“No?”
“I’ve had a great time with you this week, Benji. And after a while, I think it seemed a little too great. And I’m not used to that.”
Benji grew very still as she spoke.
“And I’m not sure why that made me so jumpy. Maybe it’s just how I am, or maybe it’s because I watched what I thought was a good thing between my parents fall apart.” Or maybe she just needed extensive therapy, she thought, feeling woefully inept as she struggled to explain something she didn’t fully understand herself. “Either way, I have a history of not letting men get too close. I’ve never had any trouble telling a guy goodbye, but it turns out I have a hard time inviting one to stick around. The thing is…“
“Yes?” he prompted her when she trailed off, and he seemed intensely interested in her response.
She made herself look him in the eye again. “You’ve made me rethink my position on that particular subject.”
He stared at her for a minute before speaking. “Your position,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“Just to be clear—because I’ve misinterpreted before—are you talking about your position on me or on men in general?”
“You.”
“I see.”
His expression was impossible to read, and her pulse sped up a little more as she began to wonder if she’d misread signals from him. “Well—that is, if you’re interested in—”
“Nadia?”
She faltered. “Yes?”
He cocked his head at her almost quizzically. “I let you rearrange my closet and take me salsa dancing. Does that tell you anything?”
“Oh,” she said, feeling noticeably better. “Well, I told you I wasn’t such an expert on the opposite sex after all.”
“I don’t know about that.” Benji cleared his throat. “I think you might be selling yourself a little short. You’re still my go-to source for dating expertise. In fact, I could really use some guidance in a very particular social matter.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nadia blinked, taken aback by his request. “You want dating advice? Now?”
“Absolutely now.” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and leaned casually back against one wall, his eyes never leaving her. “Hypothetically speaking, suppose a guy happened to be crazy about a particular woman, but it turns out she’s a little on the skittish side, and he doesn’t want to scare her off—”
“Skittish?”
“Yes.” He gave her a pointed look before continuing. “Say this guy finally gets this woman alone outside a party—”
“This woman he’s crazy about? Just so we’re clear.”
“Yes, her. Say he’s thinking this might be an exceptionally good time to kiss this woman, which he’s wanted to do since he first met her, actually. What would be the best way for this man to go about achieving the desired result in this situation? In your expert opinion.”
“Hypothetically speaking?”
“Hypothetically speaking, yes.”
“Well,” Nadia suggested, leaning back against the wall across from him and feeling her pulse speed up. “I’d recommend he be very direct.”
“Direct,” Benji repeated, straightening and crossing the short distance between them slowly and very deliberately. He stopped right in front of her. “Got it.”
“But no sudden movements, you know. If she’s skittish. No woman likes to be lunged at.”
“Take it slow, then?” he asked, resting one hand on the wall behind her and looking into her eyes from mere inches away.
“For starters,” she said. The things he was doing to her insides with just a look…
“And how will he know when to make his move?”
“Oh, she’ll let him know.”
“Really? How will she do—”
Nadia cut him off with a kiss, curling her fingers into his hair and pulling him close as he wrapped his arms around her in return. Strong lips, she thought, feeling increasingly lightheaded. Very strong lips. Benji Garner was just full of all sorts of wonderful surprises.
“Do all accountants kiss like this?” she said against his mouth finally, hearing the breathlessness in her voice and delighted by it.
“I don’t know,” he murmured back. “I haven’t kissed any. But if you’re really curious to find out, there’s a whole roomful of them over there.”
She started to laugh, and then he found her lips again and laughter was forgotten.
They might have remained that way indefinitely, but a few minutes later someone cleared his throat, and Benji and Nadia broke apart to see a white-haired gentleman in a terribly expensive suit eyeing them from the doorway he was just about to enter to get to the party.
“Mr. MacGready,” Benji greeted him quickly, sputtering slightly and turning red. “Great party, sir.”
“Apparently so,” the older man returned, and despite his dour demeanor, there was a twinkle in his eye. “You do realize it won’t be midnight for another two hours, don’t you, Mr. Garner?”
Nadia wrapped her arms around Benji’s neck again and grinned at the older man. “We’re practicing.”
“I see. Carry on, then.” And the man disappeared back into the party with the sound of chuckling.
Benji made a choking sound and sighed.
“Your boss?” Nadia asked him.
“Yes.”
“He likes me.”
“So do I,” said Benji, turning his attention back to her. “Where were we again?”
Nadia showed him.
Epilogue
“Careful, you don’t want to overmix the dough,” Nadia cautioned Benji, retrieving a pair of cookie sheets from one of her kitchen cupboards and then returning to his side. “Just gently fold in the chocolate chips. Like this, see?”
She took the large wooden spoon from him and slipped in between him and the mixing bowl to demonstrate. It was a move that left Benji in a perfect position for wrapping his arms around Nadia’s waist, which he immediately did. He also brushed her hair aside so he could trail his lips down the side of her neck.
