“I beg your pardon?”
The door chime sounded. “Can you get that?” he asked. “I’ve got to drain the pasta.”
“No, I will not answer your door,” she said, looking back and forth from the departing man to the door. What a colossal presumption.
The doorbell chimed in staccato.
Nicki could see him in the kitchen calmly draining steaming pasta into the sink. He didn’t even glance her way as the bell buzzed yet again.
And if it rang just one more time, she’d scream. Nicki moved to the door and jerked it open.
Two little old ladies stood on the threshold, one smiling and one frowning. Astonished, Nicki stood staring from one to the other. Good twin, bad twin?
Somehow she’d fallen into the Twilight Zone.
“Oh, hello,” the smiling one said. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I told you we should have called first,” the frowning one muttered, adjusting the lace collar of her dark dress. “He has a date.”
“I hope we aren’t interrupting anything, dear?” The smile only got wider as she attempted to see into the apartment.
Nicki watched, fascinated as the bundle of white hair perched on the top of the woman’s head wobbled, then slid forward, then backward. With a gnarled hand, she reached up to right it, all the while still peeking into the apartment.
“Uh, no, no.” Nicki attempted to answer.
“Isn’t Steven wonderful?” the cheerful twin gushed, a dreamy look in her eyes. “We made him a cake.” She thrust the plate into Nicki’s hands.
“To thank him for saving the house,” Grumpy explained firmly. “Now let’s go, Madeline.” She tugged on her twin’s sleeve.
“Yes. We’ll leave you two alone.”
Again, Nicki tried to correct them. “No. We aren’t...”
Cheerful lowered her voice a fraction and leaned towards Nicki. “You know, you’re the first woman he’s entertained since he’s lived here.”
“Let’s go, Madeline.”
“Hey, hey, where are you two going? Don’t you want to stay for dinner?” Steven Smith’s warm breath touched Nicki’s neck as he stood behind her trapping her between him and the ladies at the door.
Did the man not understand personal space? Nicki was becoming dizzy as the scent of his aftershave along with hints of bay leaf and oregano teased her senses.
Happy and Grumpy continued to chatter as if nothing was amiss.
“Oh, no, no, we wouldn’t dream of interrupting,” the frowning sister stated, holding up a hand.
“What are you serving?”
“Madeline!”
“Eggplant rollatini with a side of angel hair pasta. Number fifty-four.”
The sister sighed. “Maybe you could bring by some leftovers tomorrow?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Good bye, Steven and Miss...” Suddenly, Cheerful clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, how rude of us. We didn’t introduce ourselves. I’m Madeline O’Hara, and this is my sister Millicent.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Nicki Baldwin.” Nicki extended her hand then dropped it to her side, realizing the gesture was unnecessary. This wasn’t a business meeting.
“Nicki? Isn’t that an unusual name? Short for Nicole?”
“Unfortunately, no. I was named after my father.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Baldwin. Let’s go, Madeline.” Millicent looked sharply down her narrow nose at her sister.
Steve chuckled as he reached forward to shut the door. His arm brushed against Nicki, starting a shiver through her, followed by loud warning bells. She didn’t know what was going on, but this man disturbed her. Gut instinct told her to get out. And she always listened to her gut instincts.
“You know, it’s late. I’m intruding. I shouldn’t have come without an appointment.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her phone. “I’m free Monday. Is early better for you?”
She looked up. The thunderous expression on his face should have warned her before his large hand reached out to pluck the cell from her. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the couch.
“We eat. Then we talk.”
Nicki scrambled for the cell, stuffed it back into her bag and followed him to the small kitchen. She gave him a lethal glare in return. It was completely wasted. Steve Smith was absorbed in ladling thick steaming sauce onto hot pasta.
“Mr. Smith. This is not how I do business.”
He turned to her. “You never have business meals?” Reaching to the counter, he thrust plates and silverware at her.
Nicki released a frustrated breath as he added two water glasses to the stack in her arms. She set the dishes on the table and returned to the kitchen to reason with him.
This was just one man, she reminded herself.
Not a boardroom CEO or a team of consultants grilling her about a project.
One man.
As she turned, he pushed a large bowl of salad into her arms. She shoved it back at him. Enough was enough.
“The pasta is getting cold. Could you get this on the table? And would you grab that plastic container of shredded parmigiana from the refrigerator?”
Nicki’s temper flared. “Mr. Smith, I’m not in the habit of going in strange men’s refrigerators.”
He took the bowl to the table then walked to the refrigerator. Pulling out the cheese, he tossed it to her. “No, Nicki Baldwin, you just aren’t accustomed to someone else calling the shots.”
She barely caught the container. “Do you have a problem with women who are focused?”
“Focused, huh?”
“If I were a man you’d call me assertive.”
“I’m not going to ruin good pasta. And I’m not going to argue with you, lady.” Abruptly he jerked around. “You invited yourself here, and if you don’t want to eat, fine. But I’m not talking business ‘til I do.”
Reaching over, he pulled out a chair. “You may as well sit down.”
She sat.
