Rules of Negotiation

by Inara Scott

  “Third cabinet to the left for the beans. The grinder’s next to the sink.”

  She jumped at the sound of a voice and spun around. Long and lean, Brit stood behind her, his sculpted torso bare, a pair of striped cotton pajama bottoms covering his lower half.

  “Thanks. I’m useless until I get that first cup.” Play it cool, she warned herself. Remember, no emotions. No emotions…

  “Depends on how you define useless.” He wagged an eyebrow at her outfit. “You look like you’re ready to shoot some hoops. There’s big bucks in that, you know.”

  She allowed herself to laugh. Laughing wasn’t emotional, was it? “Hoops? I assume that means basketball?”

  He gave a long-suffering sigh. “I can see this is going to be a problem. I can accept that you never played any sports yourself, but didn’t you say you were engaged once? I assume that was to a man, right?”

  “I suppose you could call him that.”

  “Clearly, not man enough.”

  A wide smile broke across her face. “Phil was, well…he played a lot of golf.”

  Brit nodded sagely. “I knew it. Obviously, his leaving was for the best.”

  Talking about her ex-fiancé this way was highly enjoyable, but risked becoming emotional, so Tori decided to change the subject. “So, what about those pancakes you were talking about? Does a girl have to starve around here?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “No one is going to be doing any starving. Not on my watch. The flour is in the corner cabinet. You can be my sous chef.”

  “You actually use this kitchen?” Tori turned to open the cabinet and found a revolving lazy Susan filled with neat glass containers. She pulled out the one that said “FLOUR” and set it on the counter. “I thought maybe you had a full-time maid and cook.”

  “Why would you assume I’m helpless? Are you a sexist, Tori Anderson?”

  Brit opened a drawer in the wide, granite-topped island in the center of the room. He pulled out a stack of recipe cards and flipped through them. Setting one dog-eared index card on the counter, he threw the others back in the drawer, and closed it.

  “Yes, I am a sexist, but no, that’s not why I assumed you are helpless. Using my keen lawyer’s brain, I deduced that were you actually a functioning chef, there would at least one coffee stain on the coffeemaker, a scratch on the snowy-white sink, or a spot on the counter. Seeing none of those things, I assumed not much cooking gets done in here.”

  He hummed as he moved around the kitchen. Tori leaned against the counter and watched as he pulled buttermilk and an egg from the enormous Sub-Zero fridge. The muscles in his back flexed and rippled.

  “We will come back to your sexism in a moment. But in answer to your question, I have a very good cleaning service.”

  Tori wrinkled her nose. “Cleaning service, laundry service…you had someone come in here and organize your closet, too, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe. Does that bother you? I need the sugar, baking soda, salt, and baking powder, by the way.” He had pulled out a large mixing bowl and measuring cups from the cabinet under the island and began to scoop out the flour.

  “It’s a touch, well, sterile in here, don’t you think?”

  “Most women like it.”

  “Who’s being sexist now? Are you suggesting that women are shallow creatures who like your sterile apartment because it shows off how rich you are?” She found baking soda and powder and added them to the counter.

  “I said nothing of the sort. Unlike you, I am not a sexist. My sister, Melissa, organized this place for me. She said I wasn’t using my space very well. My brother Joe’s wife, Allison, did the decorating. The women I know seem to like things that are organized and decorated. And frankly, I spend my time in my office, unless I’m entertaining, so I don’t really care what the rest of the house looks like.”

  Great, now she had managed to insult both his sister and sister-in-law. Still, he looked more amused than annoyed. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t know your sisters had done the decorating. I happened to notice that your office is the only thing in this house that looks like you. That’s all.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I’m—how did you put it—sterile?”

  “I suppose tidy would be a better word.”

  A smile broke across his face. “You don’t think I’m tidy?”