“You’re not paying attention,” Nadia said, not really minding at all.
He continued on with what he was doing. “Sorry. Much more pressing matters to deal with here.”
“Hey, you’re the one who thought it would be nice to give Mrs. B cookies as a thank-you for her meddling. Shouldn’t you be participating a little?”
“I intend to participate a lot.”
Nadia turned around. “I meant with the baking.”
“Oh.”
She slid her arms around his neck. “Did you ever have any intention of making cookies with me today, or was it all just a ruse to get into my apartment and practice the art of seduction, cookie-style?”
Benji sighed and hung his head. “She’s on to me.”
“Not yet, I’m not, honey.” She gave him a sly sideways glance. “But if you play your cards right, I might be.”
He blinked, and then they both forgot the cookies for a moment when she kissed him again, and he pressed her up against the refrigerator.
A few minutes later, they came up for air, and Nadia remembered the bowl of dough sitting out on the counter. “There are raw eggs in that dough.”
He nodded and kissed her again.
“If we’re going to get those cookies in the oven,” she said against his mouth, “we should probably do it soon—”
“Uh huh,” he agreed, not pausing for a moment in what he was doing.
And a few more minutes later, Nadia said, “You know, she likes flowers, too. Maybe we should just send her some flowers.”
“Flowers it is,” said Benji, and then Nadia started to laugh as they slowly slid down the refrigerator door and to the floor…
The End
Playing Cupid
Chapter One
Aimee Beasley held the door open to their apartment building’s lobby for her beloved and bespectacled Gram as the older woman listed the many wonderful qualities poss
essed by her pharmacist, starting with his full head of hair and ending with his detailed knowledge of the common side effects of every medication known to humankind. It was a surprisingly long list, so either Gram had spent a great deal of time compiling it, or she had simply made half of it up. Either way, her dedication to her cause was admirable.
“So?” said Gram, expectant and finally pausing to draw breath as she peered at her granddaughter through tortoiseshell glasses that seemed to dwarf her face.
Aimee shook her head.
“But he’s such a nice young man—” her grandmother protested.
“Nope.”
“I’m sure the two of you would have a lovely time getting to know each other.”
“Nope.” This was becoming an all too familiar conversation between them, and it was usually sparked by whatever “suitable” prospect had happened to catch Aimee’s matchmaking grandmother’s eye most recently. Today, of course, it had been her pharmacist, a man who Aimee was quite sure had as little interest in dating her as she did in going out with him.
Gram held a quivering hand to her heart and sighed dramatically.
“Nice try, Gram,” Aimee said patiently, unperturbed and shifting the bag of groceries she carried to one hand so she could dig in her pocket for her keys with the other. “You know that won’t work on me.”
The older woman scowled, but the quiver in her hand abruptly disappeared. “I don’t know why you insist upon turning down every young man I find for you. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an open mind about this sort of thing, Aimee.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to pimp me out.” Aimee finally found her keys and pulled them out to shove the right one into their mailbox. Pulling out the handful of envelopes and flyers inside, she closed it again and led the way to the elevator.
“But, dear, my pharmacist is really very charming.”
“Then you go out with him.”
Gram frowned at Aimee again and took the mail from her so Aimee could better balance the groceries. “He’s barely thirty.”
Aimee let out a wolf whistle. “My Gram, the cougar!”
“The what?”
The elevator opened, and both women stepped inside. “It’s an older woman who likes to play with young boy-toys, Gram. But if you do decide to bring your pharmacist home with you one day, do me a favor and put a sock on the door or something so I know not to go barging in, okay?”
“Young lady—” Gram began, sputtering at her granddaughter as the elevator carried them up to the fourth floor.
Aimee gave her a cheeky grin.
The older woman’s eyes narrowed, and she recovered her composure. “Don’t think I’ll give up that easily. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands and little else to do besides think about these kinds of things, you know.”
“Bring it, lady,” Aimee returned, and then planted an affectionate kiss on top of the other woman’s headful of white curls as the elevator doors opened. “So, turkey or tuna today?” she asked as they reached their apartment door, and she juggled keys and groceries again.
“Tuna.”
“Melt or mayo?”
“Melt, I think,” Gram decided, following Aimee into the apartment. “With the cheddar, if you don’t mind.”
“Cheddar it is. Give me five minutes to put this stuff away, and I’ll fix it.”
“Oh, dear…”
“Okay, three minutes.” Aimee pulled open the refrigerator door and began stuffing groceries inside. “Are you really that hungry?”
“What? Oh no, it’s not that.” Gram waved an envelope. “It appears we’ve gotten another piece of Mr. Berkley’s mail mixed in with ours again. Fifth time this month, I think.”
Aimee twitched at the sound of his name. Actually, it was the sixth time this month. Not all that shocking considering D. Berkley lived in apartment three-twelve and D. Beasley lived in four-twelve, but it was unfortunate all the same, because each time it meant Aimee had to go downstairs, knock on Doyle Berkley’s door, and then—she grimaced—speak to the man. Judging by the expression on his face every time he opened the door and saw her standing there, he enjoyed these little mail exchanges about as much as she did.