“It’s really not necessary,” she said, as he leaned closer to tuck her chair in.
He narrowed his eyes at her, daring her to—to do what? With a lift of her chin, she turned her head away.
The mystical aromas of the meal in front of her conspired against her. Her stomach growled.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“This morning.”
“I bet it was a two-course meal too. Coffee and more coffee.”
She blinked at him. “How did you know?”
“I know where you can get a good deal on antacids.”
Nicki averted her eyes.
“Eat. And don’t argue or I might decide not to talk to you.”
She stared at the huge serving he’d pushed in front of her, knowing she’d never be able to eat all that.
He dove in, ignoring her, stopping only to pour her a glass of water.
Finally, her stomach won out. She lifted her fork.
The man was a puzzle, but he could cook. The delicate flavors sang in her mouth. Loudly. She didn’t have a clue what secret he’d unearthed to create this masterpiece. The only thing she could do was re-heat pizza in the microwave. Her life thus far hadn’t endeared itself to domesticity.
“You like it, I guess.”
Glancing down at her plate, she was shocked to discover that it was empty. Nicki dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, yes. I was hungrier than I thought. I’m sorry, it was delicious.” She stopped. “I meant it was delicious. I didn’t mean I was sorry about it.”
He smiled, and then released a hearty laugh.
All Nicki could do was stare. His laughter revealed something almost beautiful about the man. She glanced away.
“You should consider going into business.”
“That’s the last thing I should do.” He slid a bowl towards her. “Insalata?”
“No, thank you.”
Steve pushed his chair back. “I’m going to put the coffee on.”
He loomed over he
r, getting closer and closer. She was rooted, unable to move. His hand came toward her. Involuntarily, she reared back.
It failed to deter him. With the pad of his thumb, he wiped her cheek. “Sauce.”
Frowning she wiped the spot herself, erasing his touch, refusing to look at him. Nicki stood and began to gather plates.
His hand covered hers. She was forced to meet his gaze.
“You’re my guest. My mother taught me that guests do not clear.”
“I’d like to meet this mother of yours.”
“She’s dead.”
Nicki inhaled sharply. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“No harm. Go. Sit. I’ll put these in the sink and then we’ll talk.”
She sighed and moved to the couch. The massive corduroy sofa with its fat, overstuffed cushions tried to suck her right in. Attempts to perch herself on the edge of the cushions were futile. The urge to slip off her shoes and tuck her feet beneath her was strong, hypnotic.
She fought the battle, knowing defeat was imminent.
Her eyelids began a battle as they struggled to close. Then they flew open in panic.
Concentrate. Focus.
The building. Mr. Finney.
Lashes fluttered up and down.
A shoe dropped on the floor.
Hers?
Steve stood looking down at the sleeping woman. Her head was cocked to one side awkwardly. The pixie face, frowning in slumber was all bones and angles. Her long legs were crossed, one shoe off, and curled almost beneath her. Nicki Baldwin had come prepared to fight, wearing her corporate suit of armor, complete with an iPhone.
She had chutzpa. He’d give her that. He remembered the days when hustling the deal was the most important thing in the world. Back then it was the only thing in the world. Relationships only mattered if they could give him something.
He rubbed his hand through his hair, pulling out the elastic and freeing the locks. Maybe someday Nicki Baldwin would learn what really mattered.
Someday.
Already he tasted regret.
There was something about her that knocked him for a loop the first time he had laid eyes on her—and still did. Why her? A woman who was everything he’d left behind?
Why Lord? Why this attraction to a woman who was everything he used to be and never wanted to be again. A carbon copy of S.Thomas Chasen.
He shook his head at the irony.
And just what was he going to do about the corporate barracuda slumbering on his couch?
It was a no win situation. If he woke her now, she’d be annoyed, embarrassed, and defensive. If he let her sleep she’d be annoyed, embarrassed, and defensive. It wasn’t his fault she was running on empty.
He couldn’t change her. But he sure didn’t have to contribute to the situation.
So, he’d let her sleep and risk the retribution morning would surely bring.
Chapter 3
Her alarm was going off, making that funny noise that indicated she’d hit the snooze button again. Nicki fumbled around for her phone. If she was late, Finney would be apocalyptic.
Opening her eyes, she scrambled to a sitting position and inspected her surroundings through blurry eyes. Something was wrong. Definitely wrong.
A gasp escaped as she looked around at Steven Smith’s apartment. No, this couldn’t be real. A glance down at her rumpled suit confirmed the nightmare was real. Only in a badly clichéd romance novel did the heroine fall asleep in the hero’s apartment. Besides, she didn’t read romance novels. They were unrealistic. She wasn’t a heroine and Steven Smith was far from a hero. More like a villain.
The only endings she believed in came from signing on the dotted line and depositing a commission check in her bank account. She’d learned long ago that you couldn’t depend on people in this world for happiness. Only yourself.
Nicki massaged the throbbing in her temples. Even thinking hurt. She had beginnings of a whopper of a headache. If she didn’t take something for it immediately, she’d be nursing a migraine.
The buzzing continued. Nicki tossed the pillow cushions aside, searching for her phone.
