by Naima Simone
“Is there another apartment we can stay in until then?” Noelle quickly asked before her roommate could fire back. “One we can temporarily use?”
Another scratch to the irritated patch on his neck. “No, unfortunately.” He winced, but hastily added, “But I’ll prorate next month’s rent for the weeks you can’t use the place.”
“You’re damn right you will. We pay for an apartment. If I wanted to live in a pool, I’d live at the Y. Or the sewer.” Chancey scrunched up her face, but instead of yelling, she sighed, her shoulders deflating on the long, heavy gust. “I’m so sorry, Noelle,” she said. “This is horrible. You haven’t been in Boston a week, and now…this shit. Literally.” She thrust her fingers in her hair, her topknot tilting to the side like a precarious Jenga tower. “I can go crash at my parents’, but I’ll be on their couch, or else I’d take you with me. But honest to God, I’m doing you a favor not taking you there.” She shuddered. “What will you do?”
The panic eddying inside Noelle ratcheted up. Where would she go? Her mind raced. She didn’t have family here. Maybe a motel? But she didn’t have the funds for a two-week—at least—stay. She’d handed over $1,800 for this place, and her job didn’t start until tomorrow. Though more than a little bit of dread clawed at her throat, she covered it with a small smile. None of this was Chancey’s fault.
“I’ll find something—”
“What the hell happened?” a new voice demanded.
Noelle closed her eyes, the air in her lungs evaporating. For just a moment, she’d wondered how her situation could get any worse.
Now she had her answer.
Lifting her lashes, she met Aiden Kent’s stare.
Damn, how did he do it? She rose from the stool, rounding the bar-style counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. Even in a simple leather jacket, a gray shawl-collar sweater, and black jeans, with water staining the bottoms and the tips of his boots, he could’ve walked off the cover of GQ magazine. Screw GQ. Hot as Hell magazine.
His emerald gaze touched on her, traveling from her messy bun to her combat boots, then the long-sleeved T-shirt and nylon shorts that were fine for lounging around the house, and she battled the urge to fidget. How many romance novels had she read where the heroine claimed to have felt her man’s eyes on her? Before, she’d scoffed. Now, she raised her mental hands in an “Amen!” because she swore his scrutiny solidified, grew fingers, and skated over her skin, leaving twists in her belly that she would be drawn and quartered before admitting to.
She held her breath as his perusal dipped to her legs. His mouth tightened as his eyes narrowed on the riot of color that streamed from the mid-thigh hem of her shorts and disappeared into the top of her calf-high boots. She could just imagine the scathing words trapped behind his grim, sensual lips about the artful tangle of white, violet, blue, and pink flowers with the green leaves and dark-brown tree limbs that inked the skin of her leg.
She crossed her arms, tipping her head to the side. If he expected her to be ashamed of the body art, or care that it might offend his hoity-toity sensibilities, he would have a long wait. She smothered a snort. The truth was, she’d ceased being that shy, desperately in love girl six years ago. Today, she didn’t need his approval—or his condescension.
When he finally met her gaze, something dark flickered in his eyes before his aloof expression and shuttered stare revealed nothing. If not for that flash and the tiny, telltale tic along his chiseled jaw, she might’ve believed he was unaffected. Might.
“Hey,” Chancey cooed, sidestepping John and swishing over toward the front door, where Aiden remained standing. “Can I help you?”
Dear Lord. “What are you doing here?” Noelle asked.
Just great. The last words she’d said to Aiden had been that she didn’t need his help. That she could take care of herself. And then the next time she saw him was in a flooded, water-damaged, funky apartment. At some point in her twenty-five-going-on-twenty-six years, she’d committed a mortal sin, and God was sticking it to her. Royally.
“I came to see you,” he said, the bored tone still managing to convey the “obviously” he’d left unspoken. “What happened?” he repeated.
