But she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to, even though she wanted to want to. Of course she wanted to. But being close to Ian Cooper felt good, as good as being close to any man could feel—which was pretty damn great. He was tall and well built, and even his sweat smelled tasty.
When she realized he was staring at her mouth, her knees weakened, pushing him closer to her. When he began to lower his head, her lips parted involuntarily. She told herself it was only because she needed some air.
Slowly, so slowly, he moved closer. Mesmerized, she watched the flick of his tongue over his lips. Her own thoughts were scattered, unsteady, elusive.
And then he drew back, frowning, and let out his breath. Like a bubble bursting, the strange, nervous tension broke and disappeared. He patted the sides of her arms where he’d been holding her, roughly, like a quarterback with his defensive lineman, and rolled his eyes.
“I must be losing my mind,” he said. “God, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
She did feel as if she’d been run over by a horse trailer, but she didn’t think that’s what he meant. “What’s the matter with you?”
Her question came out more hostile than she’d intended, but he’d upset her.
“I—I—” He looked away, his scowl deepening. “I didn’t realize how upset I was about—about—business. Last night. Lost a lot of money. Didn’t expect it.”
This was about work? She’d known him for a long time. He’d never seemed to let his business bother him before. It was always a game, always fun, or at least intellectually fulfilling. “Haven’t you lost money before?”
He cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes. “Not this much.”
Given his wealth and the years managing his legendary fund, she couldn’t imagine how much that might be. She didn’t even want to know.
All right, yes. Yes she did.
“How much?” she asked.
Turning away, he gripped the kitchen counter and hung his head. After a moment, he said, “A lot.”
“Like, millions?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Then he sobered. He gave a quick nod.
So all of his behavior today had nothing to do with her?
Could she believe that?
“Why’d you seem so angry at me?” And that other thing, she added silently.
“I—I—” He stood up straight and looked her in the eye. “It was wrong of me. I apologize. I suppose I think of you like… family. My mother always said I took everything out on her whenever I got home from school.”
Now he was comparing her to his mother?
Whatever sexy feelings had been coursing through her veins a few minutes ago were now as desiccated as the hallway carpeting. Had Ian Cooper reached out to her for a hate fuck?
And had she almost agreed to it?
Billie went over to the counter and sought comfort from the cream cheese. Lifting the knife, which felt a little dangerous at the moment, she slathered a fist-sized glob of white heaven on a chunk of poppy seed bagel and shoved it in her mouth.
Would she never learn? She loved guys. She loved handsome guys. She loved having sex with handsome guys. It had gotten her into trouble in high school, in college, in her adult life—always. Girls just wanna have fun. God help her.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, giving her another robust thwack before striding out of the kitchen.
As she was rubbing the bruise on her arm—perhaps it was only emotional, but it stung all the same—she heard Marco and Shawn return to the house, and the exchange of bags of hamburgers among the men. When Shawn stuck his head in and asked her if she wanted a cheeseburger, she shook her head, pointing at her full mouth and waving her bagel.
While the men ate in the other room, she stood there and polished off the rest of the cream cheese, wondering how much money Ian would have to lose before he got angry enough to actually have sex with her.
Economic downturn had never sounded so hot.
And then, disgusted with herself, she went back to work.
The following Friday night, Ian closed his laptop, took off his earphones, and stared at the ceiling, his heated massage chair on the highest setting. It wasn’t enough to unwind the tension wracking his body. The thought of returning to Billie’s house in the morning was tying him in knots. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. His hamstrings were stiff from running too many miles that morning—and every morning that week—in his efforts to clear his head. And if he didn’t eat something—he’d worked through lunch and dinner without a break—he was going to pass out.
This wasn’t like him. Easygoing Ian, that’s what his mother called him. If losing millions wasn’t enough to upset him—and it hadn’t, in spite of what he’d said—then seeing Billie Garcia in her pajamas shouldn’t spark a nervous breakdown.
Lorna’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “I thought you were different.”
He spun around. She stood in the open doorway. “I don’t remember hearing you knock,” he said.
“I didn’t.” She came in and stood next to his recliner, holding a pizza box. The savory aroma made his stomach growl. “Do you realize what time it is?”
“Time for me to get a new admin, apparently.” After he freed her from the pizza.
“Nah, you love me.” Balancing the box on her opposite hip, Lorna reached down and lifted the controls to the recliner. “Damn, full throttle. You’re a mess.”
“It’s been a stressful week.”
She scowled. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not supposed to get stressed out. That’s not your thing.”
“Well, I apologize for disappointing you,” he said.
She threw the controls down. “You’ll find an even better investor. You don’t need that guy.”
He stared at her, not comprehending.
“Isn’t this about Oldroyd?” she asked.
“Isn’t what about Oldroyd?” He got to his feet and gave her an imperious, warning stare. As he’d told Billie, he had lost big money, but he’d barely given it another thought.
