Книга - Mr Right, Next Door!

Mr Right, Next Door!
Barbara Wallace









“Mr Templeton,” she called sharply through the door.

“Hold on, hold on; I’m coming.”

About time. Folding her arms across her chest, Sophie prepared to remind Mr Templeton about the existence of other residents and the need to respect their personal solitude.

The door opened.

Good God Almighty. Sophie’s biting lecture died on her tongue. Standing on the other side of the threshold had to be, hands down, the sexiest man she’d ever seen. Not cover model handsome—handsome was far too benign a word—but rugged in a sensual way, with smooth tanned skin and a square-cut jaw. A slightly too long nose kept his face from being overly perfect, yet on him the feature fit. Strong men demanded strong features, and this was definitely a strong man. He had the color of dark honey and eyes that reminded her of caramel candy. Not to mention a chest custom-built for splaying your hands against.

He was also at least a decade younger than her, and holding a sledgehammer—the obvious source of her disturbance. Both realizations quickly brought Sophie back to earth. She lifted her jaw, once again prepared to complain.

“Mr Templeton?” she repeated. Just to be certain.

The caramel eyes made a slow sweep of her from head to toe. “Who wants to know?”


Dear Reader,

Years ago, while on vacation in England, my husband and I took a road trip to the town where my ancestors came from. On the way we passed the ruins of a castle. My husband—spontaneous guy that he is—suggested stopping for a tour. I said no. It was getting dark, and I had my mind set on getting to our destination.

The town we ended up visiting was very pleasant, but I’ve always regretted not taking that detour to the castle. In hindsight, I realise we lost out on a special experience. Here in New England we don’t have castles, ruined or otherwise.

I thought about that castle a lot while writing this book. In many ways Sophie Messina is on a trip of her own. She’s carefully mapped out her life, and refuses to let anything drag her off-course. Enter Grant Templeton, hunky contractor. Suddenly she has to make a decision. Does she throw her plans out of the window? Or does she stay on course and miss out on something really special?

In the end both Sophie and Grant have big decisions to make. Decisions about priorities, decisions about love, and most of all decisions about taking chances. I’d like to imagine that at the end both of them are not only happier, but wiser people. I hope you do too.

This is my fifth book for Mills & Boon


Cherish™, and I’ve loved writing each and every one. I’ve also enjoyed getting to meet many of the line’s fabulous readers. I’d like to meet more. Please drop me a line at Barbara@barbarawallace.com and say hello.

In the meantime, I hope life brings you all you have planned—and a few terrific detours as well. Don’t miss out on those castles!

Regards,

Barbara Wallace




About the Author


BARBARA WALLACE is a life-long romantic and daydreamer, so it’s not surprising she decided to become a writer at the age of eight. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mom. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full time—she couldn’t be happier.

Barbara lives in Massachusetts, with her husband, their teenage son, and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.


Mr Right,

Next Door!







Barbara Wallace


















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Pete, my own special contractor.

I can’t imagine life without you.




CHAPTER ONE


HE WAS doing it again.

Since she’d moved in a month ago, Sophie Messina’s neighbor had been banging, buzzing and doing Lord knows what in his upstairs apartment, making it completely impossible for her to concentrate.

Didn’t he realize some people liked quiet on their weekends? That people had work to do?

Breathing out a determined sigh, she redoubled her efforts. Allen Breckinridge, one of her managing directors, had announced yesterday afternoon that he needed this merger model for a meeting on Tuesday, which meant she needed to review and correct the work her junior analyst sent over this morning before passing the figures along. And, since no report could ever be finalized without repeating the process at least four times, she needed to make her notes quickly. A lot of analysts would be tempted to make nitpicky comments, more to emphasize their involvement than anything, but Sophie preferred to work efficiently. Last thing she wanted was the managing directors thinking she was the kink in the bottleneck. Especially since she planned on being a managing director herself someday. Sooner rather than later too if all went according to plan.

