She stretched her legs out before her, happy she didn’t have to rush. Her mind wandered back to when she had classical music in her life every day. She inherited her love of classical music from her father. At bedtime, he played masterpieces on a small upright in their tiny house. She’d lie in her bed, picturing his fingers flying over the keys so expertly. It had soothed her then, as it did now.
When the crowd thinned out, a familiar bark drew her attention.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” came a familiar, deep voice.
Brooke looked up into eyes shaded by the night. “Pres?” A short woof from a pug answered as the tall man folded himself down to share the small space on her blanket. “And Buddy.” She petted the pug, who had plopped down next to her.
“He never waits for an invitation, no matter how many times I tell him that’s rude.”
“Neither does his owner.”
“Oops. Pardon me.” As he moved to rise, she put her hand on his arm.
“Just kidding. Stay.”
“Are you going to tell me to sit, too?”
She laughed.
“I didn’t know you like classical,” he said.
“Never asked.”
“I figured an advertising woman would only like something more, uh…recent. More current.”
“Figured wrong. I love all classical, especially Vivaldi.”
“Me, too.”
“My dad used to play ‘Moonlight Sonata,’ ‘Fur Elise,’ and other stuff on the piano for me.”
“I was dragged to The Little Orchestra Society by my mother. I resisted, but I loved the music. Just didn’t want Mom to know.”
“Are you close to your parents?” She picked a dandelion washed in the moonlight and twirled it.
“Yes and no. They’d like me to live their way, but I don’t want to. Can’t.”
She shot a sidelong glance at him. “What’s their way?”
“Dad’s into investment banking. Mom does all the politically correct charities. I hate that shit.”
“At least they’re alive.”
“I don’t hate them, just how they live. I see them on major holidays. That’s enough.”
“Wish I had that.”
“You have Ruth.”
“She’s great. But my parents were…exceptional people, in some ways.”
“Too bad about the accident.”
“Too bad they were stoned and driving.” A note of bitterness crept into her tone.
“Guess you miss them.”
She sighed. No more tears left to cry after so many years. Or were there? Her eyes watered. She took a deep breath and stuffed the emotion back down into her chest.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to open old wounds.” Pres slid his hand over hers.
A few rapid blinks saved Brooke the embarrassment of breaking down in front of him, again. “It’s okay. It’s been a long time. And I have Nan, you’re right about that.”
“She’s been a great friend to me,” he said.
“She’s a great friend to everyone, especially to me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“That’s why you see her every Sunday?”
“One reason. One of many. I need a dose of Nan, after spending a week in the cold world of advertising.”
“I thought you loved what you do.”
“Some days. I’m good at it. I like that. Being good at something. But the work isn’t fulfilling on one level and some of the people are…selfish and cold.”
“Like your old boss?”
“Among others.”
“Don’t you have any advertising friends?”
“You don’t make friends in advertising. You make contacts. People have to be useful. Good for something.”
“That’s cold.”
“Yep.” Brooke frowned. Having a few hours away from obsessing about finding work or wondering whom Lloyd was with had been wonderful.
“Sure brought you down, didn’t I?”
“It’s not you. It’s life.”
“How about an ice cream cone? You can’t be depressed eating ice cream.” He stood up and offered her his hand. “What’s your favorite flavor?”
“Mint Chip,” she said, tugging on his fingers while she rose.
“Mine, too! What a coincidence.”
“Is there anyone who’s eaten mint chip who doesn’t claim it as their favorite?”
“No sane person.”
Brooke laughed.
The bulk of the crowd had cleared out. Pres, Brooke, and Buddy strolled along the shadowy path, inhaling the fading scent of spring roses. She let go of Pres’s hand and wrapped her arms around her middle as the night air turned cooler.
“Cold?” he asked. She nodded. Pres moved closer, guiding Buddy to follow, and put his hand on her shoulder. As he drew her in, she snaked her arm around his waist. The warmth of his body removed the chill.
“Hot fudge,” he said.
“What?”
“Hot fudge sundae with mint chip ice cream.”
“Oh my God. Orgasmic. Let’s go.” She yanked on him and picked up the pace.
Within fifteen minutes, they were seated on the front stoop of Pres’s building, digging into sundaes. Satisfied sighs emanated from the couple. Buddy cast an expectant glance at each in turn, hoping to steal a lick.
“No chocolate for you, Buddy. Chocolate is bad for dogs,” Pres said. The light of the moon made his hair shiny, while it cast deep shadows around his eyes. Brooke wished she could see where he was looking. The heat from his thigh pressed against hers kept her body warm. Their shoulders brushed, making her aware of his presence in a tingly way. Do I want to replace Lloyd so soon? Don’t I miss him? I miss the sex, but maybe that’s all it was.
She missed a drop of hot fudge. It dripped from the plastic spoon onto her bottom lip. Before she could lick it off, Pres’s tongue was there. He swiped the chocolate up then circled back over. He smelled good, masculine with a hint of aftershave. He tasted good. She wanted more. Brooke tilted her head up for his kiss. There was nothing sweet or innocent about this one. His tongue parted her lips and searched her mouth.
