by Inara Scott
She’d rejected him with the most casual ease he could imagine. “It’s not a good idea,” she’d said. What did that even mean? How was it that the most nondescript woman he’d met in years had him spinning in circles, unsure of which way was up?
He opened the door and stepped back to give her room. Today’s outfit, he was delighted to see, was just as horrible as yesterday: loose jeans, T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, army jacket. There was, however, one exception—her hair was long and loose around her shoulders, revealing tones that varied from rich dark chocolate to sun-kissed amber. The shiny mass moved as she walked, sliding in silky waves to frame her piquant features.
Mason Coleman had two sisters. He knew hair that had been air-dried and hair that had been blown dry, and this hair had definitely been blown dry. He considered mentioning it, but figured she might slap him. Which also sounded enticing, but perhaps not worth the fact that she might also walk back out the door and never return. And he did have to go to work.
“Coffee?” He held out the mug.
She gave him a squinty-eyed look of pure suspicion. “Did you slip a roofie in there?”
He snorted a laugh. “This early in the morning? I’m saving that until I come home from work.”
She sniffed the coffee, then took a sip, eyeing him over the cup as she did. He could tell the moment it hit her taste buds, because her eyes half closed in pleasure.
“How is it?” he asked.
“Fine,” she squeaked out a minute later. “It’s fine.” She took another sip and her eyes fluttered closed again. “You’re sure there are no drugs in here? No cocaine or ecstasy or anything?”
“Nope. Just really good coffee. I did add some cream and sugar. I can get you a fresh cup if you prefer it black.”
“No, this is great, thanks.”
He walked back to the kitchen and picked up his own cup. She followed him in, carrying her old messenger bag as well as a fabric grocery bag. She set the coffee on the counter, then held up her grocery bag with just a hint of hesitation. “Do you mind if I put a few things in the fridge?”
Something about her reminded him of a hedgehog—maybe the way she was cute and prickly and vulnerable all at once. He had a feeling she wanted to say something else but was holding back because he was her employer. And if he was reading her right, that was a tough swallow for his little hedgehog.
“Of course not,” he said. “Just so you know, I texted Alli last night and got the vet info. Also, I try to keep everything above board with the taxes, so hopefully you don’t mind filling out a few forms.”
She shook her head. “That’s fine. I do that for all my regular clients.”
“How many do you have?” He really needed to be getting to the office, but for some reason this woman intrigued the hell out of him, and he found it hard to walk away.
“Clients?” Her eyes went thoughtful. “I don’t know, maybe twenty or so? There are some that I see every day, others that I only take care of when their owners are away longer than usual. Another handful that I house-sit for if they go out of town.”
“Aha!” he said triumphantly. “I knew it. You do do overnights.”
She rolled her eyes and started to unload her bag. “Keep your pants on, Sherlock. I have a few clients I house-sit for, but that doesn’t mean I’d move in with them.”
“How often are you in the city?”
“Before you? Wednesday through Sunday.”
“When do you work at the vet clinic?”
Generic vanilla yogurt and something that looked like pasta in a plastic Tupperware container went into the fridge. He watched approvingly as her loose pants tightened over her backside when she leaned over to find a space on the lower rack. “Monday and Tuesday all day, and Wednesday mornings. I do some landscaping and maintenance on the weekends, too, but that’s on an on-call basis.”
“Do you ever take a day off?”
“Not really. And what’s with the twenty questions, anyway?”
He shrugged. “It’s all part of a diabolical scheme to seduce you. Obviously has nothing to do with being a normal, polite human being.”
A hint of a blush appeared in her cheeks. “Sorry, you’re right. I’m the one being rude. You’re entirely polite. And normal.”
“My first compliment,” he murmured. “For being normal. I’m touched.”
Her cheeks bloomed with color. “I’m just making it worse, aren’t I? I’m sure you have many other delightful qualities as well.”