  Tori spun the lazy Susan until she found the salt and set it down on the counter with a thump, suddenly annoyed with the conversation and her reaction to it. Brit was too damn charming and she was enjoying this banter far too much. She had to put a stop to it. “I have no idea if you’re tidy or not. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “So now I’m helpless and untidy. And this after one date.” He rustled through the contents of another drawer until he found measuring spoons.

  “Dinner,” she corrected him. “Sex. No dates. We’re not dating, remember?”

  It had become crucially important to remind herself of that fact. They were not dating.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “We are not dating.”

  “As long as we’re clear about that.” Tori cleared her throat, and turned around to retrieve the sugar. He could tease her all she wanted. She was getting out of this weekend with her sanity and dignity intact. Even if she had to die trying.

  …

  Brit carefully measured the ingredients and handed them back to Tori. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she put them away. When she reached up, the soft knit fabric of the shorts outlined her round bottom, and he felt a tug at his groin. He should be exhausted after that incredible night, but having her only seemed to make him want her more.

  When he first set out to convince Tori to give him Solen’s number, he never guessed how enjoyable that task would be. He had imagined a slightly unpleasant night of trying to create sympathy in the heart of a barracuda. Instead, he found a sexy, funny, tough-on-the-outside woman with a painfully obvious vulnerability underneath.

  Whoa there, cowboy. Keep talking like that and people will think you like her.

  Brit forced himself to shrug off the moment, as if the thought hadn’t hit him somewhere between the gut and the solar plexus.

  So what if I do like her? I like her breasts, her legs, her mouth…what’s wrong with that? Besides, she doesn’t want to date me any more than I want to date her.

  Strangely enough, her insistence on treating this like a one-night stand irritated him. What was wrong with dating him? He wasn’t malformed, old, or poor. He didn’t have a wart on the end of his nose or an unfortunate habit of burping at dinner. They had shared a night of mind-blowing sex. There were legions of women who would be ecstatic at the thought of dating Brit Bencher. What made her so special?

  He turned to the stove and prepared the griddle. He had put aside any thought of Melissa and Solen last night, but he couldn’t ignore his task forever. Today would be the day. He’d do it subtly, and cleverly. He’d get her to fall in love with Melissa. He’d get her to want to give him the phone number.

  Tori opened the cabinet with the coffee beans and threw some in the grinder. She pushed the button and filled the kitchen with noise, her face relishing the physical act of pulverizing the beans. Her mood had changed again. Was she pissed that he’d mentioned dating? Did she not like pancakes? It was hard to say, but he found it fascinating to watch the emotions flit across her face.

  When the crunch of the grinder turned to a softer whir, he took it gently from her hands. “I think they’re done. Why don’t you let me handle this? You can get the newspaper. It should be at the front door by now.”

  Without a word, she marched out of the kitchen and over to the front door. After playing for a moment with the locks, she opened the door and retrieved the Wall Street Journal. She stalked back over to the dining room table and buried her face in the newsprint.

  After starting the coffee, Brit turned to the griddle, glancing back at Tori every few seconds. It seemed risky, given her current moo
d, but if he was going to win her sympathy, he needed to start laying it on.

  He decided to begin by talking about the kids. Women loved kids. She’d never notice when he turned to Melissa.

  “My nephew Luke will be thrilled to have another spectator at his game. He’s always complaining that no one comes to watch him.”

  “Is that right?” Tori did not lower the paper.

  He stopped in the midst of picking up the pancake bowl, nonplussed by her chilly reaction. “Yes.” There was a long pause. He wondered how to move the conversation forward. “Luke’s nine,” he finally threw out.

  “That’s nice.”

  He stared at the back of her head. She turned the page, folding the newspaper into neat thirds so it was easier to read.

  “He’s got a brother, Matt, and a baby sister, Julia. And then there’s Delia, my brother Joe’s kid. She’s a handful, but so cute you can’t bring yourself to get mad at her.”

  “They sound sweet. Is that coffee ready yet?”