Bam!

Oh, for crying out loud, what was he doing up there? Kickboxing holes in the wall? She whipped off her reading glasses and tossed them on the dining room table. This was ridiculous. She must have slipped a half-dozen notes under his door asking him to kindly cease and desist whatever it was he was doing. First politely, and then threatening to bring the issue to the co-op owners association, but he’d ignored all of them. Well, no more. This noise was going to stop. Today.

Smoothing back her sleek blond ponytail, she stepped outside into the building entryway and shivered as her bare feet met the wood flooring. Before being renovated into co-op apartments, the building had been a brownstone mansion. For one reason or another, the architects kept the public areas and her apartment as true to the original decor as possible which was why a large and very ornate crystal chandelier hung in the entranceway. Sophie had to admit, she loved everything about the nineteenth-century fixtures, from the dark wood molding to the sprawling central stairway with its spindled railings and balustrade. They gave the building an Old World kind of feeling, conjuring up words like historic in her head. Words that implied stability. She liked stability.

She liked tranquility, too. A quality that had been distinctly absent the past four weekends. As she climbed the stairs, she swore the banging grew louder with each step. Did he have to do whatever it was he was doing at the loudest possible volume?

This wasn’t how she envisioned her first conversation with a neighbor. Actually, she hadn’t planned on having a conversation at all. One of the reasons she moved to the city two decades ago was because you could go months, years even, without exchanging more than a nod and a hello with the people around you. Not that she was antisocial. She just preferred being able to choose who she socialized with. She had too much she needed to accomplish to waste time frivolously. The only reason she even remotely knew this particular neighbor’s name was because his mailbox was located next to hers, and she’d needed to know who she should address her letters to. G. Templeton. She’d seen the same name on the side of a pickup truck parked outside. Some sort of contractor, she believed.

Was that what he was doing now? Contracting? Memories of half-finished DIY projects and drunken destruction popped into her brain before she could stop them. What the heck? Buying her own place was supposed to distance her from those days, not bring them racing back. At her age she should be over being plagued by the ghosts of the past. Yet no matter how much she accomplished or worked, they never seemed to completely recede. She could always feel them, lurking, keeping her on guard. In some ways, their insistence was a blessing; they kept her working and focused. Otherwise, she’d still be stuck in some banged-up, roach-infested apartment like the one she grew up in on Pond Street, instead of owning her own brownstone co-op. A co-op she’d thought would be quiet and tranquil.

By the time she reached the second floor landing, noise punctuating each step, Sophie was thoroughly aggravated. Every bang seemed to reverberate off the fleur-de-lis wallpaper and settle right between her shoulder blades fueling her irritability. Mr. Templeton was going to get an earful, that’s for certain. Summoning up every inch of her authoritative demeanor, she knocked on his door. The response was another bang.

Fine. Two could play this game. She pounded back in kind.

“Mr. Templeton,” she called sharply.

“Hold on, hold on, I’m coming!” a gruff voice called out. As if he were the one being bothered.

Folding her arms across her chest, Sophie prepared to remind Mr. Templeton about the existence of other residents and the need to respect people’s personal solitude, not to mention their right to an undisturbed weekend.

The door opened.

Good God Almighty. Sophie’s biting lecture died on her tongue. Standing on the other side of the threshold had to be, hands-down, the most incredible-looking man she’d ever seen. Not cover-model handsome—handsome was far too benign a word anyway—but rugged in a sensual way with smooth tanned skin and a square-cut jaw. A slightly too-long nose kept his face from being overly perfect and yet on him the feature fit. Strong men demanded strong features and this, Sophie could tell, was definitely a strong man. He had hair the color of dark honey and eyes that reminded her of caramel candy. Not to mention a chest custom-built for splaying your hands against.

He was also at least a decade younger than she was, and holding a sledgehammer, the obvious source of her disturbance. Both realizations quickly brought Sophie back to earth. She lifted her jaw, once again prepared to complain.

