by Lauren Layne
“Logan?” she asked before he could leave.
He turned back.
“I know you don’t know Josh, not really, but when you spoke to him at brunch, did he seem . . . happy?”
Logan was silent for several moments as he considered. “I wouldn’t say he was unhappy, but no, happy isn’t the word I’d first use to describe Mr. Tanner.”
“What is?”
Logan’s smile was a little sad. “Scared. I’d say Mr. Tanner is terrified of something.”
“But what?” Heather asked.
Logan lifted a shoulder. “I dare say that’s perhaps for you to find out.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
OKAY, WHICH OF THESE do you think Danica would like best?” Heather said, sliding the iPad across the table to Josh before refilling both of their wineglasses.
He pulled the tablet toward him and looked at the screen for a long moment before lifting his head and looking at her. “You are joking right? I’m looking at pink, pink, and pink?”
“No.” She leaned forward and tapped her nail against the swatches. “You’re looking at dusty rose, heaven’s mauve, and winter blush.”
Josh made a gun motion with his hand and held it under his chin. “Can we order dinner yet?”
“After we pick the bridesmaid dress color.”
“That one,” he said, pointing to the screen without glancing.
She tilted her head. “Really? You don’t think that’s a bit dark?”
“Heather. I will kill you.”
“Fine, fine. Winter blush it is.” She pulled the iPad back toward her and switched back to her notebook, where she typed it in.
“Why can’t Danica pick her own ugly bridesmaid dress color? I thought you guys were besties ever since your little powwow?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Heather said, sitting back and picking up her wineglass. “Things are definitely better. But I’m still trying to shield her from some of the more mundane details.”
“Right. By all means, don’t bother the bride, but harass the bride’s ex.”
“I didn’t see you complaining when I brought home the chocolate turtle cake to taste-test.”
Josh stretched his arms over his head, his shirt lifting to reveal a tiny sliver of abs that made her mouth water.
Work first, play later.
“So you’re willing to help with the food portion of the wedding but not the color scheme,” she said.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you sound surprised. How many dudes do you know who want to sit and discuss various shades of pink dresses?”
“Actually, I’m good on the dresses. I do, however, need to figure out whether we want to go with ivory or white candles. The white will better match her dress, the ivory will work better with the pale-pink color scheme I’m putting together. Thoughts?”
“Is there any cake left?”
Heather sighed and turned her iPad off. “Okay. You win. No more wedding talk.”
“You can talk. I’m just fresh out of things to say on the subject,” he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand, rubbing his thumb across her wrist.
“Nah, I think I’ve given enough of my week to Danica Robinson.”
“But you’ve made progress, right? Picked the place and all that?”
Heather nodded.
Danica had called her today—called, not texted, shock of all shocks—and said that she’d decided to forgo the Plaza. She’d even agreed to tour Heather’s top-two backups tomorrow, both gorgeous hotels with the same classy elegance of the Plaza, and the not-so-minor perk of being available.
Josh’s phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket, only to silence it and set it on the table.
“You can pick up if you need to.”
He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
Heather fiddled with the corner of her iPad. Most of the time, she was pretty content with whatever it was she and Josh were doing. The sex. The companionship. They hung out most nights, working, eating. Watching a movie.
And then there was the sex. Lots and lots of sex.
But sometimes it was as though there was this extra layer between them. A line that Josh wouldn’t cross. When it came to her job, her life, her issues, he was always there to listen and advise. He could tease or seduce her out of a bad mood like nobody she’d ever met.
But it was a one-way street. His life remained strictly off-limits. She could barely get him to talk about his day at the gym or his latest song, much less anything deeper that had to do with his life.
And yet, her conversation with Logan Harris earlier in the week was still lingering. Instinct told her that Josh was the perfect man for the job—it also told her that he would enjoy it.
The question was whether or not he’d let himself enjoy it.
“It’s Trevor,” he blurted out. “That’s who’s calling.”
“Oh,” Heather said, blinking in surprise. “You don’t want to get it?”
“He thinks he found someone to buy my drum set.”
Heather blinked. “What do you mean? That drum set is yours? I thought it was what’s his name’s?’
Josh shook his head. “Nope. Mine. Everything in the practice room is mine; the guys just play it.”
“Ah. Are you thinking of replacing the set with something newer?” She tried to keep her voice casual, even though she was secretly thrilled he was opening up, even a little bit.
Instead of responding, he held up his phone. “You care if I order Thai?”
She bit back her disappointment. “No. Go for it.”
“Pad thai with shrimp, right? And spring rolls.”
“Yup, that’s great.” She pulled her iPad toward her, flicking it back on. “Hey, how’s your sister? She’s due about now, right?”
“Past due. Baby Josh is past due, but no sign yet.”
“Baby Josh?”
