by Lisa Plumley
When Natasha finally raised her head, Damon was watching her. He appeared crestfallen. “You don’t like them?”
She nodded. “Of course I do! I love them.”
But of course he’d spied the disenchantment on her face, no matter how brief it had been. As usual, Damon Torrance was one step ahead of her.
Feeling foolish for not having remembered the truth about flowers—for having been characteristically naïve and hopeful, even when experience told her not to be—Natasha looked right at him. “I hear you have a speech prepared. Let’s have it.”
Damon shifted his gaze away from hers. He swallowed hard.
“All right. The thing is, Natasha … I’m sorry.” His gaze met hers again, suddenly, with an intensity that shook her. “I’m so sorry. I treated you badly, and I took advantage of you. I let you down, and I hurt your feelings, and Las Vegas just brought all that home to me. I never meant to do any of that. I’ve been torn up about it ever since you left—”
“Shouldn’t you be at the office right now?” She didn’t want to interrupt, but she also didn’t want Damon to drive Torrance Chocolates off a cliff just because he felt guilty. “It’s the middle of the afternoon on a Friday. You’re missing your weekly staff meeting.” And the test varieties of chocolates that are always served during it, she remembered. Yum, yum.
“—and if you would just say you forgive me,” Damon forged on doggedly, “it would mean the world to me. I’m really sorry.”
Still thinking it was strange that he’d blow off work to visit her—because while Damon had been a chronic playboy, he’d never been truly irresponsible when it came to taking care of his family’s company—Natasha frowned at him. “Did you forget your meeting?” she asked. “Because without me there to remind you—”
“I didn’t forget.” For an instant, he seemed torn. It was almost as if Damon was considering confiding in her about something—something to do with work. Then, “This is more important. Making sure you know I’m sorry is more important.”
“Oh.” Natasha looked at him more closely. Same brown wavy hair. Same hard jaw. Same dark, melty eyes that invited a woman to lose herself in them. Same Damon. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but … “You seem … different. Is everything all right?”
Again, Damon appeared conflicted. He opened his mouth as if to speak, inhaled, then shut it again. “Everything will be all right, after you say you forgive me.” He took her hand. He smiled, and the Damon she remembered—the teasing, confident, super-sexy Damon—returned. “Come on. You know you want to,” he coaxed. “It’ll feel great to have all this settled between us. Don’t you remember what it was like during the good times? When we were laughing and traveling and testing new truffles? Nobody ever meant more to me than you, Natasha. Nobody. Remember—”
“I remember,” Natasha interrupted before he could go on—before he could stir up any more nostalgia or longing or memories of closeness between them. She pulled her hand from his grasp, then straightened her spine. “Okay. I forgive you.”
Damon raised his eyebrows. “Just like that?”
“Sure.” Natasha nodded. “Just like that.”
The relief in his face was palpable. Had her forgiveness really meant that much to him? Touched by that, Natasha smiled.
Damon did, too. For a long moment, their eyes met … and every single bit of connection and yearning she’d ever experienced came flooding right back to her.
So did a few of her more risqué fantasies about him.
Shaking them off, Natasha examined Damon more closely. How many times had she imagined him coming to her this way? Since Las Vegas … several times. There was no denying that hearing her former boss beg her forgiveness was pretty darn satisfying.
“Thank you,” Damon said in an earnest tone. “Really. You don’t know what I went through just to get here, and I—”
“Tasha?” Amy called loudly from the other room. “Is everything all right?”
Startled by her friend’s voice, Natasha jumped. Hearing Amy reminded her that whatever else happened, Natasha didn’t want to let Damon hurt her ever again. She deserved better. Much better.
“Everything’s fine, Amy!” she called. Then she turned to Damon again. Still holding her daffodils, she said, “I’ve really got to get back. As you can hear, I have company. But of course I forgive you, Damon! You’re you. I can hardly hold it against you when you screw up. That would be like”—Natasha cranked her arm, searching for an appropriate analogy—“like expecting the sun to feel cold or the ocean to stop making waves.”
