More Than Friends (Kingsley #4)

by Brandi Kennedy

  She looked at him, her eyes sparkling, and bit her lip. Finally, she closed her eyes and lowered her face, sighing. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s how it has to be.” Shaking her head, she made her way down the hall, and then he heard the soft thumps of her heeled boots as she moved down the stairs.

  It wasn’t until he heard the click of the front door closing that he turned back to gather the rest of the bedclothes. “Well, I guess me and Jim Beam are doing laundry tonight.” Clutching the wadded sheets to his chest brought the scent of sex wafting up from the fabric; his mind settled on the lingering taste of sex on his tongue, and he threw the sheets back to the floor with a grimace. “Gonna have to wait, Jim,” he joked, turning toward the bathroom. “I’ve at least gotta brush my teeth.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He had just closed the lid on the washer when he heard the first tap on the door. Checking the settings quickly, he pulled the knob to start the wash cycle, scraped his palm over the stubble already forming on his face, and turned to make his way through the kitchen to the living room. She had knocked two more times by the time he got to door, and when he opened it, he did so with confusion. “What’d you forget?” he asked, swinging the door open. She didn’t answer, and he arched a brow as he raised his eyes. “I mean, it’s not locked and you have a key … to my …“

  She arched her own eyebrows, crossing her arms amusedly over her chest. “A key? No, I don’t.”

  “Renee!?” Michael felt his mouth fall open, and his face heated as she laughed. “What are you doing here? You’re on a date! I’m – it’s –“ He clamped his lips together, checked his wrist, and rolled his eyes. “I’m not wearing a watch. What time is it? Why aren’t you on a date?”

  Renee laughed again, but her eyes were fearful and she turned to glance behind her. “Can I come in?” She asked. “Or is this a bad time?”

  Still sputtering, Michael backed away from the door and gestured for her to come in. In the living room, she crossed her arms again and moved to stand beside the window that faced the street. It wasn’t until then that he noticed how stiff she was; her shoulders were bunched up around her neck, and her back was ramrod straight. She looked date-ready though, in a pair of black tights that smoothed over her thighs and stopped just below her knees, a golden yellow camisole with a lace band that circled her hips, a black lace crop top with a beaded neckline, and simple black flats – the kind Harmony always called “ballets.” Following her to the window, he stepped close beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in close to his side. “What’s wrong? It didn’t go well?”

  “It did,” she said softly. “Until his wife showed up.” She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his arm.

  “Oh, that’s not good.”

  She shook her head against his shoulder, and he tightened his hold on her, allowing his hand to run down her arm. “It’s my luck,” she said quietly. “The one time I think I should step out of my comfort zone and take a chance, I’m taking a chance on a creep. His wife was really upset. She made a scene in front of the whole restaurant.”

  “She thought you knew?”

  Renee shrugged. “Apparently. She was pretty mad. And I’d be mad too, you know? She didn’t believe I didn’t know – I just ducked in time to avoid getting hit with a dinner plate.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never been attacked like that before, you know?” Her arm slipped around his back, her skin soft against his. He felt her fingertips against his side, tickling, and tensed slightly against the sensation. She squeezed in response, laughing softly. “And it made me paranoid, the whole thing. I kept looking in my mirrors as I drove from the restaurant, and there was this car behind me most of the way. And I just … I don’t know. It’s stupid, and I’m sure it wasn’t anything. Just someone going the same direction as me probably, but Chelsea’s not home tonight. She’s with Nick again, and I just didn’t want to go home alone. Not yet. And then I saw the turn for here, and – well, here I am.” She glanced up at him though, uncertain. “I can go though, I’m okay. I shouldn’t be here if you’re … expecting someone.”

  Stepping back from the window, Michael tugged Renee along with him, and as they walked to the couch, he noticed the light from the kitchen reflecting off of what must be Sherry’s key to his house – hanging abandoned on the key hook next to the door. He shook his head, lowering himself to the edge of the couch. “No. No, I’m not expecting anyone,” he said quietly. “It’s okay – stay here as long as you need.”

  She followed his eye and caught sight of the key. “Are you – I didn’t even know you were dating someone,” she said. He saw her eyebrows draw together as she pursed her lips, and then she turned to look at him. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m not,” he answered. “Dating anyone, that is. I … it’s complicated, I guess. Or it was. It isn’t now.” He looked down, twisting his fingers together in his lap.

  “You broke up?”

  Michael laughed, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I uh, I guess you could say that.”

  Her eyes widened and she sat back, finally taking in the sight of him – his bare feet, his shirtless chest. “Oh,” she said, her mouth forming a neat little circle.

  He bit his lip against the urge to lean forward and press his own mouth against hers, to watch her eyes widen still further. Smiling slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “Mmhmm.” He watched her for a while, watched her eyes move over his face, watched them dip down to his chest and jerk back up again. “I’m divorced, Renee,” he laughed. “I’m not a monk.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” she said, her cheeks blooming with color as she looked back at the key hanging next to the door. “I just didn’t know you had someone, I guess. Someone with … a key. You never told me.”