“Mr. Templeton?” she repeated. Just to be certain.

The caramel eyes made a slow sweep of her from head to toe. “Who wants to know?”

If he thought the open assessment would unnerve her, he was mistaken. She’d been fending off harassing looks since college graduation. None of them as blatant or as smoldering perhaps, but she’d fended them off nonetheless. “I’m Sophie Messina from downstairs.”

He nodded in recognition. “The lady who writes the notes. What can I do for you, Mrs. Messina?”

“Miss,” she corrected, although she wasn’t quite sure why, or why she didn’t say “Ms.”

Biceps rippled as he propped the hammer against the frame and folded his arms, mimicking her stance. “Okay, what can I do for you, Miss Messina?”

Sophie was pretty certain he already knew. “You’ve been doing a lot of banging lately.”

“Renovating,” he replied. “I’m gutting the main bathroom, getting her ready to install a claw-foot tub.”

“Interesting.” The image momentarily distracted her. Rough and rugged didn’t go with claw-footed baths.

She smoothed her hair, as much to rein in her thoughts as to keep the unruly strands in line. “Well, I’m trying to build a financial model for a potential acquisition.”

He drew his lips together. They were nice-shaped lips, too. “Financial model, did you say?”

“Yes. I’m an investment analyst. For Twamley Greenwood,” she added, figuring the prestigious name might emphasize the project’s significance.

“Good for you.” Clearly, her employer credentials didn’t impress him. “What would you like me to do?”

Wasn’t the request obvious? Stop making so much blasted noise. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind keeping it down. Your loud banging makes concentrating difficult.”

“Little hard to bang any softer,” he drawled in reply. “By nature banging is a loud activity. Even the word—bang—” he let the word burst loudly from his lips “—implies as much.”

Sophie gritted her teeth. She knew that condescending tone. He wasn’t taking her complaint seriously. “Look,” she said, drawing herself up to her full five feet and five inches—a meaningless gesture since he still had at least a half a foot on her. “I’ve asked you several times if you could please keep the noise down.”

“No, you’ve slid notes under my door commanding me to ‘cease and desist.’ You haven’t asked me anything.”

“Fine. I’m asking you now. Could you please keep the noise down?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “No can do.”

No? “No?” she repeated.

“Told you, I’m gutting the bathroom. Do you have any idea what that entails?”

“Yes,” she replied. Visions of those biceps swinging a sledgehammer came to mind.

“You sure? Because if you don’t—” a gleam entered his brown gaze “—you’re welcome to come in for a demonstration. Maybe even do a little swinging yourself.”

“I—I—” Was he flirting with her? The audacity had her speechless. The image of those muscular arms didn’t help, either.

Taking a deep breath, more to regain her mental purchase than anything else, she tried again. Blunter this time. “Look, Mr. Templeton, I have a lot of work to do—”

“So do I,” he interrupted. He shifted his weight again, biceps rippling a little more. Challenging her or trying to distract her, Sophie wasn’t sure. He was succeeding in doing both. “It’s Saturday afternoon, not the middle of the night, and last time I looked, renovating my home, on my weekend, was completely acceptable. If the banging bothers you so much, I suggest you go build your model somewhere else.”

That wasn’t the point. Sure, she had a nice big office in the financial district where she could work, but Sophie didn’t want to go into Manhattan. What good was owning your own home if you had to twist your life around others’ wishes, and besides, she shelled out a lot of hard-earned money for this place. If she wanted to work at home, by God, she should be able to.

Which begged the question of how a guy his age managed to buy into this address in the first place. It had taken her twenty years of saving and paying off her education loans before she accumulated a sizable down payment. Maybe he didn’t mind having debt the way she did. Or he was a closet millionaire. But then why would he be redoing his apartment by himself on weekends?