  Brit started getting annoyed. What kind of woman didn’t start ooh-ing and aah-ing over a man’s nieces and nephews? Wasn’t that like the Holy Grail of dating? Despite all her assurances that she didn’t want a relationship, surely she couldn’t resist the chance to meet his family.

  “No, it’s not.” Succumbing to his growing frustration, Brit started looking for a way to goad her into a reaction. “Luke’s a bit of a bookworm, but generally a good kid. Not much of a ballplayer, but he’ll learn. As long as we can keep his nose in the game and out of his books this summer.”

  “What’s wrong with being a bookworm?” She dropped the paper and glared at him. “You have a problem with reading?”

  Bingo.

  “No, no problem,” he said, pouring out four perfect dollar-sized pancakes. “But not over the summer. Kids are supposed to play sports over the summer, not read.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like sports. Maybe you should let him read.” Her chin thrust forward.

  “Everyone knows too much reading isn’t good for a kid. Stunts their growth.”

  “Why that’s the stupidest—” Her face started to go red, then abruptly she let out a long breath. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “Good heavens, no,” he said with a straight face. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “Hmph.” She picked up the paper and buried her face behind it.

  Brit flipped four golden pancakes, waited for the coffee to finish brewing, and then grabbed plates and cups. He poured a cup of coffee and brought it to Tori. “Sugar and cream?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure? It might improve your mood.”

  She scowled at him. “Your stock closed down a buck yesterday.”

  He shrugged. “Markets move. Anything else interesting going on in the world? What are Jennifer and Brad up to these days?”

  “I hardly think they cover that in the Wall Street Journal. Besides, it’s been Brad and Angelina for years. They have like eight kids. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Drink your coffee,” he advised. “I’ll bring you the sugar.”

  Gathering the first batch of pancakes in one hand, and maple syrup, a sugar bowl, and two forks in another, he returned to the table. He set the plate in front of her with a flourish. Her eyes widened when she saw the pancakes.

  “My God, these look amazing.” Without even waiting for him to unload his arms, she popped one into her mouth. “Ahhh.” She leaned back in the chair. “Now that’s a pancake. Smooth and light, the tangy finish of the buttermilk.” She took a sip of her coffee. “And a dark roast to go with them.” A smile of contentment broke across her lips.

  “So that’s it,” Brit said, setting down the syrup, forks, and sugar.

  “What?” She picked up another pancake and ate it before he could respond.

  “You’re like the polar bear at the zoo. You get grumpy with your handler when you’re hungry. I’ll remember that.”

  She poured maple syrup over the pancakes, cut one in half with the fork, and ate it in a single bite. “Honey, with pancakes like these, you can handle me any day.”

  “Now that’s more like it.” He leaned forward to lick a drop of syrup from her lips. “Mmm. Tastes good.”

  “Don’t you have more pancakes to cook?” She gave him a suspicious eye.

  He snapped back to his full height, and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” She was moodier than a three-year-old on a sugar high, but for some reason he found himself enjoying it. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had been so grumpy with him—or the last time he’d made someone pancakes. The women he dated were more of the “coffee and cigarettes for breakfast” type.

  He cooked the rest of the pancakes while she read the paper. He watched her methodical progress—first the business section, then the front page, then the national news. He joined her as she was leaning back in her chair, her hands splayed on her stomach.

  “How’s the polar bear now?” he teased. “I’m not going to lose an eye if I get too close, am I?”

  She closed her eyes. “Probably not. Those cakes were damn good.”

  “Thank goodness. Luke won’t be happy if his uncle has to come to the game with only one eye. What if I miss the one fly ball to right field he’s ever caught?”

  “Is he really that bad?”

  He drenched his pancakes with syrup and tucked in. “No. But in comparison with Matt, it can feel that way.”

  “How old is Matt?”

  Brit forced himself not to react to her first show of interest in the family. “Seven.”

  “Poor kids.” When he looked at her quizzically, she said, “I mean, your brother mentioned at dinner the other night that he shares custody with his ex. It’s tough to go through a divorce when you’re that young.”