“Mrs. Leonard happened,” Chancey explained, waving a hand toward the stained ceiling. “A very sweet lady, but she’s older and dementia is setting in. Which is why she probably mistook her sinks and toilet for drawers and stuffed panties, bras, scarves, and jewelry down them. So we’re flooded and homeless for at least two weeks. At least Noelle is.”
Aiden’s attention jerked from Chancey to land back on Noelle with unnerving intensity. She fought not to fidget under the relentless weight of his inspection. Once more it lowered, scanning her bare legs, and her skin tingled.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she assured Chancey, her eyes focused on Aiden. She would be—because she had to be.
Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to move with little or no notice. Before moving in with Caroline, her father had dodged more than one landlord because he’d failed to pay rent. They hadn’t been strangers to sneaking out of an apartment in the middle of the night or even being escorted out by a sheriff after hurriedly packing whatever belongings they could carry in a car.
“Where are you planning to go?” he pressed.
She hiked her chin up. “A motel.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have money for a long stay?”
“I’ll. Be. Fine,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Chancey and John, whose heads whipped back and forth between her and Aiden as if watching a Wimbledon championship match.
Why did he care? He’d made it perfectly clear that he would have preferred if she’d never darkened Boston’s city limits. She’d meant every word Friday night; she could take care of herself. Except for those seven years living with Caroline—the only time of security she’d experienced—she’d done just that.
Aiden stared at her, and she returned it, while all she wanted was to escape the scalpel-sharp scrutiny. After Caroline’s diagnosis and then death, and when Aiden sliced Noelle from his life with the skill of a surgeon, she would’ve prayed for him to notice her, to just look at her. Damn, she’d been so naïve. To be on the receiving end of his full attention was intimidating. Disquieting.
She sighed, ready to call “uncle” and retreat like a coward, when he strode forward, the splashing of water punctuating each step. Her jaw honest-to-God dropped as he stalked past her and into the kitchen, his muscled arm brushing her shoulder. He halted in front of the boxes and suitcases she and Chancey had managed to hastily pack and stockpile in one of the only safe zones in the apartment.
“These yours?”
The question snapped her free of her shocked paralysis. “Why?” she blurted.
“Because if we stay here much longer, we’re going to need hazmat suits. So, if possible, I’d like to make as few trips as possible to move your belongings. So are these yours?”
“Yes,” she admitted, shifting forward and placing a protective hand on one of the cardboard boxes. “But I don’t need your help. I can pack my car myself.”
He hefted the top carton and headed for the door. “Don’t bother. We’ll put everything in mine.”
“That’s not nece—”
“My car has more space. You can follow me in yours.”
She threw up her arms, frustrated. “Follow you where?”
“My apartment. You’ll stay with me,” he informed her before disappearing from the apartment without even a backward glance.
She gaped at the empty doorway. What in the hell just happened?
“Soooo,” Chancey drawled, “should I have your mail forwarded to his address…”
Shooting the other woman a glare, Noelle charged after a dead man walking.
…
Three. Two. One…
“You’re out of your damn mind!”
Aiden stowed the cardboard box in the rear of his Escalade with a
sigh. He happened to be in agreement with Noelle’s assessment. Since leaving her flooded apartment seconds earlier with a box of her property in his arms, he’d been questioning what strain of crazy had prompted him to offer his place. He snorted. Offer? More like ordered.
Shit. Maybe the god-awful fumes in that apartment had momentarily poisoned him. Maybe he’d temporarily blacked out.
Whatever the reason, seeing Noelle standing there in that small kitchen filled with boxes, her arms folded around herself while that stubborn chin pointed toward the ceiling, he couldn’t leave her there.
