by Kait Nolan
His brows drew together as if she’d held out a crossword puzzle rather than her hand. She was about to give up when his hand enveloped hers.
Have mercy. A handshake shouldn’t turn her on, and it shouldn’t surprise her that his grip was as firm and warm as he looked. She inhaled a shuddery breath. He even smelled good, tangy and smoky. She looked at him and imagined lying under a blanket on a warm summer night…maybe somewhere dry and deserty.
“Berg Cyrano.”
“Berg?”
“You don’t want to know what it’s short for. Berg is better.” He released her hand slowly, his fingers brushing against hers. It made her swallow thickly as butterflies shot up through her stomach and chest.
You don’t need another man. You don’t need another man. You don’t need…
She inhaled. “Can I come in?” And her good intentions crashed and burned. Good intentions be damned.
“Uhh, sure.” He stepped back, looking less than sure.
It was rare that a barely five foot blonde felt like an invader. Not quite enemy territory here, but his vibes weren’t saying “make yourself at home.” As per usual, when she got uncomfortable, her mouth opened and words tumbled out like escaping puppies. “They’re oatmeal raisin cookies. Because I’ve convinced myself that if they contain both oatmeal and dried fruit, then they’re healthy. Not that they are. But I can eat more of them and pretend I don’t have to worry about gaining weight. Not that you have to worry about that. Because you don’t. Do you like raisins?”
She’d been wandering his house peering around, but she turned to face him as she asked the question.
Berg’s eyes were squinty, as if he hadn’t quite figured out what to make of her.
“If you don’t like raisins, I can make you something else. Chocolate chip. Snicker doodles. Oh! I make really good peanut butter cookies!”
He blinked and shook his head. “I like raisins.”
Roxie nodded and set the cookies on the kitchen counter. Walking into the attached living room, she stopped and stared. Huh. “You know, I kind of expected your place to be very…I don’t know…manly. Not that it isn’t, but I expected wall-to-wall big screen TVs. Maybe a pool table. Plaid. Dark wood.”
Stop it, Roxie! Stop talking.
But seriously, his place had a very loose design scheme of random splashes of color and all his furniture was bleached wood. It looked like a day at the beach, where everyone had brought a loud towel and there was driftwood all around. Even in Santa Barbara, most guys didn’t play on the connection to the ocean in their decorating. Sure, there was a corner dedicated to weightlifting and there was a rowing machine, but it didn’t scream the intense testosterone that was her new neighbor.
“My family thinks I need help decorating, so they each brought me something as a house-warming gift. I didn’t collect stuff like that when I was deployed…as a Marine. No reason to.” It was as if she was ripping the words from his mouth against his will.
She licked her lips and looked around for inspiration. There had to be something he wanted to talk about. “You have a lot of books. Do you like to read?” There were three, tall bookshelves stretching across one entire side of the main room.
“Is that so strange?”
“No.”
He scowled. “Did you think just because I was a jarhead, I wouldn’t like to read?”
She blinked. Whoa. “I like to read too.”
He opened his mouth as if ready to refute what she’d said, and then wrinkled his nose and shut his mouth.
“You carried in my books over the weekend,” she said. “That’s why the boxes were so heavy. I think half of what I moved was books. The other half was clothes. Not that I wear a lot of clothes.”
His gaze skimmed her sundress.
She blushed. “I mean, I wear clothes, but only once a day.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I mean, one outfit per day. Unless I decide to wear something to bed.” Her cheeks were so hot—they could light on fire at any moment. “I mean, I usually wear pajamas but the AC was broken in my last place and when it would get really hot, I’d…” She sucked in a breath and spun away from him. “So, books.” She leaned closer to his bookshelves. “You like poetry?” He had one book of poems—by John Donne.
Her neighbor didn’t answer. His eyes said he suspected this was a verbal trap of some kind. Great. Honestly, everyone probably had one book of poems somewhere in their house.
She went back to scanning titles. “Whoa! Look at all these different languages. Do you speak all these languages?”
“Some.”
She touched a picture frame on his bookshelf. “Is this you and your friends?” She was grasping at straws. It was a picture of Berg in camo with his arm around two other guys in front of a tent. They were all covered in dirt and grime so that their wide smiles were blinding. In Berg’s case, the smile was as good a disguise as the filth they were all covered in. Clearly, it was a picture of him and his friends. If he said any differently, she’d call him a liar.
“Yes.”
It was like pulling teeth. Occasionally even the most upbeat person had to admit defeat. She’d managed to insult him, forced him to acknowledge he liked raisins, and subjected herself to serious embarrassment in order to find out he was in the Marines and he may speak more than one language…and the “Semper Fi” on his truck outside had already indicated the first part. At least she’d learned his name. Not his entire name because that would be ridiculous.
“Bergstrom?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Is that what Berg is short for?”
He frowned and shook his head.
“Berger?”
Another headshake.
“Berglan?”
He tilted his head.
“I’m making up names. I have no idea what Berg could be short for.”
“Berg is better.” And dismissed.
