Going for Broke: Oakland Hills Friends to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Friends with Benefits)

by Gretchen Galway

  His left eyebrow arched. “We’ve eaten together countless times over the years.”

  “Have we?” she asked, turning it in her palm to loosen the salt inside, then resumed shaking. “I’d forgotten.”

  “I’m pretty forgettable,” he said.

  “You know how it is with friends,” she said. “Always so casual. You know.”

  “Casual.”

  “And forgettable,” she repeated.

  “Of course. I know.” He reached over and wrapped his fingers around the shaker, imprisoning her hand in his. He regarded her from beneath heavily lidded blue eyes. “May I?” he asked quietly.

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. “May you what?”

  “Borrow the salt,” he said, using his thumb to loosen her fingers.

  She jerked her hand away, dropping the saltshaker on the table. “It’s all yours.”

  His eyes widened. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course everything’s all right,” she said.

  He glanced down at her plate. “You’re not eating.”

  “Now it’s too salty,” she said.

  His grin spread from one side of his face to the other, then crept up his face to light up his eyes. He smiled at her, saying nothing.

  “I guess I overdid it with the shaker,” she said.

  “I love that about you,” he said.

  Her throat closed up. She coughed. “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t hold back,” he said. “It’s a great quality in a person.”

  “A person.” She didn’t feel like a person. She felt like a bonfire.

  He stood up, set his napkin on the table, and came around to stand inches away from her shoulder. She kept her eyes on her plate, destroying the shrimp star pattern with a shaky hand, waiting, wondering, wishing.

  His hand wrapped around her upper arm and lifted her to her feet. “A woman,” he said, turning her to face him.

  “If you make any moves, I’m going to hate myself.” She sighed and stared at his chest. The zipper pull on his pullover sweater was caught, jutting sideways, marring the perfect symmetry of the rest of him.

  His grip loosened. “Why would you hate yourself? You should hate me.”

  “Because I’m in charge of me, not you. I should have more self-control.” Every shred of it was taken up fighting the urge to readjust the zipper.

  Inhaling through his nose, he dropped his hands. After a pause, he stepped back, went to the cupboard, got another plate. Then he came over, took her salty prawns away, and set down the empty plate. “You should eat.” After he’d set her old plate in the sink, he lifted one of the containers and put it in front of her. “I’ll stop bothering you.”

  “It’s not you. I’m just not very hungry.”

  “I’m going to go now.” He pulled out his phone and looked at it. “I’ve lined up a few things later this week. Inspectors and contractors. You might see my truck out front when you get home.”

  “Don’t you have a business to run?”

  He returned the phone to his pocket and began moving to the door. “I’ve got people.”

  “I wish I had people. Sounds nice.”

  In the doorway, he stopped and turned. “You’ve got me.”

  Before she could swoon into the spring rolls, he was gone.

  By the time Saturday rolled around again, Billie was thinking about moving to New Hampshire. She’d never been back East before, but the stories about voters in New Hampshire every few years always made it sound like a nice, friendly place with lots of trees and pancakes and flannel. The main attraction for her this week, however, was its great distance from where she was right now. And that she knew absolutely not a single soul there.

  So unlike Oakland. Ian not only had been in the house on Monday, but also on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Apparently, a financial kingpin really could take time out of the office. All kinds of inspectors came by. An electrician tested the wiring. A plumber installed water-saving devices that Grammy would’ve hated in all the faucets and showers. And somebody painted the master bathroom a beautifully soothing sage green, the same color as the paint chip she’d picked out and taped to the vanity mirror.

  And that wasn’t all. Although Ian never mentioned it, she found an estimate for double-paned windows on the kitchen counter, and when she called Ian that night to make sure he didn’t give them permission to go ahead with it, he told her not to worry about it.

  “Twenty thousand dollars is something to worry about,” she’d said.

  “It’s not a bill,” he’d replied. “Just an estimate.”