As she slid her hands between the couch cushions, the absurdity of the entire situation hit her. She’d fallen asleep on a client’s couch. Never in her career as the executive assistant for one of the top property and real estate concierge’s in Denver, had she done anything so completely unprofessional.
And it hadn’t been with just any client either. Him. It had to be him. The man held her future in his hands and he didn’t have a clue.
She’d be back typing contracts if Finney found out.
The only good news she could muster up was that it was Saturday and Finney was out of town until Tuesday.
She gave up on the phone for a moment and reached into her bag for her headache medication.
Shaking two pills into the palm of her hand, she strode to the kitchen for water. Passing the oven, she zeroed in on the noise. It wasn’t her phone after all. It was the oven. With her free hand, Nicki slapped off the timer.
If the oven was on, then he was awake. She tiptoed to the hallway. The sound of running water was unmistakable.
Ugh. Awkward. She didn’t do awkward. Ever.
Nicki backed out of the kitchen, determined to swallow the pills and get out of the apartment now. Then she’d pretend this little faux pas had never happened.
Never look back.
The motto had stayed her well all her life.
She’d call and schedule an appointment. Maybe meet him downtown at a nice, well-lit restaurant where she knew the waiters. He liked to eat. So she’d impress him with the cuisine of one of the local eateries. Introduce him to the chef.
Then they could talk business.
Only business.
The thought cheered her as she hunted for her other shoe.
It had to be there somewhere. She pushed the soft velour blanket out of the way.
Blanket? He must have covered her up? She grimaced with humiliation while she crouched down to look under the couch.
“Looking for this?”
If she was a betting woman, she’d bet that now would be a good time to leave. Leave the shoe. Do not turn around. Simply inch toward the door and get out.
She rocked back on her heels and looked over her shoulder, prepared to be turned into a pillar of salt.
But not prepared for Steven Smith smiling, his hair damp and a towel around his neck. He wore a denim shirt and jeans along with a bright-eyed grin.
A morning person too.
Her black heel dangled from his finger.
Nicki stood and reached for the shoe. He withdrew the offering.
“Did the timer go off?” he asked.
She stepped back, confused. “What?”
“The timer.”
She followed him into the kitchen.
He peered into the oven’s glass door, and then turned back to her. “Frittata casserole?”
“Is food all you think about?” she asked.
“No,” he drawled with a slight frown.
“How do you stay so fit with all that cooking?”
He glanced down at himself. “Do I look fit?” He shrugged. “Good metabolism. And I run.”
Nicki paused. What was she doing? She didn’t want to chit-chat with the man. She wanted her property back.
“I have to go. Could I please have my shoe?”
“You wanted to talk.” He donned oven mitts and pulled the casserole from the oven and placed it on the counter.
“It can wait.” She held out her hand.
“Sit down. I’ll be right back.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” she muttered, reaching forward to grab her shoe. Once again, he held it inches from her grasp.
“I’m sorry. It’s the nature of the beast.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. What did that mean? Was he sincere? Or mocking her again?
“Look, I’ll be right back.” He tucked her shoe in his back pocket and
pulled a wrench from a kitchen drawer. “I’ve got a small leak in the shower and I need to turn off the water in there.” He shook his head. “The plumbing in this building needs some attention.”
Ha. She’d lived in a place like this once. It was certainly that more than the plumbing needed attention.
“Help yourself to some coffee,” he called over his shoulder.
Coffee. Yes. That was probably the problem. She’d usually had two coffees by this time of the morning. She also usually had her shoes.
Nicki rubbed her temples and considered leaving shoeless.
A phone rang.
She glanced around, confused. Was that a real phone?
“Can you grab that?”
It rang again and she walked to the desk. It was a real phone. Rotary even. Who had a landline in their home anymore? Much less a rotary?
Her hand paused mid-air.
Wait a minute. She was not going to answer his door or his phone.
“I don’t think I should answer your phone,” she called.
“Then come and fix this pipe.”
Nicki snatched up the receiver.
“Thomas?” the female voice asked.
“No, you must have the wrong number.”
“Who is this?”
“Nicki Baldwin. I really think you have the wrong number.”
“Is he there?”
“Who?”
“Steve. Is Steve there?”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Tell him it’s Elizabeth. Wait.” The caller paused and chuckled. “He’s obviously busy. I’ll call back later.”
The connection ended and Nicki stared at the receiver. “Thomas?” she muttered. “Who is Thomas?”
“Was it the sisters?”
She turned around and discovered herself nearly nose to chest with the man. Once again, he displayed his flagrant disrespect for personal space. The man invaded at will. A rogue warrior of political incorrectness.
Daring to glance up she inhaled soap and clean cotton. His wet hair gleamed. Even the dark stubble above his beard was annoyingly attractive.
Time for a hasty retreat to a much safer distance.
Two steps back. Stare at the wall.
“The sisters?” he repeated, his tone amused.
“No. It was Elizabeth.”
Frowning, he headed to the kitchen and set her shoe on the counter. “Did she leave a message?”
No Time For Love Page 3
