“I’ll be back first thing Saturday morning,” he said. “Eight. We’ve got a lot to do.”
“Eight is great.” She’d survive getting up that early again, probably.
“Great.”
They went to the door, he handed her the glass again, and they lingered there for a few extra seconds before he was gone.
I should’ve thanked him more, she thought as she locked the door and turned the shiny new dead bolt.
Later, when she was curling up under her pastel comforter, she swore she’d make it up to him on Saturday. Somehow.
Chapter 10
Having arrived in front of the house almost fifteen minutes early, Ian parked his pickup across the street and waited, staring at the deceptively tidy front yard while he thought about the way Billie was in high school.
Growing up, he’d never really noticed her, primarily because she was a few years younger, and he’d seemed to have more in common with Jane. But then, one night, when he’d been making out with Jane on the Garcia’s front step, Billie had waved at them through the window and flickered the porch light on and off, laughing.
He should’ve been annoyed, but it had made him laugh. He’d decided then that he liked her. And he still did.
Breaking up with Jane had meant not seeing Billie much over the next few years. He stayed at MIT, with summer internships in New York, and only came home for quick visits. From his mother, he heard about Billie’s extended journey through community college. He heard about her classes in psychology and art because Sandra was worried they wouldn’t lead to a lucrative career. But now, although she never had finished school, and working for a small city’s building department wasn’t making her millions, Billie seemed happy. Her boss sounded like a jerk, and she didn’t like her job, but she insisted she didn’t care. All in all, Billie was a happy person. Being happy was her default condition, and he admired—and envied—her emotional resilience.
And, of course, he’d always thought she was cute. Maybe more than cute.
He frowned at himself in the rearview mirror.
Don’t go there.
Billie was absolutely, totally off limits. Dating Jane had done enough damage. Over the past ten years, with their mothers so close, family events had frequently forced him and Jane together. By unspoken agreement, they’d avoided each other as best they could, never fighting but never making small talk, either. Being quiet was typical for him, but not for her, and her sisters teased her about it.
Nobody, other than the two of them, knew why they’d broken up. He’d wondered once if Billie suspected, but a few tentative, off-base remarks over the past few years showed she had no idea.
Thank God for small favors.
Because Jane had always seemed more upset about the breakup than he had, everyone assumed it had been his fault. And they were right. But it had been unpleasant for him, too. In fact—and he’d rather stick metal splinters under his fingernails than admit it—he’d had recurring nightmares about their last moments together.
Therefore, every time he ran into Jane, he enthusiastically renewed his vow to stay far, far away from any woman who was already well-known to his family, friends, or colleagues. Because when things ended, and they always ended, he’d never be able to really, completely break free. As it did with Jane, events would keep bringing them together, often at the worst of times: holidays, weddings, birthdays. His family was the one place he could relax and be himself, not the hot-shit financial guy, just a guy. When Jane was around, it was less relaxing and he could be less himself. If he messed around with Billie, too… her sister… he’d never be able to go home again.
He could imagine what the sisters’ family would say about him. They’d probably lock up the two younger half sisters, Holly and Rachel, whenever he came by. At the very least, it would become a running joke.
So then, why had he let himself become friends with Billie? He did wonder sometimes if it was worth putting up with the suspicious look his mother already inflicted on him whenever he and Billie drove up together.
But then he’d remember the day he told Billie that he’d quit his corporate job and given away his multi-thousand-dollar suits. And unlike everyone else, even his usually supportive mother, she immediately declared it was a great idea. In spite of all evidence to the contrary. It was long before he’d proven he could start his own firm, long before his own business was off the ground.
She’d sent him flowers. The cheapest, smallest ones the florist had probably had, and he didn’t even like flowers, but he’d known that whatever they’d cost was more than she could afford. And there was a foil balloon that declared “CongraDulations, Graduate!” Which was exactly how he’d seen it; not an ending, but a beginning.
He’d appreciated the gesture more than he could say.
Which was nothing new; he wasn’t good at expressing himself.
Except with actions. Hauling out clutter and updating an old bungalow—this was how he could show his gratitude for their friendship.
He continued to gaze at the house, remembering the weekend before when they’d torn the curtains off the wall. The fresh sunlight pouring in had highlighted the golden flecks in Billie’s big, warm brown eyes. He’d forgotten to breathe for a second.
He rubbed his thighs. Maybe his motives weren’t entirely about gratitude and friendship.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
A knock on the passenger-side window made him jump. Turning his head, he saw Lorna waving at him through the glass, saying something he couldn’t hear.
He rolled the window down. “Morning,” he said, noticing she had two guys with her, both young and strong-looking. He’d offered to pay for some muscle, and she’d found some that was going to suit everyone perfectly. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you were having second thoughts,” she said.
“Second thoughts about what?”
She smirked. “Nothing.”
“Just waiting for you to get here.” He rolled up the window, got out, and walked around the back to greet the heavily inked guys in their early twenties. “I’m Ian.”
“Shawn and Marco,” Lorna said, waving at them but not specifying who was who. She had the same inconvenient habit when she brought people into his office.