He closed his fingers on her waist, sliding her closer. Her breasts touched his chest, igniting a tiny fire inside her. He put down the empty cup and drew her harder against him, his mouth claiming hers, his arms embracing her.
Her breathing became rapid. Pres stroked her back, holding her to him. Brooke wound her arms around his neck. Need spiked up inside. No, no. Not gonna hop into bed. No way. She warred with her instincts for a few moments then pulled back. Pres dropped his hands. “A little intense there.” She covered her slightly swollen lips with the back of her hand.
“Sorry. Can’t help it. That’s how I feel around you.” She couldn’t see his face, but heard his shallow breathing.
She pushed to her feet. “I have to go.”
“Why?”
“It’s late.”
“So?”
“I have to get up early and look for a job.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday. Take the day off. No one hires anyone on Friday in the summertime.”
“Even if I can’t reach anyone, I can research job openings. Then, I hit the ground running on Monday.”
“You’re very focused, very determined.” He laced his fingers with hers.
“I have to be. I have rent to pay.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you for the sundae. It was beyond delicious.”
He grinned. “So were you. Saturday, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“You don’t have to.”
They strolled down the avenue, bathed in moonlight.
“I’m not too much fun to be around.”
“I’m good at cheering people up.”
She nodded. “Okay. Saturday.”
When they parted, she backed away, their fingertips sliding apart. He raised his hand. Buddy tugged toward home. While her mind revved up to face the stress of the morn
ing, her heart was at ease. No conversation about deadlines. No bragging. No trashing people. No complaining about clients. She grinned as she headed down Central Park West toward her building.
Before any hard lessons in misplaced trust and the ways of the real world hit home, Brooke smiled. She liked her new friend, liked him a lot. The sensation of peace flowing through her made everything seem possible. Whatever comes, I’ll be okay.
Chapter Five
Preston Carpenter unsnapped the harness from Buddy’s leash at the front door. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed for the backyard. Buddy took a hefty drink from his water bowl then followed along.
Neat beds of pachysandra, interrupted by wooden buckets overflowing with blooming pink and white impatiens, hugged the flagstone patio. There was a small, round wrought iron and glass table and four chairs. A high, wooden fence provided some privacy from neighbors on either side, but not much from those across the way on the second and third floors. Townhouses abutted townhouses. Space in Manhattan is precious.
Pres dropped his large frame in one of the chairs and slumped down, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. He looked up, hoping to see stars, always hard to find due to years of car emission pollution.
His thoughts centered on how much Brooke surprised him. When he was certain he had her figured, she’d do a one-eighty and take him unawares. Classical music and Brooke. Corporate, buttoned-up, advertising woman likes classical music. Not shallow.
He hadn’t expected her to open up about her parents. He’d only heard Ruth’s side of that tale and had never considered how Brooke might see it. Now, he understood her perspective.
God, she was beautiful in the moonlight. It had made her dark hair shine like satin. The swell of her breasts had been shadowed, mysterious looking, enticing him to find out exactly how silky, soft, and full they were. And when he had kissed her… Wow. He closed his eyes, ran his tongue over his lips, and swore he could still taste her, with a whisper of mint. Pres hadn’t been this jacked about a woman in months, maybe years.
After Eva, he hadn’t wanted anyone else. Though not broken, his heart had been dented when she had suggested they see other people. Pres had put his head down and focused on his career, writing up a storm. Two treatments for movies, three scripts for television series’ pilots. He’d done nothing but work. He’d sent everything off to Max, his agent. Now, his scripts were in the hands of others and nerve-wracking waiting replaced the hard work of writing and editing.
Then, along came Brooke.
He’d met Ruth in the park. Freddy and Ginger had escaped, but had stopped to play with Buddy. Pres had nabbed their leashes and returned them to a grateful Ruth. She’d invited him up for homemade apple pie and hot cider. Best offer he’d had in months, especially on a cold, March day. They had sat talking for hours, and their pugs had become friends, too. After that, Pres had volunteered to take Freddy and Ginger along with Buddy on his afternoon walk. She had tried to pay him ten dollars, but he had refused.
He had seen Brooke coming into the building as he was leaving. A subtle scent of lilac had followed the dark-haired beauty. She had glanced at him with big, green eyes and an absent smile. She had worn a long, black skirt and a cotton sweater, knit in bright pinks and lilac. It had appeared to be handmade and had accentuated her ample bosom. He chuckled, remembering how he could hardly breathe after seeing her.
He’d asked Rocky who she was and practically jumped for joy when he found out. When he’d return the dogs, Ruth would chatter on about Brooke. They had shared many a cup of coffee over stories about the smart, beautiful, young woman. Every tale drew Pres in more, until he was half in love before he had even been introduced.
After he had met her, and she had looked down on him as the dog walker, he had considered her shallow. It had appeared her values were so different from his that they could never be compatible. He had wondered what Ruth saw in Brooke that he didn’t. That hadn’t stopped him from lusting after her delicious body, and his goal to sleep with her had still driven him to seek her company.