“Such as?” He fought a grin as she obviously struggled to figure out what to say. He had the impression Tess was far more comfortable with honesty than she was with flattery.
“You know, I really don’t know you well enough to say, but you seem very nice…” She trailed off at his mocking look. “What?”
“I’m very nice? That’s the best you can do?”
She paused, then shook her finger triumphantly. “I know! You’re taking care of your sister’s dog. Or, at least, paying me to. So you’re dedicated to your family. And the papers say your employees are happy, so I guess that’s a good thing.”
His grin widened. “You looked up more news about me?”
She took a sip of coffee and evaded his gaze. “I’m in your house twelve hours a day. Seemed like a reasonable thing to do.”
“Okay, so I’m not all bad. Maybe just a harmless playboy?”
Her mouth settled over the rim of her cup in a way that was far more erotic than drinking a cup of coffee should be. “No, playboy implies you don’t do anything useful. You do hold down a fairly impressive job. I can’t, in good conscience, call you a playboy.”
“This is a matter of conscience?”
She leaned against the fridge, the corner of her mouth quirking with humor. “Apparently so.”
He searched for another alternative. “So if not a playboy, how would you describe me—a Lothario?”
She studied him, the smile still playing on her lips. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what that means. But I think you’re getting warmer. The right word just keeps escaping me.”
“Hmm. Man whore?”
“Oh, that’s just ugly.” She gave a mock shudder. “Never say that again.”
The word that popped into his head was so perfect, he jolted upright. “Oh, I’ve got it! Heartbreaker. That’s probably what you were thinking. I’m a heartbreaker. Which is really nice of you to say, but I promise I don’t do it on purpose. I suppose that’s sort of implied, though, don’t you think?”
The sheer egotism of his response seemed to temporarily render her speechless. It seemed the perfect moment for his exit, so he slid past her to the front door, where he grabbed his briefcase and keys. “Think about it and let me know if that sounds right. I’ll see you at eight.”
…
Tess wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as she stared at Mason’s retreating back. Heartbreaker? Good Lord, the man was full of himself.
On the other hand, everything he said was accompanied by a smile. Even if he was a tad insufferable, he managed to be adorably self-deprecating at the same time.
At nine, an efficient-looking older woman with steel gray hair arrived. She introduced herself as Beatrice Walsh, Mason’s housekeeper. Beatrice, it turned out, came once a week to clean and to make food for Mason, and she reminded Tess so much of a younger version of her grandmother, she almost got teary. They spent the morning chatting while Beatrice cooked a fragrant coconut curry soup, a small lasagna, and a hearty salad made with orzo pasta, feta cheese, and a mix of vegetables.
After Beatrice left, Tess spent a blissful day in the quiet apartment, pounding away on her homework and staring at the breathtaking view she was pretty sure Mason didn’t appreciate as much as he should. Between rounds of organic chemistry and reproductive physiology, she walked around the apartment and tried to find some flaw—something to hate about it. But she couldn’t, and that annoyed her even more.
To be sure, it was too white, too clean, and far too sophisticate
d for her tastes. But it was also surprisingly comfortable and functional. The leather sofa seemed to wrap around her shoulders, seducing her into yet another nap she didn’t really have time to take. The prints decorating the walls weren’t weird modern expressions that took a PhD to understand. Instead, Mason’s tastes ran more toward artistic photographs, most of San Francisco, but a few of the rocky coastline, and one of a field at sunset. Tess wondered if it was from the Sacramento Valley, where he’d grown up.
His cookware gleamed, but also had a spot or two—probably from Beatrice, but still disarming. And while Mason was clearly annoyed by Wick, he let the dog go anywhere he wanted, even on the master bed that Tess tried not to look at when she retrieved Wick for one of his many walks. She tried even harder not to look at the bedside table, or imagine what was stashed in its single drawer.