“That’s what you think of me?” Damon appeared stricken. His jaw tightened. He looked away. “After all our years together, that’s your summation of me? That I’m a hopeless screwup?”
“It’s not your fault,” she assured him kindly. “It’s part of your charm. I just don’t want to be part of it anymore.”
He frowned. “Hell, Natasha. That kind of takes the fun out of your accepting my apology, don’t you think so?”
Natasha shrugged. “But I did it. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Sure. We could do that.” Damon’s gaze swiveled back to hers. “But I have to confess, I was kind of hoping …”
That we could have something more, she imagined him saying next. That you’d invite me in and we could start again …
“Never mind.” Damon thrust his hand through his hair. He aimed a brief, fraught look at her. “All I really need is your forgiveness, and I’ve got that. So … bye, Tasha. Take care.”
Then, without waiting for her to reply, Damon left.
It had been a lot more fun to be the one walking away than the one left behind, Natasha couldn’t help thinking as she watched him leave. Not even the delectable view of Damon’s cute, suit-clad backside could entirely sweeten the experience.
Exactly what, she wondered, had Damon been going through on his own over these past few days? Whatever it was, it probably explained those meaningful pauses he’d thrown into their conversation. If she knew Damon—and she did, pretty well by now—he had a secret. He had a big secret. A secret that she didn’t care about in the least, Natasha told herself firmly. Then she picked up her toes, swiveled around, and went to rejoin Amy. Her pedicure had survived. This time, so had she.
It took everything Damon had not to look back as he left Natasha’s front porch. Keeping his shoulders steady, he strode past the green grass, past the blooming geraniums, and down the sidewalk toward Wes’s car. Without the daffodils he’d brought for Natasha (which he’d purchased after selling his six-hundred-dollar necktie to a Gaslamp street peddler at a ninety percent loss), his hands felt empty. So did his heart. Weirdly enough, seeing Natasha had made him feel more alone, not less. He hadn’t expected that.
When Damon got into Wes’s car, the uniformed Torrance Chocolates security guard who’d accompanied him on his mission gave him a skeptical look. Damon guessed he deserved that skepticism—and the supervision that came along with it. After all, he’d decided to get Natasha’s address in the most direct way he could think of—by brazening his way into the La Jolla headquarters and raiding the personnel files to find it.
“Well,” said Louis, the security guard. “How’d it go?”
“Fine.” Damon gestured toward Natasha’s well-kept duplex apartment and flower-bordered yard. She’d seemed so different today. So casual. So open. So … well, so unexpectedly sexy in her bare feet and loose hair, in her jeans and her T-shirt, in her overall warmth and vitality. Pacey, he thought for the millionth time, was an unfairly lucky man. Damon frowned. “As you could see, I didn’t have any nefarious intentions.”
Louis shrugged. “I didn’t really think you did, Mr. T. But rules are rules. At Torrance Chocolates, we take care of our own.” Proudly, he patted the ID badge clipped to his uniform’s shirt pocket. “Natasha helped get me my job at the company. She’s a great girl. You can see why I had to look out for her.”
Right. Damon already knew that Natasha had ins
pired endless devotion from everyone at work. The entire staff, from janitors to board members, adored her. When she’d quit, everyone had unanimously (and accurately) blamed Damon. Animosity had ensued.
Things had gotten bad enough, rapidly enough, that Jimmy had even cited the need to resolve “morale problems” when he’d asked Damon to take his leave of absence from the company.
“For all I knew,” Louis went on cheerfully, “you were gonna stalk Natasha or something. Not on my watch, you’re not.”
“You’re very dedicated,” Damon told him wryly. He clutched the steering wheel, feeling weirdly reluctant to leave. He should have felt great, he knew; he’d successfully gotten Natasha’s forgiveness. Any second now, his usual good luck would kick in, and things would be fine again. Somehow, though, Damon didn’t feel great. “I’ll take you back to the office.”