  “Which you haven’t agreed to. Right?”

  “You will not receive any bills for twenty thousand dollars,” he’d said. “Think of this as the discovery phase.”

  That sounded like a politician talking, which is maybe why she’d started thinking about New Hampshire. Today, Saturday, he was going to tackle the master bathroom floor. The rest of the room was done, at least for now, and he was looking forward to installing the tile “like old times,” alluding to her mother’s bathroom back home.

  Now Billie rolled over in her bed and groaned into the pillow, just thinking about facing him and his slow smile and power drill and tempting, seductive ways for weeks and possibly months ahead. If it weren’t for that, she’d let herself enjoy the miracles he was performing on the house, her house, miracles she’d be unable to do or pay for herself.

  Everything was especially exhausting because she’d had to run the permit center by herself all week since Doc had informed his boss that he’d be taking a short leave, not for a vacation, but for an unspecified illness.

  But he was supposed to be back on Monday, so she had that to look forward to.

  She pulled the second pillow over her head. Soon she was suffocating in cheap polyester fill.

  No way around it: she had to get up. She should.

  She didn’t get up.

  “We can work around you if you need more sleep,” Ian said from above.

  Chapter 24

  As if electrocuted by the frayed cord on Grammy’s favorite reading lamp (which was now headed to the landfill), Billie bolted upright, one of the pillows clutched to her chest, and gaped at the man standing next to her bed.

  Under other circumstances, his raven locks and piercing blue eyes would be a guilty pleasure to behold. But right now—

  She hurled the pillow at his pretty head. When he ducked and grabbed the pillow with minimal effort, her annoyance blossomed into a fiery rage. Leaping out of bed, she picked up a second pillow and hurled that one too. He was wide-eyed as it clipped him on the shoulder.

  “I knocked,” he said.

  She thrust out her hand, palm up. “Keys. Now.”

  “But—” He began.

  “Give. Me. The. Keys.” She jabbed her empty hand at him like a fencer.

  Brows drawing together, he pulled them out of his jeans pocket and dropped them into her palm. “I’ll go. Let me know when’s a good time for me to do the tile.”

  As he turned to leave, and Billie was recovering her breath, her sister appeared in the doorway with a steaming mug in her hand, which she set on the nightstand.

  “I let him in,” Jane said. “Here’s your tea. Now apologize.”

  “No, that’s all right,” he said, waving his hand. “It’s been a long week. Billie could use the day off.” He left the bedroom.

  “It’s past ten,” Jane told her softly. “He was out there waiting in his truck when I got here. When did you tell him to come by?”

  “Nine,” Billie mumbled. Great. Now she was the bad guy. She grasped at any excuse. “Why are you here?”

  “I didn’t think it was fair to leave you with all the work to do by yourself.”

  Billie set the keys next to the mug, which apparently was filled with her favorite tea, which her sister had brewed for her.

  I suck. “Thank you.”

  “Please go ask him to stay,” Jane said, then sigh
ed. “I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

  “He just surprised me, that’s all. So did you. I was half-asleep.”

  “Just a tip. If a burglar breaks in, a pillow isn’t going to cut it as far as home security measures are concerned.”

  I need to rekey the house again, Billie thought. And I’ll have the only set.

  She shoved her feet into her flip-flops and hurried over the torn-up floor out into the hallway, where Ian was lifting a box of tile.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “I’ll move these to the second bedroom so you aren’t tripping over them all week.”

  “No, it’s OK. I’m sorry I beat you up. Will you stay?”

  He looked up at her, eyebrow lifting. “You beat me up?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not hurting.”

  Ducking his head, he laughed. “You have no idea,” he muttered.

  “Will you stay?”

  “Of course I’ll stay, if you want me to.” He lifted the box higher. “This is the tile Jane picked. Do you like it?”

  A long row of compact square boxes lined the hallway. “You’ve already bought it and hauled it inside. I’m sure whatever she picked out is fine.”