When eight o’clock rolled around, she found herself staring at the door, preparing for some snarky banter—and okay, maybe a little sexual tension. Just because she’d rejected him the night before didn’t mean she didn’t want him to notice her a little. She had spent at least an hour that morning trying on clothing and—God help her—blow-drying her hair—in an effort to look both hot and like she completely didn’t care about looking hot. The clothing part was a total fail—she simply didn’t own anything better than jeans and T-shirts. But her hair did look good, if she had to say so herself.
But when walked through the front door he looked tired, and she had to give it to him for having spent a solid twelve hours at work. That, along with the wrinkle of stress on his forehead and the way he rubbed his eyes, made her feel sorry enough for him not to mention the heartbreaker comment from the morning.
“Long day?” she called from her spot on the couch.
He stooped to greet Wick, who had lumbered happily to the door. “You know what is almost as fun as organic chemistry?”
“Um, nothing, because organic chemistry is the most enjoyable, delightful subject ever invented?”
He gave a tired smile. “You’ve got me there. But I was going to say calculating the terminal value for a company that doesn’t yet exist, and then arguing about your assumptions for hours with your know-it-all partners who refuse to listen to you.”
She nodded knowingly. “Oh, sure. That’s what I was going to say next.”
After dropping his keys by the door, Mason sank down into the sofa next to her, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. For a moment, they sat in a strangely companionable silence. Tess finished the problem she’d been working on, and then shut down and closed her laptop.
“Any chance Mrs. Walsh left me some lasagna?” Mason asked, eyes still closed.
“You’re in luck. She made a pan this morning.” Tess tried to subtly shift slightly to the right so their bodies didn’t inadvertently come into contact.
“God I love that woman,” he said fervently.
Tess thought about the crappy bowl of microwaved spaghetti and pre-made frozen meatballs and compared it mentally to the fragrant entrée the housekeeper had made that morning. Then her brow furrowed as she realized what he’d said earlier. “Wait—you call her Mrs. Walsh? She told me to call her Beatrice.”
“I know. She’s told me that, too. Over and over. But I can’t do it. She reminds me too much of my third-grade teacher, who also happened to wear her hair in a bun, constantly lost her glasses on top of her head, and was named Mrs. Walsh. They’re like twins. I can’t imagine using her first name. It just feels wrong.”
She considered his words. “You remember your third-grade teacher’s hairstyle?” Her third grade was a jumble of teachers in three different schools. One of her mother’s finer years of parenting.
When Tess was growing up, her mother would periodically fall in love with some totally unsuitable man and go wherever he went, usually staying in some dive hotel until he lost interest, or the money ran out. Tess would spend a few months in a new school, and then, just as suddenly, be yanked out. Then they would move back to the Bay area to live with Tess’s grandmother until the next guy came along.
He opened one eye to examine her, causing her to freeze in her sideways movement. “I still see her sometimes when I go home. It hasn’t changed.”
“Are you from Mayberry, by any chance? You stop by her house and drop off an apple every now and then?”
He shrugged. “Even worse. She comes by our house for dinner. My mom did a lot of volunteer work at the school. She was in my classrooms all the time, so she got to know all the teachers pretty well. Stayed in touch with a bunch of them.”
Tess couldn’t restrain a shudder at the thought. “I would have died if my teachers and my mom hung out.”
“Died?”
“Okay, not died exactly, but I would have come close.”
“And why would that be?” Both of those golden eyes were open now, and he was studying her in that disconcerting way he had. “Wait—don’t tell me—were you a troublemaker? Were you afraid your teachers would tell your mom stories about you?” He poked her with a gentle elbow, his voice teasing.
She forced herself not to flinch but couldn’t stop from rising to her feet, the strangely comfortable moment broken.
It didn’t occur to Mason that it might be embarrassing to have your teachers meet your mother—who was as likely to join the PTA as she would have been to join the army—for an entirely different set of reasons. Like the fact that half the time she did come to school, she was high, or wearing something so inappropriate the teachers would wince and usher her right back out of the classroom.