In that moment, he’d been transported back in time to fifteen years earlier. He’d no longer stood in a flooded Boston apartment but in the dry living room of his childhood home in Chicago, meeting Frank Rana for the first time. Frank had pumped Aiden’s hand, his loud, overly jovial voice declaring how glad he was to finally meet Caroline’s son, his large frame nearly filling Aiden’s vision. Nearly. Over Frank’s shoulder, Aiden had glimpsed the slight, petite figure hiding by the front door. His mother had told him Frank’s daughter was eleven—five years younger than Aiden—but the little girl with the wild tumble of black curls and ice-blue eyes that almost swallowed her elfin face had appeared closer to eight than eleven. And she’d stared at him as if calmly waiting for his rejection. Expecting it. With her skinny arms wrapped around her, and her chin hiked into the air, she’d seemed braced for it.
And he’d given it to her.
He’d ignored her, dismissed her, because even then, whiskey fumes from her father had stung Aiden’s eyes.
That had been the sixteen-year-old’s reaction. But as he’d stared at Noelle in her water-logged apartment with the image of the child superimposed over the woman, the thirty-one-year-old couldn’t abandon her.
Damn.
Dragging a hand down his face, Aiden slammed the Escalade’s door.
What a clusterfuck.
He’d driven to the address supplied to him by the private investigator Bay Bridge had on retainer with the sole purpose of telling Noelle he would pay for her tuition. That his obligation to her—his mother’s wish—would be fulfilled with the payment he intended to make to Boston University’s finance office on Monday. Then he’d planned on walking away with no further need of contact between the two of them. No need to constantly rehash the past in a relentless loop. No need to be reminded of the loss that could never be regained or healed.
But that goddamn road to hell. Not only was it paved with good intentions, but the best-laid plans and a bunch of delusions.
Turning, he faced the glaring, five-foot-four-inch bundle of righteous anger shivering on the sidewalk.
Again, that defiance, that challenge shouldn’t be so fucking hot. As if drawn by a powerful magnet, his gaze dipped to the long legs bared by her running shorts for the umpteenth time in fifteen minutes. Slim, toned, and smooth, honeyed skin, just as he remembered. But the profusion of shocking color was new. As new as the attitude. His gut clenched, and he ground his teeth together at the twisting sensation. He should be used to that particular wrenching by now; it clutched him every time he stared at those lovely thighs and the sexy, shocking art that ran down the outside of her right leg.
Why it drew him, he couldn’t begin to grasp. The woman before him was nothing like the socialites and businesswomen he mingled with, dated. Fucked. Sophisticated and urbane, they covered themselves in couture dresses, expensive perfumes, and glittering jewels, not T-shirts, short-shorts, and combat boots. And definitely not tattoos. So why did this wild pixie with skin like a living, breathtaking art fascinate him?
Because they were hers. The knowledge struck him with the assuredness of an arrow. They may not have seen one another for years, hadn’t been close for longer, but the tattoos seemed to perfectly reflect the woman before him. Sexy. Confident. Bold, yet delicate. She made a man wonder if the same fire that lit her eyes would burn him alive in bed…and if he would willingly throw himself into the flames just to find out.
No. He shook his head as if he could physically rid his head of the thought.
“Can we at least go inside?” he ground out, striding toward the sidewalk where she trembled. “It’s forty degrees out here, and you’re parading around in shorts and no coat.”
“I’ve never paraded in my damn life,” she snapped but whirled around and marched back inside the brick building.
He glanced down at the perfect ass encased in red nylon as she hustled up the walkway.
“The fuck,” Aiden snarled under his breath, jerking his gaze north. He followed her, his long strides carrying him to the entrance faster than her shorter ones.
Yanking open the door, he swept his hand forward in a mock bow, allowing her to enter before him. Stabbing him with another glare that consigned him to a dark, fiery hell, she charged past him. Her light, floral scent teased him, a strong gust of wind ensuring he breathed her in. The same. As a man who couldn’t tell a daisy from a peony, he would still be able to pick out her scent in a flower shop. It was fresh, bright…and sensual as hell. He’d never forget it. Especially when her sweat and the fragrance from her arousal mixed with it, deepening it.