  Clearing his throat, he rose from the couch and walked over to the door, lifted the key from its hook, and moved into the kitchen. He dropped it into the silverware drawer and opened the cabinet above, taking down two small glasses. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Renee bring her hand up to her mouth, chewing gently on her thumbnail as she stared into her lap. Why did she seem so surprised? She had to think he hadn’t been celibate in the years since his divorce. Hell, she knew he had dated! Pouring an inch of bourbon into each glass from the bottle sitting on the counter, Michael topped each drink with soda and turned to the fridge, still thinking. You never told me, she had said. I didn’t know … you never told me.

  Pulling the little jar of cherries from the pocket on the refrigerator door, he turned and opened the silverware drawer for a spoon. Would she have wanted to know? What difference would it have made? By the time he’d dropped two cherries into her drink and put everything away, he’d heard the soft rustle of her movements and knew she was behind him. Picking both drinks up from the counter, he turned and offered one to her. “Would you have wanted to know that?”

  Renee shrugged. “Well, usually if you’re giving someone a key to your house, it’s because they matter to you, or because things are getting serious.” She sipped her drink, refusing to meet his eyes. “I just … thought we were better friends than that, I guess. I thought if you were at the key giving stage, I’d at least have heard something.” She glanced around, as if in search of something. “Or seen … something, I guess.”

  “I didn’t give her the key because she mattered to me,” he said. Her eyes flew to his, and he lowered his face. “Not the way you’re thinking, anyway. And I didn’t give it to her because we were serious, either.”

  “Oh. I see.” She sipped again, glancing over his shoulder and into the laundry room as the cycle timer on the washer went off. “Laundry? It’s gotta be close to midnight! When do you sleep, Michael?”

  Grimacing, he set his glass back on the counter with a soft thump. “It’s, uh – it’s bedsheets.” He shrugged. “They needed washing.” Why the hell did he suddenly feel ashamed? He was a single, red-blooded man – he had done
nothing wrong! And she had no right to any explanations. So why did he feel like he owed her an apology?

  “Right. Um, I think I’d better go,” she said quietly.

  Reaching out, she handed him her glass, carefully not touching his hand as they made the exchange. He stared at the glass in his hand, at the cherries that he kept in his house just for her, at the small print her lip gloss had left on the edge of the glass. Swallowing the wave of anger that rose up in him, he turned and placed the glass very carefully on the counter, beside his. “So, what’s this? You’re mad or something? Or uncomfortable? Because I have someone who … comes here sometimes?”

  She stepped back, surprised. “Are you serious right now? Am I mad that you –“ she paused, swallowed, and took a breath to steel herself before she went on. “That you bring … women here? No, why would I be? This isn’t my house, Michael. Your bed isn’t my bed. It’s none of my business.”

  The words conjured images in his mind, images that he wasn’t sure he was ready for. He had seen her smile more times than he could remember, but never had he seen her smile the way it looked in his mind right now – erotic and sexy and … for him. He had seen her first thing in the morning, after any number of times that she had slept at his house, but never had he seen her the second his eyes opened, with her hair spread across his pillows and her pouty mouth within kissing distance. “No,” he said. “It isn’t.” Shaking his head to dispel the chaos of his thoughts, he arched his eyebrows at her. “So what’s this?”

  She sighed, dropping her head back to roll her eyes toward the ceiling. He stared at her throat, the long elegant column of taut skin circled by a strand of shining black beads. She chewed her lip silently as he watched her, then released it. “I just thought we were at least the kind of friends who were honest with each other. I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

  “Again – we weren’t seeing each other. And if we were, would you have wanted to know?”

  “Yes!” she shouted. “Yes, Michael, I would have wanted to know if my best friend was seeing someone. I would have wanted to know if it was getting serious. I would have wanted to know if you were feeling –“

  “I wasn’t seeing her!” Michael cut in. “I wasn’t serious with her – I was screwing her, okay? And that’s all it was! She had a key so she could meet me here sometimes, but that’s all it was. And I wasn’t feeling what you –“

  “Oh. My. God.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, and suddenly he felt like they were complete strangers. She looked at him as if she’d never seen him before, as if she didn’t know him at all.

  “I told you, I wasn’t a monk,” he said.

  “I heard you,” she whispered, lowering her eyes. Moving back from the kitchen doorway, she walked into the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, her back to him. “I just didn’t think you were that kind of guy,” she said.

  “What kind of guy?” he snapped, annoyed now. Following her into the living room, he stepped in front of her and hooked a finger under her chin, dragging her eyes up to meet his. She closed her eyes, allowing him to raise her face but refusing to look at him. He didn’t care; he knew she was listening, so he spoke anyway. “What kind of guy did you think I wasn’t, Renee? The kind who needs to be touched, even if it means nothing to the person touching me? The kind who seeks out someone to hold when the days are too long and the damn nights are even worse?”

