Love Handles (A Romantic Comedy)

by Gretchen Galway

  The Claremont was a luxury spa—heiress or no—she could hardly afford. Without Ellen’s payoff, Bev was as broke as ever. She’d have to figure out how to draw a salary, but had no interest in depending on Liam’s advice.

  “I’d better explain to your mother.”

  “No, don’t bother. She’ll be fine.”

  “I promised.”

  “Under duress.”

  “I promised.”

  They made their way back to his house. Back at his front door she waited for him to open it, but he just stood still behind her. “Last chance,” he said.

  She opened the door herself and stepped into the living room just as Liam’s sister pulled on a coat. The boyfriend was gone.

  “Liam, I’ll need to ride back with you,” April said.

  “Ah,” was all he said in reply.

  “Oh, don’t you start, too. It’s not like you’ve got any better taste than I do,” April said, then noticed Bev. “Sorry. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Oh, I’m not—”

  “April, you are pathetic. As I told you five minutes ago, this is Beverly Lewis. Ed’s granddaughter. She’s trying to get into his house next door.”

  April waved off her brother’s insult. “I should have known. You’re way too normal-looking.”

  Not sure if that was a compliment, Bev checked Liam’s face for a reaction just as April added, “Not like the supermodels Liam loves so much.”

  Bev plastered a smile on her face and didn’t let herself brush any more dirt or leaves off her clothes.

  “Bev is the new owner of Fite Fitness,” Liam said. “I report to her now.”

  “Bummer,” April said, but didn’t specify for whom before flinging open the front door and stepping outside. “I’ll wait in your car. Don’t take too long, all right? I’ve got to note Billy’s departure on my blog.”

  Bev shared an amused look with Liam just as Trixie came into the room. “No luck?”

  “Apparently the locks have been changed,” Bev said.

  “And now Bev is going to use your computer to find a decent bed for the night,” Liam said.

  Bev said, “Oh, no, I can find—”

  Trixie made a cheerful tisking sound. “You promised. Now you can help me eat all this leftover chili. Whatshisname was a vegetarian. Do you eat meat, Bev?”

  “You are not going to make her eat too,” Liam said.

  “Not if she’s a vegetarian. What do you think I am? Are you, Bev? A vegetarian?”

  “No, but you don’t have to feed me, really. I’m fine.”

  “You’ll be doing me a favor. In exchange for the room. We’ll be even. I can’t possibly eat all this chili, and the freezer is full of my strawberries. They were so good this year. Do you garden?”

  The smell of rich, spicy meats spilling out from the kitchen and the thought of fresh home-grown strawberries were triggering deep hunger pangs Bev had managed to ignore all afternoon.

  Her longing must have appeared on her face because Trixie grinned and clapped her hands together. “Liam, pour your friend a glass of wine.”

  Liam scowled. “Mother. She’s only here because you’re pressuring her.”

  “I have to be pushy so she knows I mean it. I’m not making some phony offer I hope she refuses.” Trixie grinned at Bev—a big, toothy smile that reached her ears.

  “No, you’re making her accept an offer she’d rather refuse,” he said. “All she wants is a calm, private room at the Claremont without some pushy crazy lady bothering her.”

  Annoyed by his assumption of what she wanted, Bev gave Trixie her warmest smile. “I would love to stay here tonight, Trixie. Thank you so much for the offer. Your house is beautiful and I hate hotels and your chili smells fantastic.”

  Trixie beamed at her. Then both she and Bev turned to Liam and gave him a daring look in unison.

  Liam’s mouth flattened and he stared back at them. After a long second, he said, “April’s waiting in the car,” and turned away to pull open the door. “See you at work, Beverly.”

  Trixie took her arm. “He’s probably afraid I’ll put you in his old room,” she said, leading her deeper into the house. “Men are such little boys at heart.”

  Chapter 7

  Early the next morning, Liam paced the perimeter of his office with a tennis ball in his hand, hurling it at the wall every few steps and trying to distract himself with the effort of catching it before it hit the ground.

  Both of the offices next to his were empty; nobody wanted to be his neighbor for long.

  He stopped his pacing and ball-throwing long enough to grab the phone and dial the front desk. “Has she come in yet?”

  “No,” Carrie said.

  “You didn’t leave your desk since I came in? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He exhaled and hung up, cursing Ed’s bad taste in hiring an antisocial teenager for reception, then called George at the back door. “Well?”

  “Quit your nagging,” George said. “I told you I’d call you. Not that I know what she looks like.”

  “Like Ellen, but . . . softer. Younger.”

  “’Younger’ I get. But ‘softer’—what the hell does that mean? Fat?”

  Liam closed his eyes. The hip replacement hadn’t improved George’s disposition. “No. Not really. Just call me if there’s a girl you don’t recognize with black hair.”

  “Told you I would.”

  Liam hung up and hurled the ball at the back of the door as hard as he could. “Softer,” he muttered in disgust. He should have used words George would have understood. Big tits. Big ass. He leapt up and caught the ball on its arc over his head. Big pain.

  There was a thump at the door not of his making. He glanced over. “Yeah?”