Never mind; she didn’t really care. She just wanted to get back to work. “I would agree with you if we were talking about one afternoon, but we’re talking every afternoon for a month. That’s a lot of gutting.”

“What can I say?” he answered with a shrug. “I’ve got a lot of renovation to do.”

He was purposely ignoring her point. Sophie couldn’t help noting her analysts would never get away with copping such an attitude. Maybe this confrontation would go better if she’d approached him when dressed more professionally. She’d be the first to admit her cotton skirt and Polo shirt didn’t scream authority. Casual clothes tended to make her look girlish.

Still, she tried, jutting her chin and mustering her sternest voice. A take-no-excuses tone she’d perfected over the years. “What about the other tenants? How do they feel about all these renovations?”

He shrugged again. “No one’s complained so far.”

“Really?”

“You’re the only one.”

Sophie smoothed her ponytail. Time to make him take her complaints seriously; show him she meant business. “Perhaps when I bring this up to the building association you’ll hear differently.”

“Oh, right. I forgot your last note threatened to contact the association.”

At last, maybe they were getting somewhere. “Glad to see you read them. I’m sure you’d prefer not to make this a big, official issue.”

“I would, except for one thing.” The gleam reappeared in his eye. “I’m the association president.”

He had to be kidding.

“The other tenants didn’t want to be bothered with building maintenance issues so they gladly let me handle everything,” he continued. He unfolded his arms, jamming one hand in his back pocket and letting the other rest off the hammer handle. “Come to think of it, that’s probably why they don’t mind the banging.”

“Unbelievable,” Sophie muttered.

“Not really. Not when I’m the best person for the job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some tiles I need to take down.” He reached for the door.

“Wait!” She shoved her bare foot forward to block the door. Thankfully he noticed. “What about the banging? What am I supposed to do until you’re finished?”

“The store around the corner sells noise-canceling headphones. If I were you, I’d consider checking them out.”

Sophie barely had time to slide her foot back before the door slammed in her face.

Five o’clock came early, and it came even earlier on Monday morning. Earlier still since Sophie had spent until almost 1:00 a.m. making sure the last round of revisions were done and in Breckinridge’s in-box before going to bed. Much as she longed to sleep in and make up for the late hours, she couldn’t. The overseas markets were already entering their volatile hours and she was expected to know what was going on. That is, she expected it of herself. She didn’t want to risk the chance she’d get caught off guard. Being prepared was something she prided herself on, like being efficient and goal-oriented. Although all three would be a lot easier with more than four hours’ sleep.

Then again, a lack of sleep came with the territory. If you wanted to get ahead, you put in the hours.

And, she intended to get ahead. So far ahead that eventually Pond Street and all the other ghosts from her past were nothing more than vague, faded images. Then once she’d made it, she’d retire early and sleep in all the mornings she wanted. She was already halfway along her timetable and if the rumors were true and Raymond Twamley was planning to step aside, she could be even closer. A full two years ahead of her schedule.

Until then, she’d always have coffee. She flipped off the plastic lid to see how much of the lifesaving liquid she had left. A quarter of caramel-colored liquid greeted her. Interesting, she thought. Her neighbor’s eyes had been a similar color, especially when they’d taken on that flirtatious gleam. Not that she cared. The man had shut his door in her face, the hot-looking, rude…

“Reading tea leaves?”

She didn’t have to look up to know who was asking. While normally she made a point of maintaining a professional distance from her colleagues, David Harrington was the one exception. A member of the firm’s legal department, he had introduced himself at the company Christmas party a few years earlier, and she’d quickly discovered he made the perfect companion. “More like trying to see if I could absorb the caffeine through my eyeballs,” she muttered.

A slight frown crossed his rangy features. “That’s obviously not going to happen.”

No kidding, Sophie almost said aloud, before quickly biting the words back. Normally she found David’s tendency to be painstakingly literal easy to deal with, but lack of sleep had her tired and quick-tempered. It was going to take a lot of caffeine to keep her pleasant and reasonable all day.