She nodded. She felt like a bug under a microscope. An ugly bug. “You know, people generally like me. They say I’m friendly. Most guys think I’m cute. Not in an attractive way, but in a ‘you’re so short, how adorable is that’ sort of way…though maybe in both ways—I don’t know.” Her self-esteem screamed as it succumbed.
Damage control time. End the discussion and get out of there. She shuddered out a breath and wrapped her arms around herself. “So, I’ve left you cookies…that you’ll like, I hope. I’ve said loads of stupid things so now you know I’m strange but not a stranger…and…good.”
She had to get out of here. She walked toward the door, brushing by his shoulder as she did. Why did she have to be interested in a guy with no interest in her? Like, seriously, no interest. Whereas her skin felt on fire and tingly from the handshake earlier, and her arm was humming with energy from the slight contact.
She’d reached out for the doorknob when he spoke, “I lost them in a blast from an IED.”
Roxie halfway turned and looked at him. She wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand. He was throwing out information that he thought was an elephant in the room. She’d done that before. Maybe he figured she cared. She didn’t. She’d noticed his prosthetic legs of course. It would be ridiculous to act like she hadn’t. He was wearing shorts after all. She shrugged. “I think they look cool. Fast, I guess. That’s probably tacky or a stereotype or…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I should stop talking.” When she opened her eyes, it was to see a slight smile on his lips.
“I don’t mind you talking.”
“Yeah, but you don’t talk back.”
There was that considering head tilt again. “It didn’t seem like I needed to.”
Nice. She rolled her eyes. “That’s how conversation works.”
He nodded.
“I say something. Then you say something. Maybe I say more than you, but you still say something.” She waited. Anytime now, Berg. Dropping her arms from around her waist, she gestured at him.
“Something?”
<
br /> She grinned. “Smartass.”
He exhaled and appeared…relieved. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe it wasn’t every day a crazy woman came over and verbally puked all over him.
She pulled open the door. “Next time I come over here, you have to carry more of the conversation.” She stepped through, asking, “Bergman?” When he didn’t answer, she shut the door with a sigh.
Baby steps. It was a shame the strong silent type was so appealing.
Chapter Two
He’d taken off his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face when she dropped down next to him with a pizza box on her lap.
“It’s cheese. Just cheese. Well, extra cheese, but we only have their word that this is more than the normal amount of cheese. It could be a conspiracy that we all say ‘extra cheese’ and pay more, but then get the same amount of cheese as always.”
It’d been a week since they’d last spoken, but she started into the conversation like it’d only been yesterday.
“I figured if you’re a vegetarian—this is still safe, but putting on toppings was taking things too far and making assumptions. And I try not to make assumptions.”
He blinked, dazedly. They were having dinner together? He opened his mouth and closed it.
She cleared her throat. “When I saw you out here mowing our lawn…because it really is both our lawn, it’s the least I could do.”
He set his shirt beside him. Should he put it back on? There was nothing wrong with his chest, but maybe his lack of a shirt or the way he smelled would bother her…
Roxie opened up the pizza box and he inhaled. Mm. Maybe he didn’t need to complicate things. And if he started eating, it was a good excuse not to talk.
When he waited for her to grab the first piece, her face fell. “Oh, you don’t like pizza!”
“I do. I was just… Ladies first.”
She smiled widely. Finally. Finally, he’d said something right. It was a freaking miracle. She took a slice of pizza and waited until he had his own gooey piece before setting the box aside.
“You know, I didn’t own land at my last place,” she said after swallowing a single bite. She spread her arms out expansively. “It’s like this primitive pride thing, isn’t it? Like a holdout from the old days when you didn’t have anything if you didn’t have land. I feel like I should plant a flag and yell, ‘This is terra firma!’ I own land. Not that I own it really. I rent it, I guess. But there’s land to take care of.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Her dimples made an appearance. “I’m glad. Lawnmowers scare me. I’ve always been afraid that I’d do something wrong and run over a dog…or a rock and then the rock would shoot up and strike me in the head, knock me unconscious, and the lawnmower would run me over.”
He took another bite so he wouldn’t have to think of something to say to that.
“It’s a stupid fear. Ridiculous. Especially when I know it can’t happen that way. Probably. I’m actually pretty smart—though you might not have guessed that. I work downtown. I’m in human resources for an insurance company.”
“Where did you live before?” That was a safe question, right? He pointed at the pizza box and she handed it over to him so he could grab another slice. She’d only taken the one bite of her piece so he put the box on the other side of him, figuring he’d be needing another one sooner than her.
“Across town. I had to move.”
He waited for her to expound. She didn’t. It was almost disconcerting. He chewed quickly so he could ask, “Why?”
She let out a heartfelt sigh and stared off at where the sun was setting. “One of the managers I work with asked me out. He wasn’t supposed to. There are rules about that where I work. Because technically he’s over me.”
She didn’t go on. Why was she holding back on him now? The thought of her with another guy, even a faceless one, made him reconsider eating more pizza, no matter how good it tasted. “So, did you go out with him?”