  He set the box down at her feet and pulled back the cardboard flap. “It’s your house too. Take a look.”

  The large squares inside were sandy-colored, flat, and extremely tile-like. Billie had never thought to look critically at tile before, so she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. “Where’d it come from?”

  “Home Depot.”

  “No, I mean—it’s not Italian or something, is it? Was it really expensive?”

  “Let’s just say you won’t be getting any windows anytime soon.” He squatted down and lifted the box again. “Or food.”

  The expression on her face must’ve been bad, because he grinned. “Just kidding, Billie. It wasn’t expensive.”

  His smile brought out a tiny dimple in his left cheek, a slight indentation below his cheekbone that was like the kiss of an angel. Or a flustered civil servant in her pajamas.

  Oh no. She realized she was half-naked again. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned and ran for her bedroom, mumbling another apology and vowing silently to wear a bra and snowmobile suit to bed from now on.

  By the time she’d put on clothes and brushed her teeth, Ian was already at work in the bathroom, adding a nifty pair of plastic goggles to his handyman outfit. Jane stood in the bathtub, listening carefully to Ian’s explanation of what he was doing, which seemed to involve lots of moving around on his hands and knees looking really hot.

  Billie paused in the hallway, moving her gaze from Ian’s strong thighs to her sister’s face. It had softened, looking younger, more relaxed, as Ian talked about measuring twice and cutting once, and how he’d forgotten to do that years ago in their mother’s bathroom and had spent more money on materials, correcting his mistakes, than he’d earned when it was over.

  “You never told me that,” Jane said, tossing her head back and laughing. Although it was more like a giggle than her usual throaty, cynical chortle. When she saw Billie, she sobered. “He’s teaching me a few skills in case the accounting doesn’t pan out.”

  “I’m the one who needs a few skills,” Billie said, thinking of facing Doc on Monday. “I’ll never get a promotion at work if I don’t learn more about construction and building codes.”

  “Do you really see yourself having a future in building permits?” Jane asked.

  Her sister knew her too well. As it turned out, Billie had no interest in learning more than she’d already been forced to learn. But she didn’t want to admit that in front of Ian. “Absolutely. It’s fascinating stuff.”

  “Stick around,” Ian said. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

  “There isn’t room in the bathtub,” Billie said.

  Jane quickly climbed out. “I’m not staying. I’m sure Ian will work better on his own.”

  Ian tilted back on his heels and looked up at Billie. “I don’t mind a little help.” His eyelashes were long and dark, framing those pools of blue so well she lost her train of thought.

  “Billie and I are going to talk about painting,” Jane said, patting her arm as she walked out of the bathroom. A few seconds later, she called out from deep inside the house. “You coming?”

  Billie hesitated, drawn to Ian like cat hair to butter.

  “Sorry again about this morning,” she said.

  “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have gone into your bedroom.”

  “I shouldn’t have overslept,” she said. “I don’t really wake up until eleven.”

  He got to his feet and looked into her eyes. A tiny, star-shaped scar interrupted his left eyebrow, she noticed. “Then I’ll come later from now on.”

  As Billie felt a heat flare between her thighs, Jane’s voice reached her. “Belinda Emily Garcia,” she called out.

  Billie turned. “I have to go.”

  “Wait,” he said, touching her arm. “Are you sure you like the tile she picked out?”

  The eyelashes distracted her again, pulling her into a tunnel where all she could see was his face and its gentle concern. He was always thoughtful. Even when he was high-handed, he was kind.

  She nodded. Her heart was beating too fast. Her throat was dry.

  “Jane has always had excellent taste,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

  When his expression changed, its kindness becoming predatory, she turned and made a run for it, joining her sister in the living room to talk about paint.