But this particular piece of mail didn’t look all that thick. Maybe she could shove it under the door and make a break for it. Sort of like pulling the pin from a grenade and then running.
“Dear, would you mind…?” Gram held the letter out to her.
“Sure, Gram,” Aimee agreed, forcing a smile as she took it and turned to go.
“Wait—here, take some scones,” her grandma said, hastily reaching into the grocery bag for the pastries they’d picked up at the bakery minutes earlier and arranging some on a small plate. “It’s the polite thing to do when calling on a neighbor.”
So much for shoving the mail under the door. “I’m not ‘calling’ on him—”
“Manners, Aimee. You can’t go empty-handed.”
“I’m not empty-handed. I’ve got his mail.”
But her grandma thrust the plate of scones at her anyway. “Good neighbors are hard to come by, and Mr. Berkley is a good neighbor.”
Aimee snorted.
“He is! He’s been very helpful to me in the past. I don’t know why you dislike him so.”
“Because he walks around like he’s got a stick up his—”
“Aimee Elizabeth Beasley!”
“I was going to say backside,” Aimee returned piously.
“No, you were not.”
No, she wasn’t, but all Aimee said in response was, “Be back in a minute,” and then she slipped back out the door.
* * *
The third floor was virtually identical to the fourth, and both showed their age. The pinstripe wallpaper must have been an update from whatever had covered the walls originally, but it was well-faded now itself, and the plain brown carpet in the hallways was worn so thin that it hardly looked like carpet anymore. No, the Belmont was not exactly the most cutting edge when it came to apartment complexes, although it might have been fifty years ago when it was first built. It was, however, the place where Ms. Delia Beasley had lived quite happily for the past three decades, and she had made it quite clear that she had no intention of moving.
Naturally, her son—Aimee’s father—was less than thrilled about his elderly and widowed mother living on her own, and the difference of opinion had caused no small amount of tension between the two. Tensions had continued to rise until one day Aimee had taken matters into her own hands and simply suggested she move in with her grandmother, split the expenses down the middle, and voilà—everybody’s problems had been solved.
Well, except for the mail delivery, she thought as she approached apartment three-twelve.
Aimee raised her hand that held the envelope in order to rap on the door, and then the plate of scones wobbled in her other hand. Reacting on impulse, she shoved the piece of mail between her teeth so she could rescue falling scones and grab the plate with both hands—which was, of course, precisely the moment when Doyle opened his front door.
Doyle Berkley always seemed to have an aura of grimness about him, and today was no exception. True, he lightened up somewhat when speaking with Gram if they happened to pass each other in the lobby, but even then Aimee didn’t think she could exactly call him cheerful. Only less grim. Dark hair and shadows under his eyes did nothing to combat the somberness of his overall aspect, and he gave the impression of a man who did not care much for the company of others.
Likely as not it came from spending all his time with history books instead of living, breathing people. Memorizing dates and details about wars throughout the centuries—and then forcing university students to regurgitate them—couldn’t be healthy for anyone. Which was probably why Aimee had flunked history in high school; it was on principle.
They stared at each other for a moment, Doyle’s grey eyes cool as they narrowed and took in the young woman standing on his doorstep with the envelope be
tween her teeth.
“We got some more of your mail,” Aimee said matter-of-factly around the edges of the item in question, the words slightly garbled because of the obstruction.
“So I see,” Doyle returned, reaching for the envelope and eyeing the faint teeth marks on it with obvious displeasure. “And you decided to eat it?”
“In my defense,” said Aimee. “It is lunchtime.”
She got no response, not even a twitch of an eyelid.
Had this guy ever been fun? He couldn’t be past his mid-thirties, and yet more often than not it seemed like he was channeling his inner curmudgeon. “Oh, come on. Lighten up. It wouldn’t kill you, would it?”
He said nothing, but she could have sworn his eyes narrowed even further, if that was possible.
“Brr. Did you feel that?” She made an exaggerated shiver. “I think the temperature in this hallway just dropped by about thirty degrees. Happens every time I come by here. How do you do that?”
“Thank you for my mail. Are we done here?”
“Almost.” Aimee thrust the plate of scones at him. “These are from Gram. She insisted.”
For a moment she thought his cool exterior thawed. “Please thank her for me.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“Okay, now we’re done here.”
Without another word, Doyle closed his door, leaving Aimee alone in the hallway.
“Ah, there we go,” Aimee said aloud as she turned to go. “Warmer in here already.”
Chapter Two
“Gram’s at it again,” Aimee said the next day as she leaned behind the counter in the Heavenly Bites Bakery.
Trish Ackerly, one of the bakery’s co-owners, emerged from the kitchen with a tray of raspberry tarts in her hands. “At what?”
The Heavenly Bites Novella Collection Page 14