“Aw, we don’t have to go back right away.” Louis gave him a hopeful look. “You’re a legend when it comes to knowing how to have a good time, Mr. T. Everybody knows that. Now that I know you don’t mean any harm to Natasha, I don’t have to keep any eye on you anymore. Jimmy said so.” He grinned. “How about we go grab a beer or something? You know, for old times’ sake?”
“‘For old times’ sake’?” Exasperatedly, Damon stared at him. “I haven’t left the company, Louis. I’m on leave.”
“Yeah, well … leaving has a way of becoming permanent, doesn’t it?” the security guard pointed out. “Especially if the leaving is involuntary, like yours was.” Louis brightened. “Say! We guys in security have a bet going about whether you ever come back to work. Do you mind giving me a little inside info?”
“If I had it to give,” Damon said, “I would.”
Louis gave a disgruntled sound. Trying to ignore the suddenly pervasive feeling that he was disappointing everyone around him, Damon started the car. Frowning, he scanned the quiet street. He didn’t like knowing that his absence from Torrance Chocolates was the subject of speculation. He didn’t like knowing that everyone thought he was down for the count.
At least Natasha didn’t know about his unwanted leave of absence. It had been hard for Damon not to tell her about it. Especially when she’d been grilling him about why he wasn’t at work, at his staff meeting, trying to make his parents proud—trying to develop his family’s company and do something worthwhile.
Telling Natasha about everything that had happened to him over the past few days—like being temporarily forced out of his job, seeing his house flooded, losing his car, and having his bank accounts frozen and his identity stolen—would have worked instantly to gain her forgiveness, Damon knew. Natasha was empathetic and kind and giving. She would have wanted to help him—if for no other reason than she felt sorry for him.
That’s why Damon had kept his struggles a secret from her. It hadn’t been easy, especially when she’d asked him directly if everything was all right. He wasn’t surprised that Natasha had somehow been able to intuit the truth: that things were awful for him. But he was surprised he hadn’t caved in and told her exactly how bad they were. Usually he would have felt no compunction about playing the sympathy card, if necessary.
Maybe he was becoming a better person, Damon thought.
Mentally congratulating himself on that, he pulled away.
Simultaneously, Louis shook his head. “I’m sorry, dude. It won’t be the same around Torrance Chocolates without you.”
“Louis, I’m not leaving! I’m coming back. You’ll see.”
Doubtfully, the security guard gazed outside. Slowly, Natasha’s apartment retreated from view. “Not without Natasha, you won’t come back. You can’t do it without her.”
Since that was Damon’s most closely held secret fear, Louis’s prediction hit him hard. But since Damon couldn’t allow anyone else to know that … “You just watch me, Louis. I’ll be back bigger and better than ever,” he assured him. “Bet on it.”
Louis cheered up. “Hey, thanks for the tip, Mr. T!”
In that moment, as Damon drove away from Natasha for the first and probably last time, he made a promise to himself.
He would be back at Torrance Chocolates. He’d triumph, too. With or without Natasha to help him do it.
But first … “Hey,” Damon said to Louis after a quick glance at the car’s center console, where he’d stowed his remaining loose change, “do you know where I can get lunch for $8.75 or less? I’m starving. If it’s cheap enough, I’ll even treat.”
“Sure.” Louis pointed straight ahead, where the freeway exit swerved southward. “I know an awesome food cart down by the Embarcadero. We can both eat cheap, and I’ll buy the beer.”
“Sounds good to me,” Damon told him.
Tasty food, free beer … what more could a man ask for?
It looked as though his luck was changing for the better already.
Chapter 12
Just as the sun was beginning to cast long orangey shadows across Natasha’s front yard, her doorbell clanged again.
Instantly, she thought it must be Damon. Again. Only this time, she decided as she strode barefoot from her kitchen to her front door, she would not be such an easy mark for his charm. This time, Natasha promised herself, she would be a lot tougher.
Her determination lasted about as long as it took to open the door. As soon as she spied Damon standing there, she almost melted on the spot. No sane woman could have blamed her. Not while Damon stood in the waning rays of sunlight, still wearing his suit, with his dark hair tousled and his eyes fixed on hers.