  Chapter 25

  At the end of the day, Ian finished sealing the grout on the new tile floor and squatted back on his heels, wiping the sweat off his brow. Billie and Jane had gone to the paint store again. While he’d tiled the floor, they’d washed the living room walls and masked the window frames, or begun doing so. He’d known better than to suggest he pay for a professional crew to come in and do it all in a day or two. Neither one of them would’ve agreed to that. But that was fine. He liked anything that kept Billie within eye range. And her voice was nice to listen to also, especially when it said certain things.

  Jane has always had good taste.

  He stood, brushing dust off his jeans, and checked the time. Just after six. If he ran home for a shower, he might miss the chance to have dinner with her. He’d overheard Jane mention plans with her boyfriend, so she’d be out of the way, and he wasn’t going to let that opportunity pass him by.

  He’d just have to take a shower here. Not in the master bath, which would need time for the tile to cure, but in the smaller one off the hall. Before that, though, he’d order something from one of her favorite restaurants and have it delivered.

  Soon he was showering inside the canary-yellow bathtub, sudsing up his hair with cheap apple-scented shampoo. The bottle was mostly empty, diluted with water to extend the last ounce, and he regretted having to use it. She obviously pinched every penny. If she’d let him—

  First things first.

  The water pressure was pretty good, considering the flow-reducing emitters the plumber had put in, especially after he turned the head to its massage setting. He’d always been a sucker for massage and remembered the look on Billie’s face when she’d rested in his recliner at work. He’d never tell her, but her new shower nozzle had cost more than all of the tile materials put together.

  When he stepped out of the tub, dripping onto the bare peach-and-lime vinyl floor, he realized his mistake.

  No towel. They’d cleaned out the cabinets, deciding to recycle everything after a few sniffs detected cat, cat, and more cat. There wasn’t a piece of fabric in the room except for his own dirty clothes. The toilet paper was tempting, but it was the cheap kind that shredded in your hand, not the fluffy kind advertised on TV with cartoon bears.

  After shaking his arms and wiping off his legs, he went over to the door and peeked out. It seemed quiet. “Billie?”

  No answer. He glanced back at h
is dirty clothes. He’d have to put them back on anyway, but he’d rather dry off first. The hallway was empty. His bag with a few clean shop towels was only about ten feet away, resting on top of the leftover boxes of tile by the door.

  He reached it in three strides, grabbing the bag’s strap with one hand as his bare heel struck an exposed staple. Flinching from the pain, he pivoted on his good foot, hopped back to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him, heart pounding harder than it did at the end of a five-mile run.

  If she’d seen him walking around naked, she would’ve kicked him out for sure. During their meal on Monday, he’d decided not to do anything until she was ready for it. One stolen kiss or a single night of forbidden fun wouldn’t be enough for him. This morning’s pillow assault had reminded him she didn’t like him making himself too much at home. This was her house, and he’d have to be more careful about respecting her privacy.

  Exhaling, he found a small white towel, fluffy and new, and patted his skin dry. His heel had survived serious damage, as had his pride, and by the time he stepped out of the bathroom in his jeans and T-shirt, he was feeling pretty good. He went to the kitchen to mix a drink for Billie to have when she returned.

  But she was already there, sitting at the breakfast table with a stack of paint samples in her hand. And she had a drink.

  He paused in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten back.”

  Murmuring something he couldn’t hear, she lifted her glass and took a sip as she continued to flip through the paint samples.

  “I hope it’s all right I took a shower.” To his surprise, he found himself lying. “I got some grout dust in my eyes. Had to wash it out right away.”

  She nodded, still looking at the colors, and took another drink. “Jane went home.”

  His hair, still damp, fell into his eyes. He wiped the droplets off his forehead. “I ordered Indian food,” he said. “It should be here any minute.”

  “Sounds good.” She stared down into her glass, tilting it back and forth.

  Her remoteness was making him uncomfortable. Wanting a reaction, he lifted his bare foot and studied the heel that had been punctured by the staple. “Do you have a first aid kit? I stepped on something.”