So Ethan ignored the proffered fist, adjusted his baseball cap, and spoke straight from his angry heart. “Better watch out, man. If you’re not careful, someone’ll sneak in and steal her away from you when you least expect it.”
“Sofia?” Toby laughed and clapped Ethan on the back again. “She’s not going nowhere, man. She knows when she’s got a good thing going. I like you, man. You okay, here? Need some water? No? Okay, then. Good talk. I’m out.”
With that, Toby flashed him the peace sign, slid his sunglasses on, climbed inside his remaining luxury vehicle and got all the engine’s horses fired up. He zoomed off amid the low rumble of powerful machinery, tooting his horn at Ethan as he passed.
Ethan stared after him, too incredulous to scrape his lower jaw up off the ground.
That narcissistic SOB actually thought that Sofia was the lucky one in their relationship? Because…why, exactly? Because he’d been somebody once? Because he’d played in the NFL for ten minutes and been a local sports hero for fifteen? And now that glorious history gave him the right to lie to Sofia, sponge off her and damage her finances?
Ethan snorted out a disbelieving laugh.
“What’s so funny, Landscaper?”
Oh, shit.
It was her.
Ethan spun around in time to see Sofia emerge from the house with a black leather tote and giant water bottle in hand, shutting the door behind her. It was a good thing he’d heard her voice first, because that gave him time to brace himself, get his shit together and act like an intelligent human being. No more Homer Simpson impersonations for him today, thanks.
But, oh, man, it was going to be hard.
It was almost noon on this sleepy Sunday now, a little late for church, but she was decked out in a sexy red sundress that hit all her curves in all the right places, killer heels and bright red lipstick that would be visible a mile away and really made her lush mouth pop. Sunglasses were perched on top of her head. Her long hair was tousled, curled and flipped, and maybe it was his imagination, but there seemed to be way more of it now than there’d been earlier.
The pink headscarf in his pocket, perhaps sensing the presence of its owner, chose that moment to throb and heat, threatening to make his thigh sizzle.
He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore it as he watched Sofia’s approach.
And what an approach it was, all swaying hips, fluttering skirt and windswept hair. One of her brows was up and there was a wry smile playing around the corners of her mouth, as though she knew exactly what she did to men—to him—and had decided that he and his brethren the world over were mere puppets on the end of her string, dancing when she wanted them to.
Men turned to incoherent fools in her presence, and this fact of life apparently amused her.
This thought, more than any desire to appear smarter than he had the last time he interacted with her, stiffened his spine. He wasn’t her puppet. Well, he was her puppet, clearly, but she didn’t have to know that.
“Well?” She stopped at the end of the walk. “What’s so funny?”
“Let’s just say that I don’t get some people,” he said. Nice job, man. Complete sentence, no stuttering, eye contact made. Let’s make it 2-0 and crank out another intelligent sentence. “How do you like your hydrangeas?”
“They’re gorgeous. Thank you. Just make sure you sweep all that topsoil off my walk when you’re done.”
“I always clean up after myself, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” she said, pouting prettily. “I’m far too young and sexy to be called ma’am.”
That got a surprised laugh out of him, as well as a violent flush that raced up his neck, over his cheekbones and made his ears burn. “So you’re not big on the whole modesty thing, are you?”
“Ah, modesty,” she said, tossing her hair and letting loose with a sultry laugh that was like a shot of adrenaline straight to his dick. “I leave that to lesser women.”
“Noted,” he said, laughing again.
Despite all his best intentions to be a cool cat, he couldn’t help giving her another appreciative once-over. He’d have to be blind not to. Though he liked what he saw very well, indeed, he’d liked it better earlier. For one thing, she was now sporting a lot of face paint. The tiny zits on her forehead were covered up, and her sparkling brown eyes were ringed by a lot of black stuff—eyeliner?—that made it look like she’d been working on herself with a Sharpie.
And he was no expert, but she either had bristles from her hairbrush taped to the corners of her eyes, or those were false eyelashes she was batting at him. They kept diverting his attention, as did the hair. That was seriously a lot of hair. How’d she get it so big, so quickly? Anyway, all the distracting accoutrements were probably a good thing since they kept him from wanting to freak out about having an actual conversation with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“I’m still trying to figure out who you are, Mr. Harper of—according to the sign on your truck—Harper Landscape Design,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and sizing him up. “What’d you do with Mr. Boone of Boone Landscaping? He’s the one who drew up the plans and gave me the quote.”
“I bought him out.”
“What?”
“I worked summers with him when I was in high school, and we reconnected about a year ago with an eye toward me taking over when I got the money together and he retired. But he’s had a couple health issues in the last month and we sped up the timetable. So here I am. The Harper of Harper Landscape Design.”
“And what are you doing here on the Sunday of a holiday weekend? Don’t landscapers take Sundays and holidays off?”
He glanced at the sky. “Rain’s coming. Mr. Boone trained me to take advantage of sunny days so I don’t fall behind on the jobs.”