“Yep, that’s it. I was a troublemaker. Spent more time in the principal’s office than in the classroom.” She unplugged the cord for her laptop and secured it with a Velcro strap.
“Now why don’t I believe that?”
Why did his eyes always look so knowing? Were her thoughts somehow broadcast across her forehead, like some kind of obscenely embarrassing electronic billboard?
She shrugged and grabbed her messenger bag. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought. Anyway, I’m heading home. I’ve got a long drive, you know.”
“If you insist. But the couch in my office converts to a bed, and I swear I’m not saying that in a creepy, hitting-on-you kind of way.”
Life would be so much easier if that wasn’t so damn appealing. “No thanks.”
He closed his eyes again. “Your choice. I’m too tired to chase you. But the offer still stands, even if you were a naughty third grader.”
“Right, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tess forced herself to pack up her things, give Wick one last pat goodbye, and let herself out the door at a measured pace. Once in the hall, she took a deep breath and wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead. Last night, Mason had been in seduction mode, and that had been bad. This morning, he’d made her laugh, which was almost worse. But tonight…tonight he was tired, and human, and something in his very humanity was utterly devastating.
All the way down the elevator she found herself replaying the events of the night before. The hand on her back. The soft touch of his hand. The way he’d made her insides flutter.
Was that the real Mason? Or was the man she’d met tonight the real Mason—the man whose mom volunteered at his school, who called his housekeeper Mrs. Walsh, and still saw his third-grade teacher?
Or was none of it real? Was it all just a part of the game?
She checked her email on the way to her car and found a note from her best friend Cece, who was currently traveling in France on a work trip and had sent a picture of herself taking a huge, staged bite out of a baguette. The photo made her smile and miss her friend all the more. Cece would know exactly what to do with a guy like Mason. Hell, she probably knew him personally. Cece was like that. She knew just about everyone in the world of San Francisco’s rich and beautiful.
Tess had met Cecilia Kerr in second grade. Thanks to the magic of zip codes, her grandmother’s house put her in the district of one of th
e best elementary schools in the area. Tess, of course, was the poorest kid in the class, while Cecilia was the richest.
Cecilia’s mother, a social climber always looking for ways to publicly demonstrate her charity, had pulled Tess and her mother’s names from a “Help the Needy” Christmas tree at the local grocery store, and they’d bought all sorts of presents and household goods for the family that they dropped off two weeks before Christmas.
Tess had been mortified. She hadn’t known her mother had put their names on the tree, and greeting Cecilia—the class princess with her perfectly curled hair and spotless clothes—at the door had been the most embarrassing moment of her life. She’d refused the presents and hidden in her room.
The next day Cecilia confronted her at school and demanded she take the gifts. Tess said no and walked away.
Cece was astonished. She knew people only liked her because of her money, and it had never occurred to her that someone might reject something she’d offered. Oddly enough, it became the start of a fierce friendship. They were each orphans in their own way—Cece orphaned by money, Tess by her mother’s addiction to men and drugs—and they quickly became each other’s family. Tess became the one person Cece could always count on to be honest with her, and be her friend for reasons that had nothing to do with what Cece could give her. And through all of Tess’s moves, even after she dropped out of high school and started on her path of self-destruction, Cece was always there.
Now, they saw each other at least once a week. Cece was the only one who knew how hard Tess had worked to get her life back together after she’d returned to the Bay Area, and Tess was the only one who knew Cece’s secrets—including the anxiety that haunted her and sometimes made it difficult for her to leave her apartment.
She started a response to Cece’s email.
That croissant looks amazing—any chance you found a hot French guy to share it with? How’s the work going? I scored a gig dog sitting full-time for a guy at the Stella—do you happen to know Mason Coleman? Livend Capital?
She wrote a few more lines but deleted them. Even writing in an email that she was fantasizing about her boss felt wrong. Cece would be home in two weeks, and by then, she’d probably have kicked her unfortunate attraction.