“I’m Shawn.” The guy adjusted his glasses, then held out his hand. Ian shook it, trying not to cry out in pain when he squeezed it. The man had a grip. That would be useful.
He’d have to remember not to shake his hand again.
“Marco,” the other guy said. “But you don’t need to be a genius to figure that out.”
Ian met Lorna’s gaze for a second, guessing she’d exaggerated his qualities to them before bringing them over. Still smarting from Shawn’s greeting, Ian only gave Marco a wave and a friendly nod. “Hi. Great. Glad you’re here.”
Lorna rolled her eyes. “Enough with the small talk. Which house is it?”
Ian handed everyone a bag from the back of his truck and led them across the street to Billie’s front door. As he knocked, he unzipped one of the bags and pulled out gloves. “Everyone has to wear these. And a mask. It’s good you’re already wearing long sleeves. Keep them rolled down. Broken glass and cats are a bad combination. Don’t want anyone losing an arm because they got an infection.”
“Damn, Ian. How bad is this place?” Lorna asked.
“There’s no precise way to answer that question,” Ian said just as the door swung open to show Billie in her underwear. Or a guy’s underwear—a pair of green-striped boxer shorts hugged her round thighs, and a white sleeveless undershirt strained to cover a chest it hadn’t been designed to cover.
Ian began to sweat all over.
“Crap,” Billie said, squinting at them. Messy curls covered one eye. “Is it morning already?”
Perhaps it was the chilly morning breeze, perhaps it was the sight of two tatted-up dudes leering at her, but Billie’s nipples visibly hardened beneath the thin, stretchy undershirt.
Ian stopped breathing. Just like he had last week.
“Nice outfit,” Lorna said.
Eyes widening, Billie crossed her arms over her chest and bent over slightly, as if the slight change in height was going to hide any part of her they hadn’t already seen. All it did was give them a better view of her cleavage. “Sorry. Sleeping.” She held up a finger. “One second.” The door slammed in their faces.
“Keep it in your pants, boys,” Lorna said. “Ian has dibs.”
“Nice,” said a low voice behind Ian.
“There are no dibs,” Ian growled.
“Excellent,” said the other guy.
Ian turned and leveled a hard stare at each one of them. “But you will definitely be keeping it in your pants anyway,” he said.
They both threw up their hands, grinning as they nodded.
Ian turned his back on them to glare at the door, but all he could see was nipples. For the rest of his life he’d be remembering those nipples. When he was meeting with clients, crawling through traffic, getting his teeth cleaned, dying of old age—the nipples would be there.
“Dibs,” Lorna mumbled.
He couldn’t remember ever being so angry. He didn’t usually get angry. But at that moment he wanted to break something. And then fix it and break it again. For everything he was doing for her, the least she could do was wake up and put on some clothes that covered her nipples. That was all he asked. She didn’t even have to work. She could curl up with a gallon of tea and catch up on the latest news about Lady Di in her grandmother’s vintage periodicals, and he wouldn’t be the least bit angry.
But coming to the door half-naked?
Nipples. Damn it.
The door swung open a second time. “I am so, so sorry,” Billie said. “Thank you so much for coming.” Now in an oversized hoodie and dark jeans, she stepped back and gestured them inside. Lorna went in, then Shawn and Marco. Ian hung back, struggling to regain his calm. Just another few deep breaths and he’d be fine.
Billie was frowning at him. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
Chapter 11
Billie didn’t even recognize his anger. When had she ever seen him angry? Nobody did. He wasn’t that type of guy.
He didn’t even have emotions, according to some people.
He drew in another breath. “I’m fine.” He thrust his bag at her. “I brought gloves.”
“You’re angry,” Billie said wonderingly.
“If you don’t wear the gloves, I’m leaving,” he said. “It’s for your own safety.”
“Oh my God, Ian. I am so, so sorry.” She reached into the bag, pulled out a glove, and shoved her hand into it. “I’ll wear whatever you say.”
Don’t wear anything, he thought, which only made him angry again. Without meeting her eyes, he strode past her to join the others, who had gathered in the kitchen.
Billie was right on his heels. “Help yourself to the bagels. There’s coffee in the pot and I’ve got every kind of tea you’d ever want, so just ask.”
Lorna poured herself coffee and stuck a whole bagel in her mouth. “What do you want us to do first?” she asked, her voice distorted by the bagel.
Pouncing at the opportunity to clear his head, Ian slapped his hands on both men’s shoulders. “These guys will help me clear the front room. I’ve got a plan.”
And it didn’t involve nipples.
Hours later, Billie found Ian in the living room, removing the last of the curtains with a crowbar. Bright midday sun blasted through the newly exposed panoramic windows like a supernova. Shawn and Marco had gone out for burgers, and Lorna had gone home with asthma. It was a good time for Billie to apologize to Ian again. She carried a glass of ice water with a slice of fresh lemon from the garden. She’d had to hack through the weeds in the side yard to reach the tree, tearing her jeans on an overgrown blackberry bramble, but it was worth it if it helped her clear the air with her old friend.
“Have you forgiven me yet?” she asked. He’d been hauling boxes and trash, and directing Marco and Shawn to do the same, for over four hours. She’d been trying to keep up, but she’d never been very athletic. She was definitely in the comfort-not-speed-or-brute-strength category. Thus the lemon. Slicing small citrus fruits was right up her alley.
