small, arched gazebo and dragged them up to her yard. Then she had to go the garage for her tools. By the time she'd changed her shoes, put on a bandanna and had finally dug holes in the yard so that the pieces wouldn't just fly off on a windy day, she remembered why she'd became a floral designer. She could do backbreaking work, workout and sweat to stay relatively in shape, but did she enjoy those activities? Ever look forward to sweating until her hair dripped with it?
Hell no.
So after she had one arch situated, Ivy had to take a break. She sprawled on the grass in the shade. Spring shouldn't have been that hot, but the nearest beach was five hours away and it was California—the weather did what it damn well wanted.