Lorna waved at the chair, but uncertainty had crept into her eyes. “This with the chair and the music. You’re freaking out.”
“I sit in this chair every day.”
“And read spreadsheets and websites and reports and email and watch the markets. Not stare at the ceiling, rocking out to dead guys.” She held the box out to him. “Here. I got it for myself but changed my mind.”
Trying not to smile at the way she hated to admit to any kindness, he took the box. “If I were forced to listen to your music, I’d rather die myself.” He carried the pizza over to his desk and eagerly pulled out a slice.
“If not Oldroyd, then what?”
He took a huge bite. “Nothing.”
“Gross. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Smiling, he took another. “You asked,” he said, his voice distorted by the cheese, sausage, chewy crust, and chunks of fresh tomato. This was why he kept her around.
“What, you don’t know how to time your chewing with speaking?” she asked. “I’ve met your mother. I’m sure she taught you better than that.”
Her concern was nice. And the pizza was already raising his blood sugar, and he felt his tension easing a little.
When his mouth was empty, he said, “Thank you. I was hungry.”
“You should go home. If you keep this up, you’ll die of a heart attack before you’re forty.”
He turned away to hide his shock. Grabbing a bottle of water, he lifted it to his lips and reminded himself she didn’t know what she’d said; she was just being Lorna.
His own father had suffered two heart attacks when Ian was in high school, and a third when Ian was a rising star at a huge firm in San Francisco. Only the third one, which had kept him in the ICU for weeks, had gotten through to his stubborn father about the importance of slowing down. McIntyre Construction
wasn’t going to fall apart without him, but his family just might.
The day his dad had come home from the hospital, Ian had put in his notice at the firm.
Recovering his composure, he reached for another slice of pizza. “If you’re worried about my heart health, you probably shouldn’t be bringing me my own extra-large pizzas.”
“It wasn’t all for you, but fine. Your gross table manners have totally ruined my appetite.”
Mouth full again, he asked, “What do I owe you?” and reached for his wallet.
“Thirty-five,” she said. “You can round it up to forty to thank me for my troubles.”
With a laugh, he gave her fifty. “Thanks, Lorna.”
“Whatever.” She walked out. A few moments later, he heard the front door of the office slam shut.
He wasn’t the only idiot still in the office on a Friday night, so he set the pizza down on the conference table, told his team to eat up and go home, and went out into the cold night.
His office was in a business park in Emeryville, crowded next to Oakland and Berkeley on the shore of the bay, across from San Francisco. Lorna had begged him to move the office to a building with a view, but he didn’t see the point if they were going to have shades over the windows, staring at screens all day.
And when he emerged from the office at the end of the day, it was usually dark anyway, like tonight. He walked two blocks, past a biotech firm, an Indian burrito joint, another tech company in a renovated Victorian, and then to his loft in a converted cannery.
But he didn’t go inside.
He wouldn’t be able to sleep, so why not get started working on the house tonight?
Chapter 13
Ian told himself he could get started on the bathroom floor. He also told himself he had to confirm that the debris box had been emptied and the new storage unit delivered, although there was nothing he could do about it on a Friday night after business hours if they hadn’t been.
He had to see her.
For hours after The Incident, as he’d named it, he’d worked his ass off with Shawn and Marco, and barely spared Billie a word or a glance until he’d left with the other guys at the end of the day, and even then he’d only grunted a farewell.
They hadn’t spoken since. Avoiding her like this was only making things worse. And lying about the reason for his bad temper had made him angry with himself, although he didn’t know what excuse would’ve been better. Losing a fortune was a catastrophe that would credibly infuriate most men. But he wasn’t most men, and he was a little disappointed that she’d believed him so readily. Maybe she didn’t know him at all.
Maybe she should.
He parked his truck in front of the house next door and stared at the lights glowing from Billie’s windows. The shades were drawn, but he saw flickering shadows that suggested she was moving around inside the front room.
He had to clarify the situation, that’s all. They were old friends, he’d behaved badly last week but was fine now, she could trust him to act normally from now on. As soon as the clutter was out of the house, he’d tackle something simple but satisfying, like bathroom fixtures, or painting. Maybe install new lighting everywhere. He was itching to dive in and get busy.
And getting itchier by the moment.
He glanced at the dash. Almost ten o’clock. Too late to show up unannounced.
Too bad. After checking his reflection in the rearview mirror—he wouldn’t want to show up with tomato sauce on his face for anyone, it didn’t mean anything—he grabbed his backpack and went up to her front door. There he paused, realizing his heart was thudding against his ribs. He’d forgotten to confirm the debris box had been emptied.
As the door swung open, he suddenly remembered that not only should he avoid unnecessary alone time with Billie, he didn’t want to see Jane, either. He should’ve called—
“Hey, everything all right?” Billie wore a brown, fluffy robe that made her look like an Ewok. The fleece covered every inch of skin below her chin, and even her feet were cocooned in padded sheepskin boots.