“Nothing to forgive.” Ian took the glass, lifted it in salute, then brought it to his lips. As he swallowed, the muscles of his throat flexed, his skin glistened, and Billie realized she hadn’t brought nearly a big enough glass. Exhaling, he rubbed the cold glass against his forehead and moaned orgasmically.
That was a little too much for Billie, who looked down to escape the sight of his pleasure-face, only to notice the way his gray T-shirt was hitched up on his damp abdomen, exposing a trail of dark hair diving under the waistband of his red underwear.
Red? She may have leaned a little closer to make sure. She’d imagined white. Heather gray at the most. “I’ll get you more,” she said, forcing her eyes back up as she reached for the glass.
He held it against his chest. “No. I’m fine.”
“You drained it in two seconds.” She tried to pull it out of his fingers. “It’s the least I can do. Let me make it up to you.”
Because his grip was vice-like—shouldn’t he be tired by now?—the glass stayed where it was. “You don’t have to make anything up to me,” he said.
“I overslept and embarrassed you.” That was the explanation she’d settled on for why he’d seemed so annoyed that morning. God, she knew she’d been embarrassed (or was when she woke up enough) to realize that she’d answered the door in a flimsy tank and shorty shorts, headlights flashing, thunder thighs thundering, looking hungover or just laid. Which was totally unfair, since she’d been up past three cleaning and sorting, preparing for their arrival. Sure, she’d had a few drinks, but alcohol was a disinfectant. She needed all the germ fighters she could get.
He fished one of the lemon slices out of the glass and sucked on it for a moment. His oh-so-blue eyes stared at her over his hand. “You didn’t embarrass me.”
“Oh, come on. Shawn and Marco?” she asked, cringing as she remembered. “Their eyes nearly fell out of their heads. What kind of friend answers the door like that?”
He drew the lemon slice away from his lips, regarded it for a moment before sucking it one last time, then dropped it in the glass. His eyes returned to hers. “A girlfriend might.”
She shivered involuntarily. If he were any other guy, she might’ve thought he was flirting. But Ian didn’t do innuendo. He was too literal, too black and white. Just stating the facts. “Ah. Of course. Shawn and Marco probably would think we’re more than friends since you’re helping me with this huge monster project. Didn’t you explain it to them?”
Not answering, Ian tipped the glass back and sipped the last drops of liquid. His black hair fell back from his forehead, showing off the strong line of his jaw. When he turned away, she heard ice crunching between his teeth. Then he walked out of the room.
Feeling suddenly overheated, Billie stepped out of the beam of sunlight and wiped sweat off her forehead, staring at the empty doorway where he’d exited. She took a cooling breath before following him.
He was in the kitchen, pouring himself another glass of water from the pitcher, looking out the window at the lemon tree.
“What am I missing?” she asked. “Please explain. You still seem annoyed with me. If you’re realizing this is too much work, it’s totally OK. I understand. You can go right now and all I have for you is my eternal gratitude.”
He didn’t turn around, forcing her to study the back of his head. His thick, dark hair was long enough to curl slightly behind his ears.
“That’s all you have for me?” he asked.
“Is there something else you want?” She moved closer. “I’m happy to apologize again.”
His shoulders visibly tensed. “Please, no more apologies.”
Billie saw that he obviously felt ill-used, but why? She�
��d tried to talk him out of doing as much as he had. “I offered to pay Shawn and Marco, but they refused. Is that it? Do you think I’m taking advantage of them?”
“I’ve already struck a deal with Shawn and Marco. You don’t have to do a thing.”
Frustrated that he wouldn’t let her make it up to him, whatever it was, Billie put her hands on his back and began massaging his tight shoulders. He was a good six inches taller, and she had to move closer and go up on her tiptoes to get a good angle. Under her fingers, he felt powerful but tense, as if coiled to spring.
“Please, Ian,” she said softly.
Without warning, he spun around to face her. Not expecting the move, her arms remained raised, her hands now on his chest. Sucking in a breath in surprise, she began to step back. But he grabbed her wrists and pulled her closer. Their bodies came together, her soft thighs against his hard ones, her belly brushing the fly of his jeans.
“Please?” His eyes searched her face. He looked more unhappy than before. Furious, even. “‘Please’ what?”
Short of breath, heart pounding, she tried to shrug, but he held her too tightly. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Chapter 12
Shaking his head, he loosened his grip on her wrists and glanced down, his anger seeming to fade. But he didn’t release her. Rising and falling heavily with his breath, his chest moved under her forearms. They’d never been so close to one another. He wasn’t the hugging type.
Not that this was a hug, exactly. She wasn’t sure what it was. He’d seemed so angry. Was this what he did when he couldn’t punch somebody? Just grab them?
She should’ve pulled away, apologized again, this time for massaging his back without permission. Slice a few lemons. Laugh it off. And then she’d tell him thank you for his time and talk to Jane about hiring a stranger to help them out.
Going for Broke: Oakland Hills Friends to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Friends with Benefits) Page 5