  “Not the kind who has cheap, and apparently pretty much meaningless sex,” she said. Her eyes flew open, blazing with anger he didn’t understand, and when he reached out to touch her arm, it was trembling.

  “I didn’t say it was entirely meaningless,” he answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it as soon as the words were out. She gasped, her breath warm against his lips, and he clenched his hand against his leg to keep himself from pulling her against him.

  She wrenched her arm from his grasp and stepped back, her chest heaving. Her eyes shimmered with anger and – tears? “I gotta go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Scoffing, he stepped back too. “You gotta go? Just like that, you’re just walking out? You brought this up, Renee – you’re the one who got upset. Over what, I don’t even know. I tell you everything, Renee, you know I do. But I … I didn’t think you’d need to know my booty call frequency.”

  She shook her head, disgusted. “I don’t need to know. And that’s not even –“ Breaking off, she sat on the edge of the coffee table, sighing. Her hands twisted in her lap, and she spread the long fingers of one hand out suddenly against her thigh, inspecting her fingernails. “I guess I’m just surprised, is all. I didn’t ever really think of you like that before. You’ve always just been Michael. Not …” When she trailed off again, Michael sat too, lowering himself to the edge of the table. She looked at his leg, pressed against the side of her own, and sighed. “You know,” she said. “Just regular Friend Michael. Not … not Man Michael.”

  Surprised, Michael laughed and stood up. “You haven’t noticed I’m a man? Look at me.”

  She did, swallowing as her eyes climbed the baggy legs of his lounge pants, the flat planes of his stomach, the dips and ridges that defined his torso. “That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said. “I mean, I had noticed. I just hadn’t … noticed.”

  Michael turned away, stalking back into the kitchen to grab his drink from the counter. He tipped the glass to his lips and drained it, slammed it back down on the counter, and lifted hers. Swirling the glass so that the cherries whirled crazily through the dark liquid and stirred the scent of bourbon, he brought her glass to his lips too, and emptied it. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to ravage her.

  Ever since the first day he’d met her, Michael and Renee had been a perfect match. They liked the same movies, they laughed at the same jokes, and generally enjoyed the same music. And in all that time, how could both of them have never noticed what the other was? How could he not notice her as a woman until she was unavailable, and then suddenly all he could think of was how much he wanted her? Even when he’d been with Sherry, Renee was there, in the back of his mind – hell, he might not have turned to Sherry at all, if not for the fact that he’d been hurting and lonely. But was it possible that Renee had been feeling the same things all along?

  Did she have feelings for him – feelings that had caused her to seek out someone else in the first place?

  They had been close for so long, had spent so much time together. They had laughed together, shared stories of their histories, their memories. She had been the balm that soothed his heart as he grieved the loss of his marriage. She mattered greatly to him; she was often on his mind, and the most fun he had was when he was with her. Could she feel the same way, and somehow neither of them had noticed?

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  When he turned, she was standing there again, framed in the doorway of his kitchen, the living room light shining softly from behind her, her hands clutched nervously together in front of her. She had long, slender arms, softly defined from her work at the yoga studio; they met at the wrists, where she clutched her left wrist with her right hand, just above the apex of her thighs. Her eyes were soft, her hair was falling over her shoulders, she looked delicious, and he wanted nothing more than to walk over and touch her. If he did though, he might never stop. Whatever the cause, Michael had experienced a transformation in the way he saw her, and he was afraid she was right – they were no longer simply Friend and Friend. No, now they were Man and Woman, and he was afraid that if they acknowledged the change, there would be no going back. He shrugged, dragging his eyes away from her body and forcing them up to her questioning face. “I’m drinking,” he said, and turned to pour another glass.

  “Michael,” she said softly, barely audible even in the silence. He heard the soft click of her throat as she swallowed, and the wet sounds of her mouth as she licked her lips. “What is this? Whatever t
his is that’s going on, this isn’t us, it’s … not how we always were.”

  Watching the bourbon fill the glass, Michael briefly entertained the notion that he should stop pouring – that he should mix the liquor with soda. That he needed to slow it down. Still, his hand ignored his head’s command, and then the glass was full. Too late for soda, then, he thought. Might as well drink it. He lifted the glass and took two large swallows, gasping slightly as he felt the liquor burn its way down his chest. Nicolette had left him, had turned her back on him. She hadn’t trusted him to love her anyway, to be there for her. And Sherry had walked away from him, too. Eighteen months of mindless screwing, reduced in a second to worthlessness.

  Now this, with Renee. “No, this is not us,” he agreed. “This is definitely not us.”

  “Why aren’t we talking?” she asked, and he turned at the sound of her voice, watched a tear slip down her cheek. “I don’t know what’s wrong between us lately, but … something’s changed, right? But we’ve always talked before.” She stepped into the kitchen, still watching his eyes, searching his face, and he felt the air around him thicken as she approached.