  The door swung open. Bev stood there, coffee in hand, wearing a dress that made him drop his tennis ball onto the floor. The garage sale suit was gone, replaced by some fitted, silky gray thing that wrapped tightly around her small waist, clung to her large breasts and hips and, he followed it down, over her long thighs to her long calves, ending at a pair of black clunky shoes that hinted at her real career. He dragged his gaze up to her face. “You’re wearing a dress.”

  She looked worried. “Is that a problem?”

  Hell, yeah. “You look very nice.” He looked away and took a deep breath. “Like one of the design assistants.”

  She took his comment as an insult. “Damn. Maybe I should change.” She ran her hands over her hips, drawing his attention with them. “I tried on seven outfits this morning.”

  “You look fine,” he said, his eyes fixed back on her face. “The assistants come out of design school and see us old slobs and realize they’re the only cool people here. Within two years they quit and move to New York.”

  Her eyes went wide with alarm. “That’s not the message I’m going for.”

  He shrugged and slumped into a chair as though her appearance had no effect on a callous old pro such as himself. “Looking hot is an advantage in this business.”

  She looked down at herself and laughed. “Well, good. I think.” She came closer and sat in a chair next to him. “So, I noticed nobody wears Fite to work.”

  “I wear it sometimes. But I’m just a dumb jock. Not a real garmento.”

  “Ah. Dumb. That must be why you’re the senior executive.”

  “But see, that’s just because Mr. Roche felt sorry for me.” He traced the edge of his desk with a finger and forced a smile. “My father died, you see, right after the Olympics.”

  “Your mother told me. I’m so sorry.”

  He cringed inwardly at the thought of whatever else his mother had told her. “And of course, Stanford only took me because of the swimming.”

  “I know how you feel. UCLA only took me because of my grades.”

  He hesitated, having to bite back a laugh. He met her eyes. “Losers, both of us.”

  “Pathetic.”

  They looked at each other, each
of them smiling, until Liam realized something and his face fell. “Hey, how did you get in here without anybody seeing you?”

  “Carrie saw me,” she said. “I gave her a muffin.”

  Liam looked over at his desk and saw the red light wasn’t blinking on his phone. “She should have left a message.”

  “And I told her I’d tell you myself that I was here.”

  He bit back his outrage. “I told her to call me.”

  “Are you trying to spy on me?”

  “Of course. You think I can just let you wander around on your own?”

  She got a sly look on her face, eyes bright. “Your mother did.”

  His humor evaporated. Surely his mother hadn’t broken out the old photo albums. “You were nice to indulge her.” He struggled to keep his tone light. “But I’m sure you’re eager not to stay another night.”

  “It’s a beautiful house. I slept in the Rose Room. And she made me waffles.”

  He didn’t see any hint of unearthed secrets, pity, or surprise. Just a woman who’d spent one night in an unofficial bed-and-breakfast. “With vanilla protein powder? Or the real kind?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Ah, that’s why they tasted a little funny.”

  “We’re kind of creative about nutrition in our family,” he said, then regretted saying anything. They weren’t friends, and shouldn’t be talking about his family. He got to his feet. “Come on, I’ll show you your grandfather’s office. You can make the calls from there.”

  “Calls?”

  He gestured towards the door. “To the locksmith.”

  “I need a tour of the rest of the place too. Are you too busy? I could ask Carrie—she and I have become buddies.”

  “Carrie?” He stared at her. “Front desk Carrie?”

  “Did you know she spent two years traveling in Mexico, studying silver jewelry?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nearly got married to some German guy with a cooking show.” He continued to stare. Bev added, “He was traveling through Mexico, you see, and they met up.”

  “I had no idea she was able to conduct a conversation.”

  “Maybe you should try talking to people every once in a while.”

  He snorted. “I’m curious to see what she would do if you asked her for a tour, since I’ve never seen her get out of her chair. I’m not convinced she has legs.”

  Bev laughed, but he kept a straight face, and she sighed. “Forget Carrie.” She got up. “I want you to give me the tour. That will look better anyway. Some of your authority might rub off on me.”

  The thought of him rubbing any part of her was bad. He got to his feet and strode to the door. “I have time for a quick run-through. Then you can get comfortable in Ed’s lair.”

  “Lair?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She followed him. “Is there a security badge or something I need to worry about?”

  “Security badge? Like a sheriff?”

  “No badge, then.”

  He shook his head. “We’ll start at the back door. Where the magic begins.”

  She followed him down the tiled hallway, past the vault of old clothes, into a loading area that opened to the back alley. Old George in his Oakland A’s cap sat perched on a stool, reading the paper and eating an apple.

  “This is where our deliveries come in and out,” Liam said. “Thanks to George here.”

  “Not like I do anything,” George said. “Damn company should put us both out of my misery.”

  Bev bit her lip and glanced at Liam, who was hoping George would be his typical trollish self and knock some reality into Bev’s head. With Ellen gone, all he needed was to show Bev how much happier she’d be owning Fite from the other end of the state.

  “George, this is Beverly Lewis. Ed’s granddaughter.” Liam’s eyes fell for a moment to her mouth, then were drawn down to her body for a quick peek before snapping back over to George. “She’s the new owner.”