“Well, Mr. Boone had good references and online reviews.” She tipped her chin up and gave him a not-so-veiled appreciative glance. Those red lips turned up in a challenging half smile. “But I don’t know anything about you. How do I know you’ll do a good job for me?”
Staring into her face at close range, with the breeze catching the scents of orange blossoms on her skin and something flowery from her hair and bringing them straight to his greedy nose, Ethan felt nerve endings all over his body tingle to life. The grass seemed greener, suddenly, and the sky felt more vibrant. And he felt the first distant stirrings of unease, because this was a dangerous minefield she was luring him into. She’d hired him. He needed the money and he needed a satisfied customer who could help spread the word about his new business. What he didn’t need was an entanglement with a woman who probably flirted with every man she met, just for blood sport, and had a boyfriend who could tear Ethan apart with his bare hands to boot.
I refuse to repeat my past mistakes because I’m not insane, he thought.
I’m not playing your little game, sweetheart.
And yet that’s not what came out when he opened his mouth.
“I always do a good job,” he said, staring her in the face. “On everything.”
He’d expected her to flip her hair and lob another innuendo over the net at him, setting up a long back-and-forth that would be right at home at the finals at Wimbledon. But she stilled, her smile slowly fading.
“So you’re not big on the whole modesty thing, either, are you?”
He shrugged and made a show of renewing his grip on the shovel, feeling hot and irritable. Maybe a couple of shots of insanity had set up house inside his head when he wasn’t looking.
“I should probably get back to work. You’re not paying me to stand around and talk. And it’s going to rain soon.”
She blinked, a vague frown shadowing her eyes.
Maybe she didn’t know what to make of a man who didn’t want to flirt with her.
He damn sure didn’t know what to make of her.
“Well,” she said, recapturing her bright smile. “Here. To keep your strength up. I don’t want you getting dehydrated.�
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And she thrust the water bottle at him.
Ethan stared at her pretty fingers, which were painted blue with flashing crystals, and tried to get his mind right.
This was the kind of thing clients did for him and his crew all the time, along with ordering pizza and bringing sandwich trays or doughnuts. No big deal whatsoever.
So why did he feel a) unaccountably touched; and b) like Adam receiving that juicy red apple from Eve’s outstretched hand?
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, snatching his glove off and taking the bottle. Despite all his best efforts, the edge of his finger brushed by the edge of hers, igniting a spark that felt powerful enough to incite a riot or start a war.
As for this small taste of her skin that sent fire racing up his arm?
It felt like the genesis of an obsession.
“You’re welcome,” she said, quickly dropping her hand and backing up a step. She was all briskly businesslike now, much to his satisfaction, and there was a wary new light in her eyes. “So. I’m running some errands downtown, but I’ll have my cell phone. If you need me. I don’t know if I’ll be back before you leave for the day or not. I’m trusting you to give me a full day’s work. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I don’t plan to,” he said, unsmiling, and it could have been more innuendo, but it felt like a solemn promise. “You’ll see.”
“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath and hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. “Good-bye, Landscaper.”
She took a couple steps down the sidewalk.
Wait, what?
She was walking downtown (less than a mile away, admittedly) in those heels? Which were great for standing there looking sexy and sophisticated, but had to be murder on the feet, especially on a concrete sidewalk?
Didn’t these people have another luxury car tucked away in that three-car garage?
“You’re walking?” he called after her.
She looked back over her shoulder at him, one dark brow quirked with amusement. “Of course, I’m walking. You were here when that bastard took my car. I don’t have a broomstick, or a Segway or a bike, so, yes, Landscaper, I’m walking. How else will I get where I’m going?”
Now, at this worst possible second, was the time that his guard really slipped. With his guard down, Ethan let himself notice something he’d been trying to pretend wasn’t there. Namely, that Sofia’s eyes were slightly red and slightly puffy. Which meant she’d been crying. A lot. Because your eyes didn’t turn up looking like that from a couple of tears while watching a sad commercial or chopping a few onions.
Sofia had been crying.
Toby’s actions had made Sofia cry.
This knowledge filled Ethan with a free-floating aggression that made him want to smash the nearest hard object with his fist.
“He”—for a whole host of reasons, none of which he felt like examining right now, Ethan couldn’t force himself to say Toby—“drove off in another car. I thought maybe you had one, too.”
Sofia’s expression hardened. “Well, I don’t.”
She started off again.
“I could take you,” he said, gesturing to his truck.
Sofia hesitated.
“I was headed to Java Nectar for lunch anyway,” he added, a small white lie (he’d packed a PB&J for lunch) that might be necessary to spare her pride, not that she could have much left at this late juncture. “Let’s go. Won’t take a minute.”
She laughed, and this laugh, unlike the practiced sultriness of the one a few minutes ago, was the real deal. How did he know? Because this laugh was husky, unabashed, accompanied by dancing eyes that crinkled at the edges and revealed the deepest, sexiest dimples a woman could possibly have.
This easy version of her was real. The bravado, mindless flirting and all the makeup? Not real.
This was The Real Sofia.
He watched her, feeling all the air leave his lungs in a single helpless whoosh.