“It’s a girl, but I’m still holding out hope they’ll name her after her uncle. If the kid’s at all lucky, she’ll look like me.”
“Yes, that’s what all little girls dream of. To resemble an overgrown frat boy.”
He glanced up. “Overgrown frat boy?”
“Who’s good at sex. Really good. Did I not mention that bit?” she asked teasingly.
Josh didn’t smile back.
“Hey,” she said, reaching toward him, but he stood up abruptly, moving away from her.
“Would it be better if I wore suits all day? Walked around with my phone plastered to my face, rambling about shit that doesn’t matter?”
Heather blinked. “Um. Where is this coming from?”
“I’m thirty-three years old. Guess being called a boy isn’t exactly every adult male’s dream.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quietly.
“How did you mean it?”
Uh-oh.
“I just meant you’re not on a typical path,” she said gently. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“I broke up the band.”
Whoa. What?
She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m getting conversational whiplash. Back up. What now?”
“It’s not a big deal. Trev and I talked about it a few nights ago. It’s just a hobby for the other guys, and we just don’t see it going anywhere unless we’re really going to give it our all, which we’re not. So . . .” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Finito.”
“What about for you?” she asked. “I always got the impression you were pretty passionate about it.”
“I am. That won’t change. I just . . . I don’t know. It just felt right.”
Heather nodded. “As long as you’re happy with the decision.”
“Happy’s a stretch,” he said, tossing his phone on the table with a sigh. “It feels right, I just don’t
know . . .”
He trailed off and Heather swallowed, deciding to take a risk. “You don’t know what to replace it with?”
His blue-green eyes snapped to hers. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Well, what do you want to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know, 4C. Not all of us had our dream job lined up at the age of twelve, or whatever.”
“Fine,” she snapped, losing patience. “You want to have another of your sulking episodes, have at it, but do me a favor, and don’t bring up things you don’t want to talk about.”
She grabbed her wineglass and stormed toward his kitchen sink. She couldn’t quite bring herself to dump it, but neither was she going to sit there and try to make small talk with a guy who ran hot and cold every time she tried to connect with him on a remotely human level.
“Don’t get pissed,” he muttered, coming up behind her.
“Well, I am, a little,” she said, grabbing her iPad. “Sometimes it’s like you want to have a conversation, you start it, then decide you don’t want to talk after all, and you blame me.”
He rubbed at his forehead. “And this is why I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Ouch.
Her mouth dropped open. “Seriously? You don’t have a girlfriend because you’re an ass.”
“Heather.”
But she was done. He wanted to keep things light, fine, but she was not going to sit around and serve as his emotional punching bag.
“This goes both ways, you know.” She threw the words out at him as she headed for the door. “Conversations—sorry, non-conversations—like this one are exactly why I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Hey, would you hold up a minute?” he asked, coming after her.
Heather spun around. “Why, so you can sit here and dangle all sorts of conversation starters and then get pissy when I respond? You’re selling your drum set, but don’t want to tell me why. You’re dismantling the band, but don’t want to talk about that, either. And God forbid we talk about what you might want to do instead of the band, because you totally lose your shit.”
His nostrils flared in irritation, his eyes turned flat and cold, and she suddenly had a very good sense of what the old Josh might have looked like before he decided to be all devil-may-care. The aura he must have given off when he was striding around in expensively tailored suits, barking orders at lowly peons, and going out for $400 power lunches.
But although it was becoming increasingly clear that while there was an old Josh and a new Josh, nowhere to be seen was the real Josh.
“Can we just hold on a second?” he said.
“How about you come up with a list of safe topics, and then we’ll talk,” she snapped, reaching for the door handle and jerking it open. “I’m not in the mood to walk on eggshells tonight. I’ve got work to do.”
“You always have work to do,” he muttered.
“Well, that makes one of us,” she shot back, stepping out into the hallway and slamming the door behind her. She didn’t wait to see if he’d follow her before she stormed into her apartment and slammed that door, too.
It felt . . . good.
A little petty, sure, maybe a touch immature. But sometimes a good old door slam was exactly what one needed.
She threw herself on the couch, determined to get some work done. Because that’s what adults did. They worked.
You always have work to do.
Heather scowled as she thought back over Josh’s words. She didn’t always have work to do. Well, she did. The wedding-planner business wasn’t exactly nine-to-five. But she didn’t let it rule her life.
Did she?
Sure, she brought her work home with her sometimes. Often.
But she also loved it.
Maybe it had been a touch unfair to make him look at color schemes tonight—she hadn’t really needed his opinion. But talking about Danica’s wedding gave her an excuse to see him without seeming clingy, and—
Heather sat up straighter. Well, crap.
Her mind flitted back to the week that had just passed in a flurry of sex and laughter, realizing that almost always, it had been her seeking him out. He’d always seemed amenable to hanging out, sure, but wasn’t it her who usually called first?