  George stopped mid-chew and stared. “No shit,” he said, his mouth full.

  “Nice to meet you, George.” She smiled. “Yummy apple?”

  That made George raise his white, untrimmed eyebrows and take another bite. He looked at Liam without moving his head. “You kiddin’ me?”

  Bev kept smiling as though George had welcomed her with open arms. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  George’s eyebrows stretched up even higher, suggesting there wasn’t. “Never seen you around before, have I?”

  “You will now,” she said. “How long have you worked here, George?”

  Crunch. Another bite, apple-spit drooling down his chin. “Too long.”

  She nodded, smiling, apparently oblivious to his hostility. “Then I bet you’re an incredible resource for a newcomer like me,” she said. “If you see me screwing up, you let me know.”

  George scowled at her, took another bite, and looked at Liam with a What the fuck? expression.

  That was just the first dose; she couldn’t maintain that good cheer forever. Liam pulled her away, past the morning delivery of white bunting rolls propped on their ends, each fuzzy cylinder five feet tall and three feet in diameter, to the freight elevator. “Moving on up.” He punched the call button. “This is the easiest way up to the engineering floor.”

  After a couple of minutes the car appeared above them, visible through the grate, jerking and squealing. Liam waited for it to settle before he tugged the cage open. He stepped aside for her to get on first, then climbed in after her and banged the door closed. “Let’s start at the top floor and work our way down.” He held down another button and the elevator lurched and rose.

  She tilted her head back to watch the floor above them approach, slowly become level with them, then sink below. He noticed her neck was long and pale and had a faint blue vein pulsing below her jaw. He leaned his shoulder against the car wall as the floors groaned past. “You must love kids, to teach preschool. Aren’t you going to miss them?”

  “It’s not just about liking children, like I’m just some glorified babysitter who never wants to grow up.”

  He’d found a nerve. Filing that away for future use, he asked, “Who said that?”

  She turned aside and watched the next floor appear through the gate. “The education of children, especially young ones, is not highly compensated. Some take this as evidence of its unimportance.”

  He tried to remember more about her branch of the family. Hollywood types, lots of money. Not the kind to live in a dumpy apartment like hers, or value her teaching career.

  “The education of children is more important than anything,” he said. “Certainly more important than exercise clothes.”

  Looking suspicious, she tried to catch his eye, but he focused on the elevator controls until the car reached their floor. The elevator jerked and he pulled the gate aside, then shoved the metal door open for her. They walked into a bright, white-walled corridor filled with a dozen women huddled over a row of sewing machines. The rattle and thrumming of their work echoed across the tile. “Behold, the sewing ladies,” he said.

  Most of the women glanced up for a second, then went back to their work. “Ladies?” Bev asked in his ear.

  “Traditional title.”

  At the machine closest to the window, Shirley Hwang, the floor manager, held up a piece of black fabric.

  “Mr. Liam.” She wagged it at him, her red bifocals falling to the cord around her neck. “This new stuff. It keeps getting holes. Very crappy material.”

  Looking around for one of the assistants, he went over and took it from her. “Do you have the original roll?”

  “Feng has it.” She pointed down the hall.

  Normally he would tell her to find an assistant to deal with it, but Bev was watching and could use the education. “I’ll have Rachel check it out.”

  Shirley nodded her satisfaction and went back to her table as he and Bev walked where she had pointed.

  “The cutter
s are down here, next to the patternmakers.”

  “I thought the sewing was contracted out,” Bev said. “Like to China.”

  “Production is all over the world. But we need in-house staff for development.” He found Feng and talked to him for a moment until he found the fabric he was looking for and hooked it under his arm. “Feng agrees it’s no good. I’d introduce you,” he said to Bev, pulling her away, “but he hates to be interrupted, and has lots of sharp blades. They’ve got Darrin breathing down everyone’s ass this afternoon. FedEx goes out at three.” Of course, Darrin was pushing them because Liam was pushing Darrin.

  They continued walking.

  “Do you still swim?” Then she looked away, blushing, as though regretting the question.

  He raised an eyebrow and looked down at her. Had she been checking him out? “I hurt my shoulder and never quite recovered enough to compete again.”

  Her blue eyes filled with pity. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

  Out of habit he didn’t mention how much he’d loathed swimming. For some reason people found that remarkable. Dad had been dead for over a decade—no point dwelling on it now. “I do a lot of running these days.”

  She grimaced.

  “Not a runner?” he asked.

  She propped her hands on her hips. “Do I look like a runner?”

  Not minding to have a reason to stare at her body, Liam let his gaze drift down over her breasts. “We make clothes that would help.”

  “Help?”

  He kept his face blank. “With the bouncing.”

  Instead of being offended, or laughing, or looking embarrassed, she shrugged and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I have other problems.”

  “Oh?”

  “I lack physical coordination. Always have. The rest of my family is fine—jocks, all of them.”

  “You don’t have to be a jock to move around.”

  She patted him on the arm. “Said by the Olympian.”

  “Exercise should be non-negotiable. For anyone.”

  “That’s the kind of talk I can’t stand. Who’s negotiating? With whom? This is my body. Nobody else’s.”