For Better or Worse

by Lauren Layne

  “Hey, take it easy, guys,” Trevor said, following them into the kitchen and moving between them.

  She ignored Trevor, hurling her beer bottle into the recycling bin, even though she really wanted to throw it at Josh’s head. “Well, excuse me if we all can’t have every day be an endless string of working out and fucking.”

  “Maybe if you did a little fucking, you wouldn’t be so bitchy all the time,” Josh said, his face tight and angry.

  Heather’s mouth dropped open in outrage, but she closed it as she realized there was far better retaliation than a saucy comeback.

  “You know what, 4A? I think you’re exactly right.” She gave him a slow, sultry smile, saw his expression flicker in confusion as she stepped toward him.

  Only she course-corrected at the last minute, moving toward Trevor instead, her hand hooking behind the lead singer’s head and tugging his face down to hers for a thorough kiss.

  A kiss that was—fine.

  She tried to lose herself in it, she really did. Trevor was sexy and fun, and hadn’t been the least bit shy in his flirting all night. But as he recovered from his surprise and wound an arm around her waist, deepening the kiss, Heather realized she felt little more than an awareness that it had been way too long since she’d been thoroughly kissed, and that this wasn’t the right guy to break her streak with.

  Still she made it look good for Josh’s sake, arching her body into Trevor’s, making a hungry little moan in the back of her throat before slowly stepping away.

  She kept her eyes locked on Trevor’s mouth as though it was the yummiest thing on the planet, even as all of her being was vitally aware of Josh Tanner and the barely contained anger coming off him in waves.

  A trickle of guilt snuck in as she realized she was using Trevor, but his quick, friendly wink told her he didn’t mind in the slightest. And the amused tilt of his mouth said he knew exactly what she was up to, even if Josh didn’t.

  “We should do that again sometime,” he said in a low, bedroom voice.

  Josh made a growling noise as Heather smiled at Trevor. “I’d like that.”

  She slowly took a step backward, shifting her attention to Josh as though just now remembering that he was there. “See you around, 4A.”

  He didn’t respond, just glared, first at her, then at Trevor.

  It was her victory, and they both knew it.

  But as she went back to her apartment alone, and with the taste of the wrong guy on her lips, it didn’t feel like a win so much as the start of a very dangerous game.

  Chapter Nine

  ONE THING HEATHER HAD learned pretty quickly since moving to Manhattan was that Sundays in New York City meant one thing:

  Brunch.

  And while Heather was certainly no stranger to mimosas and fluffy omelets, today she was kicking it up a notch.

  Today she was hosting brunch.

  Saturdays were the Belles’ bread and butter, but Sundays were increasingly popular for wedding-related events, so it was rare that all three of them plus Jessie had a free Sunday. Heather had decided to make the most of it by inviting them all over for a housewarming brunch at her place.

  She’d even included Logan Harris in the invitation, the Belles’ quietly dead-sexy accountant, as well as Brooke’s new boyfriend, Seth. She’d invited Jessie’s guy as well, but he was out of town.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Heather had pictured a perfectly set table, orange juice in a crystal pitcher alongside champagne nestled in the polka-dot ice bucket she’d gotten on clearance at Kate Spade, a freshly baked quiche, and a mint and vanilla fruit salad, all of which would be ready to go in time for Heather to wash and dry her hair and put on that green dress that she’d like to think made her eyes all kinds of sparkly and bright.

  And then . . .

  She’d slept through her alarm.

  Make that alarms. All three of them.

  She was an utter and absolute hot mess.

  Yesterday had been crazy, running all over the city to check out alternates to the Plaza for the Robinson wedding, and by the time she’d dragged her weary body home at nine o’clock last night without a single viable option, the last thing she’d wanted to do was head to the store or set the table.

  Instead she’d put together her shopping list last night, and then set her alarm for five. And then five fifteen. And five thirty, just to be safe, so she could be out the door by six to pick up the stuff for the quiche and the fresh bread and the fruit, plus everything she’d need for a new coffee cake recipe she’d found on Pinterest.

  Her brain had the whole thing planned down to the minute.

  Her body, however, had other ideas.

  Namely, sleep.

  One too many sleep-deprived nights had decided now would be a good time to catch up with her, and a groggy Heather had managed to turn off all three alarms.

  So instead of getting out the door at six, it was nine, and she was unshowered, didn’t have a single ingredient, hadn’t set the table, and everyone would be here at eleven.

  Two hours to do . . . everything.

  Heather hurriedly pulled on her boots and debated texting everyone to beg for another hour, but that was so not the impression she was going for. She wanted the other Belles to see that this was the official start of the new Heather: savvy, sophisticated, and totally capable of being promoted to full-on planner. Moving into this apartment had been step one, but actually having people over to said apartment, complete with a very chic meal of food and beverage, was the next—and essential—step two. And Heather was not going to screw it up.

  Heather was locking up when Josh’s door opened, and his annoying now-familiar face appeared, along with . . . holy hell, a lot of skin.