“You’re funny, Landscaper,” she said when she’d stopped. “It won’t take me a minute to walk. Why would I need a ride?”
Both fair points.
She was a grown-ass woman. As such, she was more than capable of taking care of herself.
Even if she wasn’t, she was none of his damn business, anyway, so he needed to dial it way back.
If only it were that easy.
“At least change your shoes,” he said, a tinge of concern coloring his voice.
She frowned down at the offending footwear, a pair of pointy-toed heels that made his feet hurt just looking at them, even if they were as sexy as a Victoria’s Secret catalogue was to a teenage boy. “And why would I do that? These shoes are beautiful and they make my legs look longer and my ass look amazing. And my mother always says, ‘It’s painful to be beautiful, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.’”
Ethan tried to shoot her a wry smile, but his body parts didn’t seem to function under his control when he was in Sofia Abbaté’s presence. And there was something about her spirit, battered and wounded though it was, but still shining bright, that really did him in.
“Maybe,” he said, dead serious. “But you’re beautiful enough. And you’ve already had more than enough pain for today. Haven’t you?”
She gaped at him, and in that moment, as in the moments when he’d first laid eyes on her and when she’d really laughed just now, he got another glimpse of the real Sofia.
Not the flirtatious Sofia with the facade of makeup applied with a putty knife and clothes that weren’t clothes so much as they were conversation starters and showstoppers.
The Real Sofia.
The one with stormy eyes that couldn’t hide her pain and fear. The one who was tired of fighting and pretending, but couldn’t find a way off the treadmill on which she lived her life. The one who was simply a woman with a woman’s strengths and vulnerabilities, rather than this glammed-up diva who was playing a role just like Meryl Streep played roles.
Later, when he had a minute, he’d ask himself where he’d acquired the advanced psychology degree he seemed to think he had, because he sure was delving deep into the mind of a woman he barely knew.
But now wasn’t the time for any self-analysis.
Not when he was so determined to catalogue her every reaction.
For one arrested second, Real Sofia stared at him with wary surprise, probably because she expected him to be gentleman enough to play his own role (landscaper who minded his own business) and forget about the scene of domestic unhappiness he’d witnessed this morning.
If only he could.
She seemed to realize he could see behind her curtain, because her expression turned stony.
Whoa, he thought, staring down those cold brown eyes and that utterly still face.
Only owls, hawks and other raptors had Sofia beat when it came to stony expressions.
And if that message hadn’t been loud and clear enough for him, she slowly slid her oversized sunglasses down to cover her eyes, further shutting him out. When she spoke again, her voice was as frosty as the thin ice he seemed to be skating on.
“My pain is none of your damn business, Landscaper,” she told him.
“I know that,” he said, unscrewing the top of his water bottle. “Appreciate the reminder, though.”
With that, he turned his back on her, took off his baseball cap and dumped half the water on his head, because he was agitated and irritable and the day’s heat (or maybe it was Sofia’s heat) seemed to be scrambling his brain. Then he drank the other half of the water in four big gulps, crushed the plastic bottle in his fist and tossed it into his truck’s bed.
He wasn’t looking at Sofia’s face, so he couldn’t see her reaction to this dismissal.
But it was several long seconds before he heard the steady drumming of her heels on the concrete as she walked away from him.
When he could no longer hear her, he pulled his guilty secret out of his pocket and stared at it. Sofia’s hot pink hair scarf. I
t flowed like water through his work-roughened hands. It was fragrant and way too fine and expensive for the likes of him. Real silk, unless he was much mistaken.
It didn’t belong to him, just like these hydrangea bushes and this house didn’t belong to him.
Just like Sofia didn’t belong to him.
In his thirty-two years on the planet, he’d never been a thief. Hell, he could remember one hot and boring summer, when he was nine or ten, when he and his thuggish little cronies had biked to the corner market and dared each other to steal candy bars. They did. Quite successfully. His criminal career might have taken flight but for the sad fact that eating the snatched Baby Ruth had given him the world’s worst case of vomiting and diarrhea. A psychosomatic case, no doubt, but still traumatizing.
The upshot was that he’d learned, at a tender age, the invaluable lesson that he was a good guy who fared better when he did the right thing.
He stared down at Sofia’s scarf and rubbed the fine silk between his fingers.
In this case, the right thing was simple. He could fold the scarf up and leave it on the porch, where Sofia would be sure to find it. He could leave it in the mailbox. Or he could just hand it to her the next time he saw her, claiming he’d had it in his pocket, but had forgotten to give it to her earlier. Any of those scenarios could work, with no one the wiser about his shady initial intentions.
And then he’d keep his head down and avoid Sofia for the duration of this job, which would only be a couple of weeks at most, and then, once he left here, forget he’d ever laid eyes on her. He might have to put a little effort into it, but it could be done.
He could reaffirm his commitment to sanity and not making the same mistakes he had in the past.
Yeah. That’s what he should do.
It was all decided.
He ran his thumb over the slippery fabric one last time, saying a private good-bye.
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