“I can’t do it without you,” he said. “I thought getting your forgiveness would be enough. But it wasn’t.”
“Hello to you, too,” Natasha joked. “Long time, no see.”
Long time, no see? What was she, twelve? So far, she’d demonstrated all the innate coolness of a preteen with a crush.
Which, technically, pretty accurately described her attitude toward Damon. She did have a crush on him. She ought to be honest about that—at least with herself. She’d realized that much during their time apart. Still, Natasha didn’t want to be defined by her feelings for her unattainable, spoiled-rotten boss. Inwardly, she groaned. But she couldn’t seem to tear away her gaze from the sight of Damon’s handsome, beseeching face.
“I need you, Natasha,” he said, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t dreaming. “I’ll do anything,” Damon promised. “I swear I will. I’ll do anything you want. Just name it.”
“Okay.” She crossed her arms. “Um … howl like a wolf.”
He looked puzzled. “Seriously?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded at him. “Go ahead.”
“All right. It’s your kinky party.” Obligingly, Damon tossed back his head. Then he opened his mouth and howled in the direction of the fuchsia bougainvillea arching over her porch.
Her neighbors—if they noticed—were unperturbed.
Natasha approved. “Hey, it’s fun to be the one giving orders. It must be awesome being the boss of people.”
“It is.” Looking adorably disgruntled, Damon raised his eyebrow. “Are we done yet? Can I come in? I need to—”
Be with you, she imagined him saying, then cut him short. As much as that idea segued nicely with her fantasies, it didn’t exactly gibe with her need to keep Damon “out of sight” and hence “out of mind” long enough for her to get over him.
However, now that he was here, maybe she could have some fun with him first. In the spirit of getting while the getting was good, she decided to push Damon a little further.
“Now do a little dance,” Natasha instructed, just because she could. Just for the hell of it. Because this opportunity might not come around again, and she had to make the most of it. She swiveled her finger in the air. “Include lots of hip action while you’re at it. Pretend you’re bringing sexy back.”
“Bringing sexy—” At her overt request that he make like a former boy band member, Damon scowled. “You’re enjoying this.”
“More
than I ever expected,” she agreed gleefully. “Go on.”
“No.” He pouted. “I’m not your dancing monkey.”
“Oh, I think you are. You already volunteered.”
“I meant I’d pay you to come back to work with me,” Damon told her. “I meant I’d apologize again or try to make amends.”
“Maybe. But what you said was, and I quote: ‘I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just name it.’ So I’m naming it.”
He exhaled. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
She waited. A long time. “Do you want some music? My iPod is in the other room. I could just grab it and—”
“No.” Stubbornly, Damon closed his eyes. He appeared to be getting himself focused. He inhaled deeply, then shook his arms.
Just when Natasha was about to prompt him to start, he did.
By the time he’d finished his impromptu hip thrusts and rhythmic gyrations on her front porch, Natasha was left gawking. She could hardly breathe. She was pretty sure she was blushing.
“I know,” Damon said upon seeing her face. “I should be careful where I unleash that kind of raw sex appeal, right?”
He said it self-deprecatingly, with a trace of humility that she’d never quite glimpsed in him before. But with the memory of his mini performance so fresh in her mind, Natasha couldn’t focus on Damon’s emotional state. She couldn’t even form words. All she could do was remember … longingly.
How had he made suit pants look so sexy? How had he moved that way, so uninhibitedly? So committedly? So affectingly?
All at once, Natasha wanted to lay out a whole itinerary’s worth of special requests for Damon—starting with the suggestion that he come inside … and ending with a demand that he kiss her (at the very least) or love her (at the very most).
Clearly, Damon’s Dance Dance Revolution had melted her brain. She didn’t have a lick of common sense left.
Now she wanted Damon to love her? Oh, boy …
“Your neighbors will never look at you the same way again,” Damon prophesied. “From here on, you’ll be the woman who demands that men gyrate on her front porch before they come in.”