  It had been a little over a week since their semifight and her kiss with Trevor, and though she’d seen him plenty of times, none of their interactions had been anything resembling civil. There were still plenty of the quips and banter that had been a hallmark of their relationship since the beginning, but gone was the easy teasing, and in its place, an odd tension that had her feeling regretful, although she wasn’t at all sure why.

  She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the expanse of taut, muscled flesh on display. “Can you please put that away?”

  “Put what away? The crucials are covered.”

  “Barely,” she muttered, trying to rid her brain of the image of Josh Tanner wearing nothing but black boxers. “Seriously, Josh. You can’t just go opening the door naked.”

  “Noted,” he said, bending down to pick up his newspaper.

  “And that’s another thing,” she said, still shielding her eyes. “A real newspaper? Really? You’ve heard of the Internet, right?”

  “I’m an old soul, 4C. Nothing like a little newsprint on the fingers while sipping that first cup of coffee.”

  His mention of coffee reminded her that she hadn’t had any yet, and she withheld a whimper. Barely.

  “I’m walking away now,” she grumbled, too tired and stressed to engage.

  “Hey, wait,” he said, his voice sharpening slightly as he came into the hallway and blocked her path. “Something’s wrong.”

  Yesterday, she would have either ignored him or lied, but since she was about thirty seconds away from a breakdown, she found herself babbling out the whole mess: the craziness that was yesterday’s running around, last night’s exhaustion, this morning’s alarm mishap, as well as a frantic accounting of everything that needed to happen within the next two hours.

  “And it’s all your fault,” she finished, pointing a finger at him.

  He grinned, looking a little like the old Josh. “Of course it is.”

  “You and your band have been practicing way more this week, at all hours.”

  “What’s wrong? Pissed that Trevor didn’t come stick his tongue in your m
outh and feel you up?” he said sarcastically, crossing his arms over his naked chest and clearly still not caring that he was close to nude in the hallway.

  No, I’m pissed that you didn’t feel me up.

  “Whatever,” she muttered, starting to push past him. “I’m wasting time.”

  Josh’s arm shot out, his hand resting low on her hip and stopping her from walking by. “Hold up.”

  His fingers lingered just for a second, and she sucked in a little breath, not realizing how much she missed being touched until her brain registered how good he felt. And smelled. And . . .

  “You’re not naked because there’s a woman in there, are you?” she blurted out.

  His eyebrows lifted. “Jealous?”

  “Disgusted,” she shot back.

  “Well then, you’re in luck, because I’m going through a bit of a dry spell lately.”

  “Lately, meaning . . . a week?”

  “Yeah, well, some of us don’t think it’s reasonable to go an entire year without sex, 4C.”

  “It hasn’t been an entire year,” she muttered.

  Close though. Very close.

  Heather stepped back from his closeness, only not fast enough, because his hand reached out and pulled her phone out of her purse.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to snatch it back, and he lifted it higher.

  “Well, considering your outrage at my newspaper, I assumed—correctly so, I might add—that you keep everything on your phone. Including your shopping list.”

  “So? What are you doing? What are you typing?”

  “My phone number,” he said.

  “I don’t want your phone number. If I need to yell at you, I’ll come next door.”

  “There,” he said, ignoring her comment and handing her phone back.

  “There what?” she asked. “Did you just sign me up for some sex site?”

  “A sex site? You mean porn, 4C? And how exactly do you think that works?”

  “Well, what did you do?”

  “I forwarded your grocery list.”

  “To whom?”

  “To me,” he said, heading back into his apartment and leaving the door open.

  “Creepy, even for you,” she called after him.

  Josh sighed and turned around, walking back toward her until they were toe-to-toe and she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

  “You are so dense, 4C.”

  She frowned.

  “I’m going to the store for you,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped open, and he put his hand over it before she could respond. “Don’t say no. I’m a nice guy. Let me prove it. Please.”

  He slowly lowered his hand, and Heather swallowed. “I never said you weren’t a nice guy.”

  He grinned. “Sure you did. Multiple times.”

  “I can’t let you go to the store for me,” she said firmly.

  Josh put both hands on her shoulders and pivoted her around so that she was facing her own door, and then marched her toward it.

  “Here’s the plan. You get your cute butt in there, take a shower, make yourself pretty, and then go about fussing around your table with your pink place mats or whatever.”

  Her head whipped around. “How did you know I have pink place mats?”

  He merely smiled. “I’ll go the store. Get all of your crap. Then you’ll cook. No quiche though. You’re doing scrambled eggs, maybe an omelet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You know that I have pink place mats and that I was going to be making quiche?”

  “Women love quiche,” he said. “I’ve never understood that.”

  “Well, I’m a woman, and most of the people coming over are women, so . . .”

  “Most?”

  “Three girls and two guys.”

  He studied her. “Guys? Huh.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to explain who Logan and Seth were—but for some reason, she kept it to herself. Maybe she wanted to let him wonder. Just a little.