In fact, after they’d first slept together on Thanksgiving night, he hadn’t been to her place once. It was always the other way around. He hadn’t used his key, hadn’t so much as knocked on the door.
Heather groaned and slumped back on the couch, tossing her iPad aside.
Had she been that girl? The one who wouldn’t go away? He hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d always smiled when she’d knocked at the door, never seemed to be trying to get rid of her, and yet that was what Josh did. He was polite to the women he slept with. Hell, how many women had she watched him say good-bye to with a smile and a wink and a flirt?
Her eyes flew open. For that matter, how many women had there been since they’d started sleeping together?
And even if there hadn’t been any, there likely would be now. She wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he was calling another one up right this very minute. A woman who wouldn’t overstay her welcome, who wouldn’t ask pesky questions, who wouldn’t be distracted by something as mundane as her career.
The thought made her sick, considering the guy wasn’t her boyfriend.
And she didn’t want him to be.
Did she?
No.
He was mercurial and immature, and half the time she felt like she didn’t even know him.
But the other half of the time she suspected he might very well be the best man she’d ever met.
“Tricky,” Heather muttered to herself. “Very tricky.”
There was really only one thing to do in these situations, and Heather headed toward the kitchen, grabbing a spoon even before she opened the freezer door to contemplate her emergency supply of ice cream.
Heather’s brow furrowed as she surveyed the variety of options. Was getting in a fight with your booty-call neighbor a cookie-dough situation? Mint chocolate chip? What she really wanted was the special-edition pumpkin pie ice cream she’d picked up last week, but pumpkin pie reminded her of Thanksgiving, which made her think her of Josh . . .
She reached for the plain vanilla. To punish herself.
Heather had just pulled the lid off, spoon ready for demolition, when there was a knock at the door.
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at it.
She dug her spoon into the ice cream, scooped out an enormous mouthful of vanilla, and shoved it in her mouth, trying to ignore the second knock.
By the third mouthful, the knocking hadn’t stopped. In fact, it was growing louder.
“Go away,” she called. “I’m in a mood.”
To her surprise, the knocking stopped. For once, the man had listened to her. Heather told herself she wasn’t disappointed at how easily he’d given up on her.
But then, how hard did a guy like Josh fight for an easy lay, really? He likely had dozens of others a phone call away, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t pick up fresh meat in a bar in two point four seconds.
She’d just inhaled another giant mouthful of vanilla when an awful banging started up. One couldn’t call it music coming from the other side of her bedroom wall. This was no band practice, no solo playing.
This was someone banging on a drum set as loudly as he could with no perceptible rhythm.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said around a mouthful of ice cream.
The banging persisted. No, it got louder. And louder.
Heather’s hand clenched around the spoon so hard she thought she might actually bend the metal. What a jerk. No big deal. She could ignore it. Could ignore him.
She made it about three minutes before she barged into his apartment, still wielding
her spoon and temper.
As expected, she found him seated by the drum set, not even pretending to do anything other than bang it over and over.
“What the hell is your problem?” she yelled over the banging.
His hand paused only briefly when he saw and heard her, but he crashed the drumstick down onto the drum one more time for good measure before tossing it aside and storming toward her.
Heather held her ground, and they were toe-to-toe, glare-to-glare.
She spread her arms to the side. “You happy? You get what you want?”
Josh shook his head. “Not even fucking close.”
His mouth slammed down on hers a half second before his hands closed greedily around her head as he took her in the hottest kiss of her life.
Heather’s spoon dropped to the floor as her fingers found his waist, clawing at his shirt.
His lips were possessive, his tongue insistent, and his fingers punishing as they tugged at her hair.
Heather had never had makeup sex before, had never quite understood the big deal, but she got it now. Oh, did she ever.
Josh had them both out of their clothes in seconds, but Heather didn’t have time to be impressed because she was too busy being turned on at the feel of his hands on her breasts before he dipped his head and sucked a nipple into his hot and greedy mouth.
She moaned something that might have been his name or might have been a wanton plea as his hand slid down her stomach, this thumb circling her as his middle finger slid inside. Even more erotic was the way he watched her as he played with her, his eyes never leaving hers as he touched her everywhere she needed him.
Josh had never been stingy with the orgasms, but tonight he pulled away just as she was on the crest, and she let out a moan of protest and leaned forward and bit his shoulder in revenge. He growled, spinning her around and pushing her upper body onto the small console table where he kept his sheet music and notebooks, paper scattering as he bent her over.
“Stay,” he commanded, swatting her ass with just enough force to sting as he went to his discarded jeans, fumbling through the pockets until he came up with a condom.
“You just carry those around?” she asked huskily, watching him over her shoulder. Even still, she stayed put, her breathing heavy as she waited. Wanted.