Grinding his teeth together, he let the door slam behind him.
“Forget it,” she spat. “I’m not staying with you.”
“Yes, you are,” he countered, forcing a calm into his voice that did not exist.
“Why are you pushing this?” she countered, those slender arms folding around her in that gesture of vulnerability, even though her eyes spat blue fire at him. He doubted she was even aware of the tell.
Damn if he knew.
“Where else will you go, Noelle?”
He thrust his hands into his pants pockets, briefly turning to stare at the bank of mailboxes before returning his gaze to her. Against his will, he glanced at her wide, lush mouth. Unlike Friday night, the almost-too-carnal curves were unpainted, lending to the air of fragility that stubbornly clung to her despite the combat boots and attitude.
“Forget the motel,” he continued, voice flat as he met her eyes again. “Your roommate said two weeks, but I seriously doubt they’ll have the apartment ready in that short amount of time. So three to four weeks in a cheap motel? Aside from the personal security issues, you can’t afford it.” Her lips parted as if prepared to argue with him, again, but he forestalled her with an abrupt shake of his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve rented an apartment, but since you just arrived here and haven’t started the job you mentioned, I’m going to assume you’ve paid first and last month’s rent, as well as a security deposit. Which leaves you unable to rack up a bill at an extended-stay motel. Face it. I’m your only option at this point.” He didn’t add that the thought of her in some seedy place with flimsy locks and little security caused an uncomfortable, tight ball of pressure to press against his sternum.
She shook her head, the corner of her mouth curled into a faint sneer. “Days ago, you wanted me out of Boston, and now you’re telling me I’m moving in with you. Why are you suddenly so gung-ho to have another Rana living in your house? Aren’t you afraid I’ll pilfer your silverware or steal away with your fine china in the middle of the night?”
Unbidden, a blast of anger seared his chest, singed his throat, so that for several moments he was rendered incapable of speech. Her question pitched him back to that afternoon a couple of days after his mother’s funeral when he’d walked into her home to find it ransacked as if a hurricane had torn through it. Hurricane Frank.
With a silent, deep breath, he buried the fury under a sheet of thick ice. But it hammered home the fact that the past stretched between them like a yawning, deep chasm incapable of being forgotten or crossed.
“I’m not worried,” he said, the same deep freeze coating his insides sleeting his voice. “I have a top-of-the-line security system.”
She flinched. The jerk of her shoulders was so small, so subtle, he might have imagined it. If not for the flare of something dark, almost
bleak in her eyes, he would’ve believed he had. But he’d caught both reactions. Regret at his insult wormed its way into his conscience. Damn it. He was an asshole.
“Look, Noelle—”
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Are we going to pretend? Is that how we’re going to approach this?”
He didn’t need to ask her what “this” referred to. It was the reason her staying with him made as much sense as wiping up a spill with tissue paper—all you ended up with was a big mess. They weren’t friends, but she’d once known him better than anyone. They weren’t lovers, but he knew the taste of her kiss, the flavor of her sex when she was aroused. Even now, staring at all that skin and the colors painting it, he fought to concentrate on their conversation and not tracing each and every branch, leaf, and petal with his tongue. He’d been robbed six years ago; if he was going to be tortured with her in his life, he could’ve at least found out if she would surround his cock as tightly as she did his fingers.
But he could say none of that to her. Nor could he talk about those few months that had been a couple of the happiest for him—because they reminded him of the joys and pleasures in life that his mother would never experience.
“Apparently we are,” she said on the tail of a sharp, dry chuckle. “Why did you come by here, Aiden?”
He clenched his jaw, grinding his molars into chalk. After a long moment, he stated, “To let you know I’m going to pay your grad-school tuition.”
Relief flashed across her face, and he didn’t miss the soft sigh that escaped her lips. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll pay you back. With interest.”
“This isn’t a loan, Noelle,” he growled. “My mother wanted you to have it.”