  “You don’t have to go to the store for me,” she said. “Truly.”

  “I know,” he said, moving to his own door. “But you’re going to take me up on it.”

  “I am?” she asked, even though she was pretty sure he was right. Hell, she was already digging her keys back out of her purse.

  “You are.”

  “What do you get out of this?” she asked suspiciously as he was about to close the door.

  His head poked back out and he lifted his eyebrows meaningfully.

  “No,” she said, pointing her keys at him. “I am not sleeping with you in gratitude for going to buy eggs.”

  His grin only grew wider. “I’ll be back in thirty. Feel free to still be in a towel when I knock on the door.”

  “Never gonna happen!” she called.

  But then she was grinning, too, because she and Josh were back.

  Chapter Ten

  EXACTLY HOW MANY BANANAS did I put on my shopping list?” Heather asked as she pulled out a second bunch from the grocery bag. “I only need a couple for the fruit salad.”

  “Sure, but you’re going to need a lot for the banana bread,” Josh said, moving some things around in her fridge to make room for the multiple cartons of eggs he’d picked up.

  She turned and stared at his back. “I’m not making banana bread.”

  “Well, not today you’re not,” he said. “They have to get all ripe and brown first.”

  “Sorry, I’ll clarify. I’m not making banana bread ever.”

  “Sure you are,” he said, pulling a bundle of Italian parsley from the bag. “As a thank-you.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit that I owe you a thank-you,” she said slowly. “But I don’t know how to make banana bread.”

  “Don’t worry.” He winked. “I do.”

  Heather rolled her eyes, even as she felt an odd little stab of happiness at the thought that they’d be making banana bread together in the near future. She didn’t actually like banana bread, but she was pretty sure she was starting to like her neighbor. A lot.

  Not in the romantic sense. She wasn’t quite crazy enough to get involved with a man who had heartbreaker scrawled across his six-pack. But she couldn’t deny that the guy was growing on her. Big-time. Nor could she deny that she was attracted. Big-time.

  They unpacked the groceries, and Heather pulled up the coffee cake recipe on her iPad. Wow. Wow. Had it always been this complicated? So many ingredients. So many steps.

  So little time.

  Josh shoved his hands in his pockets, wandering around her apartment. “Table looks nice.”

  The table did look nice, thanks to him giving her time to fuss with it. Heather had taken a speed shower, leaving her hair to air-dry as she’d carefully arranged the freshly cut flowers she’d picked up on her way home yesterday and made homemade napkin rings of sorts out of gorgeous silver ribbon left over from one of her summer weddings.

  She didn’t have fancy china, but her plain white plates contrasted nicely with the pink place mats, and she’d completed the look with silver glittery candles that were maybe just a touch fancy for a daytime brunch but gave her otherwise pedestrian apartment a flare of formal.

  “Yeah, well, that’s the easy part,” Heather said as she dashed around the kitchen, gathering the necessary supplies. The metal bowl balanced on top of a million other things crashed to the ground, followed by the bag of flour, the wooden spatula, and a box of salt, which thankfully wasn’t open and thus didn’t spill everywhere.

  Heather set the stuff aside, bending down to clean up at the same moment Josh did.

  They both reached for the bowl, and she glanced up when he didn’t let go when she tugged. He was searching her face. “4C, exactly how bad are you in the kitchen?”

  She bit her lip. “Um, I ma
ke a mean chocolate chip cookie?”

  He gave a little sigh as he stood, extending a hand down to her. “Somehow I knew you were going to say something like that. All right, 4C, let’s do this.”

  She frowned. “Do what?”

  Josh pulled out two cutting boards and placed one in front of her. “You’re on fruit salad.”

  “Not a manly enough dish for you to concern yourself with?” she asked.

  “Absolutely not. I don’t suppose you’re planning on serving steak? Just a big, juicy hunk of beef?”

  “Big, huh? Compensating for something, Tanner?”

  “Sorry, if you wanted to see the goods, you should have done so earlier this morning before I put my pants on.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “I’m confident it won’t be the last time you prance around in your boxers. And no steak. But seriously, you don’t have to help me.”

  “Shut up, 4C. You’ve pissed me off enough in the past week. Okay, let’s talk egg prep. You skilled enough to do omelets, or you want me to just prep it all so that you can put it into one big scramble when they get here?”

  “Scramble, I guess,” she said, unable to keep the glum out of her voice. “Not as fancy as I was hoping, but I’ve never made an omelet before, and I’m not sure cooking for five guests is the time to start.”

  “Tell me about these people you’re so determined to impress,” he said, cracking an egg into a mixing bowl with surprising aptitude for a man who had his mother make him pancakes.

  “The women are my colleagues,” Heather said, flipping open the carton of strawberries and beginning to wash and slice them. “The rest of the Belles and our receptionist.”

  “The Belles?”

  “The Wedding Belles,” she explained. “That’s the name of our wedding-planning company.”

  “And these belles,” he said as he dug around in her drawer for a whisk. “They’re the fussy quiche types?”