“Did the furnace break?” he asked. “You look like you’re about to go dogsledding.”
Eyebrow rising, she stepped aside and ushered him in. “I didn’t have time to put on an evening gown. I know you don’t like me answering the door in my pajamas.” She closed the door and dead bolted it. “I was just going to bed so I’d be raring to go in the morning when you got here.”
He’d done it again, insulting her on her own doorstep. Since when couldn’t he control the words coming out of his own mouth? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical. You look cute.”
Jesus. He’d done it again. The filter between his thoughts and his words was broken.
She did look cute, and not like an imaginary forest-dwelling alien. Pink-cheeked, tousle-haired, curvy, feminine.
“What the hell’s the matter with you lately?” she asked, scowling. “I don’t buy the losing-a-fortune thing. I just don’t. I wasn’t going to say anything, but here you are and it’s late and, no, the furnace isn’t broken, I just learned my lesson from answering the door half-naked last week.” Tightening the belt on her robe, she turned and padded into the front room, which was nearly empty except for a wooden kitchen chair and a single large box, on top of which rested a teacup and saucer.
“You’ve done a lot of work,” he said, avoiding her question. Once again, he had to recover from a bad start.
She made a skeptical snort. “Not like you guys. And this room wasn’t too bad. Grammy always kept it relatively clean for company.”
He sniffed the air. “And it smells better. How’d you manage that?”
“I used chemicals known to the state of California to cause cancer and other horrible things.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “That warning’s on everything.”
“No, it’s true. I’ve already started growing an eleventh toe. Pedicures are going to be a bitch from now on.”
He grinned. “Where’d the couch go? And weren’t there a few recliners or something?”
“I sold them on Craigslist,” she said. “For a buck each.”
“Wow. Great.”
“Don’t mock, big guy,” she said. “I’m very proud of myself.”
“I wasn’t kidding. You scored. I thought we’d have to trash them.”
“So did I, but then I realized they had slipcovers on them, and plastic underneath the slipcovers—like the wrappers they come in when they’re new—and after I’d peeled that all off, they were in pretty good shape.”
“Not enough to tempt you to keep them, though.”
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, if you’re here to tell me you won’t be coming tomorrow, I understand. It’s too much. You’ve done more than—”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He went into the darkened room and picked up her teacup. It was smaller than her usual mug, fragile and old-fashioned. The gold rim had chipped, and he considered warning her about cutting her lip. Or he could buy her a new set, something from England maybe. He’d like to see her face when she opened the shipping box.
He rotated the cup in his hands, dragging his fingertip over the chipped porcelain.
What was he doing here?
Trying to ignore the blood rushing in his ears, he lifted the saucer as well and began walking to the kitchen. “I wanted to make sure the new debris box was ready for me and the guys.”
She followed him. “The truck dropped it off yesterday.”
“And the storage unit. We filled it up last weekend. It would be better to sort it out as we go, but you’ll probably need your family to go over it with you.”
“Jane doesn’t want anything. She’s not sentimental, and neither is my dad. But Aunt Trixie is excited about combing through everything. She wants us to put everything other than garbage in those storage pods. I kept a few boxes I knew were valuable—photos, letters, that sort of thing—in the house so they didn’t get lost.”
They entered the kitchen, which was looking much better. The old countertops were peeling at the edges, but the crocks and ancient appliances and books and papers and cat-food containers were gone.
He turned on the water and began washing the cup by hand, rubbing his thumb over the rim where her lips had been.
Now, finally, he knew why he’d come. Lacking self-awareness had its advantages. If he were the type of guy who was in touch with his feelings, he would’ve known that dropping by tonight was too dangerous. He would’ve known that being alone with her in a house in the dark just might make him forget all those awkward family events with her sister. Just like Lorna warning him about heart attacks had made him remember his father, and how important it was to seize the day.
Gently, he placed the cup on a clean white-and-blue check towel spread out next to the sink. “You’ve really been busy. Did you do all this after work?” He spoke carefully, casually.
“I took another day off.”
“Bet your boss loved that,” he said.
She made a face. “He did not.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“Not your fault.”
They stared at each other.
“I came by to explain what happened last weekend,” he heard himself say.
“It wasn’t a money thing, was it?”
“No.”
She looked down at her hands. They were small and soft-looking. Her fingernails were all different colors. “It’s something to do with me?”
“Yes.”
One of her neighbors was playing very loud music. Or maybe it was that guy next door making kebabs out of her grandmother’s cat. The screeching sound blended with the rattle of the old refrigerator.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move. The robe should’ve been enough to help him shove aside sex thoughts, but it was having the opposite effect. The thought of unwrapping all that fuzzy fabric, revealing the sweet, naked skin beneath—
“I wish you’d tell me,” she said. “We’re friends, right?”
If he’d had any air in his lungs, he would’ve laughed. “Are we?”
She flinched as if he’d struck her.
Going for Broke: Oakland Hills Friends to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Friends with Benefits) Page 6