As he got to know her, his assumptions had crumbled like a dry muffin. Each layer of her personality that peeled away like an onion revealed fascinating new sides of this complicated woman. When she focused on him, he sensed her warmth, saw her listen with rapt attention, and wondered why he’d had the wrong impression from the get-go. His disappointment had faded. He had been intrigued and had increased his pursuit.
Pres took a swig of his beer and revisited their most current conversation. Settled back into his seat, he closed his eyes. She likes classical music. Misses her parents, but is pissed at them. Likes mint chip. Kisses great. His mind began to wander, visions of her, naked in his bed, filled his head. His groin tightened as the daydream heated to more explicit details. As he was about to plunge into her, his cell rang. Cursing, he checked the display.
“Hey, Max. What’s up?” He shifted to give his deflating erection room.
“Good news, Pres.”
“Yeah?” Better be after what you interrupted.
“I’ve got a couple of producers interested in the pilot scripts for your TV series.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Pres bolted upright in his chair, instantly wide-awake.
“I never kid about business. They were impressed you sold the Homerun script. I’ve been building on that.”
“About that. Any word on production plans?”
“Nah. Doesn’t matter. You sold the script. That’s what impressed these guys.”
“How many?”
“Two guys interested in all three pilots. This could be great. Do you have scripts for the first three episodes for each series ready to go?”
“Nope.”
“What the hell? Why are you sitting here talking to me? Get busy.” The phone clicked off.
Adrenaline rushed through Pres’ veins. He picked up his beer and headed for his computer. He began re-reading one of the pilots. Salacious thoughts about Brooke vanished, replaced by snatches of dialogue. The growing plot of his story took up all the available space in his brain. Maybe Brooke brought me luck?
Returning to his living room, he kicked off his shoes and pulled out a notepad. Reading the teleplay aloud, he stopped from time to time to make notes for the script. He was on fire.
* * * *
Brooke was surprised when Pres postponed their date for a week. He said he was on a roll and had to finish a script. She believed him…sort of. He’s got no reason to lie, unless someone better came along. Like someone with a job. He’s a good friend, a hot, good friend, but I’m not in love with him. It’s fine. She ignored the disappointment that crept into her heart.
She called Nan, but her grandmother already had plans for Saturday night. Harry was taking her to a classic movie at Benson Cinema. Another Saturday night alone. Unless I call Lloyd.
She fought with herself. But she was weak. She cursed her spineless self as the phone dialed, but his number went to voicemail. He’s probably off screwing the client. She ordered Penny Serenade, a five-hanky classic on Netflix, heated up some franks and beans, and spent the evening crying over the film and feeling sorry for herself.
Sunday morning, she awoke, happy to spend the day with Nan and the pugs. Pres didn’t show, so she walked Freddy and Ginger by herself. Though she didn’t expect to, she missed him and wondered what he was doing. Does he work shirtless? In the nude? Doubt that. But shirtless, most definitely. A tremor as quick as a snake shot up her spine at the sexy thought.
Brooke bounded out of bed on Monday, happy to be able to return to job hunting. After writing up a schedule, she dove into each day’s assignment with enthusiasm. The more I do, the faster I’ll find work. At the end of each day, she smiled, satisfied she’d spent her time productively, and confident a new place of employment was just an email away.
By Friday, she had contacted everyone she knew and applied to every position that appeared reasonable with her experience. But w
hen she called to follow up, all she got was a brush off or a run-around when she pressed for reasons for the rejection. She didn’t buy the excuses of her not fitting their parameters, or that they had decided to promote from within.
Frustrated, she phoned Cookie Santos, a headhunter she’d used when Gibbon & Walters was hiring, and called in a favor. Cookie had placed her at the agency. She knew Cookie had received a fat commission. Maybe she’d level with Brooke.
“Hey, Cookie.”
“Hi, Brooke. How’s the job search coming?”
“Do you have anything new?”
Silence for a heartbeat. “I’m sorry, but things are really slow. Summertime and all.”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“I make no promises.”
“I’m not having any luck. I submit my résumé. Go for an interview. Make it past the first, second, and even the third. All goes well. Then, wham! Nothing. I get turned down for some made-up reason. Nobody explains. Never anything specific. I think people are lying, hiding something.”
“You know we can’t say much more than you didn’t fit the profile or what they were looking for or something like that.”
“Yeah, I know. You can’t say we don’t want a woman or someone who needs deodorant. I get that. But this has happened several times, and I’m suspicious there’s something more. Do you know what’s going on?”
There was another silence.
“Cookie? Come on. I can’t get a job if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Please?”
The pleading tone of her voice must have softened up the hard-hearted headhunter because Brooke heard a sigh at the other end.
“You didn’t hear this from me. If you say you did, I’ll deny it. What happened between you and Pete Walters?”
“Nothing. Well, he made a pass at me, and I turned him down.”
“Thought so. He’s blackballing you.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Probably the old ‘best defense is a good offense,’ chauvinistic bullshit.”
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t want you bad-mouthing him all over town, telling the truth about what a scumbag he really is. So, he’s saying you made a pass at him, and he had to fire you because, when he turned you down, you became a stalker.”
Shine Your Love on Me Page 6