Her nose wrinkled up. It was no wonder other guys thought she was cute, as she’d said. She was. It was part of why they didn’t make sense. They didn’t match. Not that she’d implied she wanted anything more from him. They hadn’t even spoken all week.
“No,” she said. There was a pause that he almost interrupted, but she was biting her lip and looked like she was working up to saying something. Roxie sighed. “And I tried to act all sad about it, saying that I was in HR so I knew about fraternization policies and, damn, because he seemed like such a nice guy and so on. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“So, instead you moved?” He ignored the lightened feeling in his chest that she hadn’t dated her coworker. Though, if she took that serious of an action after someone asked her out—there was no way he was going to take a chance.
“No, well, not at first. But he told me it would be our secret and he pushed and pushed. Finally, I told him I was dating someone. I said, ‘Look! I’m dating someone! We’re exclusive! And he’s a huge guy…and jealous!’” She gave Berg a look. “Because you always want to imply that you’re dating someone unstable in this scenario. Someone who could snap in a second and rip a coworker’s arms off.”
“But you weren’t dating someone?” he asked slowly. Had a woman ever used this with him? No. Definitely not. Unless Laura hadn’t met someone else around the time he lost his legs. In which case…yes. Hell. That was depressing.
“No. And if I was, it wouldn’t be someone who’d go all rabid and kill a coworker, but that’s how I made him sound. Then, weird things started happening with my email account and my computer. He manages IT, and I think he was getting into my computer and checking around, looking for something. Then, when I met friends a few times or went out grocery shopping, I swear a white car followed me from my place.”
“He was stalking you?” Rage flushed through him, and he clenched his fist on the step between them. His jaw tightened.
“No. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. I could just be paranoid—like I am with the lawnmower. I couldn’t exactly accuse him of getting into my computer when technically it’s the company’s laptop, even if I use it at home, and he has every right to be on the company’s network when I’m there.” She shook her head while gazing into the distance. “And I don’t even know if it was him in the car I saw a few times. It was a white car. It looked the same every time. Can you imagine? ‘Hello, police, I’d like to report that a white car may have been outside my apartment building and the grocery store at the same time as me.’ And my hair and my dimples don’t inspire confidence in my intelligence. Plus, when I’m nervous I tend to talk a lot, so I’d have told them my whole life story before they even asked what type of car it was—which I didn’t know.” She finally took a second bite of her pizza.
He had it bad when watching a woman chew food got him all hot and bothered. At least the cement step they were sitting on was cool. It was the smooth line of her jaw…and the dimples. They might not inspire confidence but they sure inspired something. Oo-rah. It’d be a cold shower for him after they’d finished this pizza.
“But I got a creepy feeling day after day whenever I’d go outside,” she said once she’d swallowed the second bite. “You know when you get all these prickles on the back of your neck, and you know you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
He knew that feeling. He hated that feeling. He got it right before his world exploded. He knew firsthand you trusted your intuition.
She rubbed her free hand along the back of her neck. “And my lease was up on my apartment. While I didn’t want to move—I mean, the books alone were a nightmare, I figured it was better than lying awake, staring at the ceiling, night after night. So, I packed up all my books and moved here.”
Right next to a guy who wanted to date her and was awake at night thinking of how she looked in those sundresses she favored. And it’s not like he was some great bargain.
“I haven’t changed the address in my employee file. Which is bad. I’m in
HR. I should change it.” Her eyes went wide. “I can’t believe I haven’t changed it.”
In the grand scheme of things, that was a small offense against the universe.
She took bite three of her pizza.
He finished his second slice and pulled out a third slice.
“Whenever I eat pizza, I have to drink root beer. It’s from when I was a kid. I can only eat peanut butter sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies with milk too. Otherwise it’s a crime against humanity. Do you want root beer?”
She stood up and her hemline was even with his eye line, making him clear his throat before he said, “Yeah. Sure,” in a croaky voice.
Eyes front, soldier. He even closed them when she stepped up onto their shared landing before going inside. Those sundresses were an obscure form of torture. They could use them at Gitmo and every prisoner would spill his guts just to see her sway her hips. Today’s was a paisley red number that looked like a farmer’s handkerchief. He’d wanted to use it to wipe his brow after mowing.
“I’m a bad, bad man,” he muttered.
He waited until she was back beside him, pressing a cold bottle into his hand before opening his eyes again.
“It might only be a matter of time before he finds out that I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “If it is him. Although I’m probably making this into a bigger deal than it is.” Her cheeks turned pink. “You probably think I have this huge ego.”
“No.”
She stared at him, biting her lip, making him realize he should say more.
“I think you have good instincts. Even if you’re…passive-aggressive.”
Nodding, she went back to eating that first slice of pizza.
“If he comes around, I can send him away,” Berg said.
It was the least he could do…as her neighbor…and her friend. They were friends. They’d shared a pizza now. He could get rid of this guy if he showed up. He’d have a talk with the moron first, of course. Hopefully, the bastard would give Berg an excuse to punch him. A real man took a rejection and walked away. Or he didn’t set himself up for a rejection and risk having to walk away.