  “Ross and his wife got married out of high school. They were too young, never really got a chance to find themselves before they started having babies. They’re both much happier now.”

  Tori nodded, but looked unconvinced.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. Forget it.”

  “No, what? You have something against divorce?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound critical of your brother, but I know how hard it is on kids.”

  “Did your parents divorce?” he asked, realizing this was the first time she’d voluntarily shared something about herself with him.

  “My dad took off when I was eight. My mom never really recovered. I spent a lot of time blaming myself for him leaving, and then blaming her for scaring him away.” Her voice drifted off, and a look of panic crossed her face, as if she had said something she shouldn’t. She cleared her throat and made an obvious attempt to change the subject. “So what’s Delia like?”

  Reluctantly, he let her have her way, feeling as though he’d had his first glimpse into what made Tori the driven, ambitious person that she was. “Delia turned three a few weeks ago, but you’d think she was thirteen, considering the way she has everyone wrapped around her finger. She’s a competitive bugger, too. She reminds me of Melissa, actually.”

  “Melissa’s your sister, right?” She leaned forward in her chair.

  Nice segue, Brit, he thought smugly. “That’s right. I forgot I had mentioned her. She went to MIT and majored in computer science, then went right on to a master’s degree. She’s always been one of the only women in her classes, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She shrugs it off and keeps right on going.”

  “She must be tough,” Tori said, nodding approvingly.

  “Yes, but I worry about her. She’s so independent, she refuses to let me get involved, but she’s been such a mess since—” Brit cautioned himself not to look Tori directly in the eye as he dropped the hook into the water.

  “Since she broke up with her boyfriend?”

  A bite!

  “Well, I’m not sure I should talk about it. She’s fairly private about these sorts of t
hings.”

  “Oh, of course.” Tori stood up and brought her plate and cup into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to pry. I should probably take a shower. What time is the game?”

  Damn it. “We’ve got plenty of time. Have another cup of coffee.” As Tori poured, Brit continued, “The thing is, he cheated on her. With her best friend.”

  Tori spun around, her mouth dropping open. “Why, that’s horrible! The bastard.”

  Brit did not need to fake his frustration. “Oh, he’s a bastard all right. And I promise you, if he ever steps foot in this state, there will be hell to pay. But there’s nothing I’ve been able to do for her. She’s so depressed.”

  “My mom was like that,” Tori said. “After my dad left. It took her months to pull herself back together.”

  Brit barely heard her words, as success loomed within his reach.

  Bring it home, Brit!

  “She spends all day wandering around, looking miserable,” he pressed. “Half the time she won’t even leave her apartment. I’ve tried everything to get her out of the house, but nothing seems to work. I think maybe if she got a job, she might be able to shake it.”

  Tori bit her lip. “You know, depression isn’t necessarily something you can fix for someone else, Brit. Of course you want to get her help if she needs it, but she may not need you to intervene right now. She might need some time to work through it on her own.”

  Brit paused, momentarily distracted by her quiet words. Before any doubt could overcome him, he shook her voice from his head. He was going to help Melissa, and he was going to do it with Solen’s number.

  He stood and joined Tori by the sink, sliding his finger over the crease of her mouth before replacing it with his own lips.

  “We’ve got half an hour,” he breathed. “Let’s forget all about my family and see if my polar bear still has her claws.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The game started at eleven, so the sun was already hot overhead by the time Tori and Brit arrived at the ball field. The baseball diamond sat at one end of a neighborhood park in Brooklyn, near where Brit’s brother Ross lived. Old oak trees ringed the park, casting cool shadows over a multicolored play structure, metal slide, and long row of swings. The grass was a thick emerald green, and neat rows of petunias and pansies decorated a flower bed at the entrance to the park. The air was humid, and even though the temperature wasn’t much above seventy, Tori felt the prickle of sweat around her hairline as soon as they left the car.