Proving her point to herself, she took a long drink from her cup.

The silver-haired lawyer settled himself on the edge of the desk. Despite the early hour, he looked perfectly put together in his gray suit and aquamarine tie. But then, he always looked put together. He didn’t have to try to look professional; he simply was.

“I stopped by to see how you were doing. You sounded pretty stressed when you cancelled our dinner date Saturday,” he explained.

Sophie felt a little stab of guilt. “I am sorry about that,” she replied. “Allen had the whole office running in circles all weekend. I barely had time to breathe.”

He waved off her apology. “Forget it. I know all about Allen’s demands. We’ll try that particular restaurant another time.”

“Thank you for understanding.” One of the things she appreciated about David was that he did understand these things. He was also unflappable, professional and career-focused. Uncomplicated. That was the best word for him. True, he wasn’t the most thrilling man in the world and the physical aspects of their relationship wouldn’t inspire love songs, but he was exactly the kind of man she would choose if and when it came time to think about a long-term relationship.

“I would have been lousy company even without Allen’s last-minute project,” she told him. “I was having neighbor problems. Remember the banger?” Briefly she filled him in on her encounter with G. Templeton, starting with the banging and ending with their abrupt goodbye. For obvious reasons, she left out the part about his biceps and flirtatious grin.

As she expected, David was appropriately outraged. “He just shut the door in your face? Without saying goodbye?”

“Clearly he felt he’d said all there was to say.”

“More like he wanted to avoid the discussion. I’m guessing you weren’t the first neighbor to complain.”

“He says I am.”

“Nonsense. Bet you ten dollars when the tenant association meets, there are lots of complaints.”

“Doubtful. Turns out he’s the head of the association. The other residents didn’t want the hassle,” she added when David’s eyes widened.

Picking up her discarded coffee lid, she twirled the plastic circle between her fingers. “Looks like I’m stuck listening to the banging until he finishes his project.”

“What exactly is he doing anyway?”

She shrugged. “This week? Gutting his bathroom.” To install a claw-foot tub. She couldn’t get that particular image out of her head any more than she could erase the picture of his biceps flexing as he swung the sledgehammer.

Quickly she slapped the lid on her cup. “Whatever he was doing, the noise kept up the rest of the afternoon,” she told David. “Then on Sunday, he spent the day hauling away the debris—” which sounded suspiciously like bags of cement blocks “—making sure he set them down as loudly as possible outside my door.” Every time Sophie had heard the noise, she’d been jerked from her thoughts and swore he was doing so on purpose.

“Poor baby. No wonder you were aggravated. You should have said something when I called. You could have come to my place.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Sophie replied, knowing she wouldn’t. Why was everyone so eager for her to go somewhere else? Why couldn’t they understand that she wanted to spend her weekends in her own home? Besides, hers and David’s relationship worked perfectly the way it was. She wasn’t ready to complicate matters by spending weekends together.

“In the meantime,” she said, raising her cup to her lips, “thanks to spending the weekend on Allen’s project, I’m behind on everything else.”

“Including this morning’s status report?”

Ignoring the fact he was interrupting their conversation, Allen Breckinridge strolled into her office. Sophie swallowed her mouthful of coffee. Naturally the managing director would arrive at the exact moment she mentioned being behind. The man had an uncanny knack for arriving at exactly the wrong time. Made her forever jumpy.

“Good morning, Allen,” David greeted brightly. He was never jumpy. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Good enough. Jocelyn and I spent it at the Hamptons,” Allen replied. “About that progress report…”

“Right here,” Sophie replied, shuffling through her papers for a hard copy. No sense pointing out that she had emailed a version to his computer last night; I’m not at my computer, he would say.

“Thank you,” he said. He took the report while shooting David a look.

“I was just on my way out.” The lawyer rose to his feet. “If you need any more information regarding that due diligence research, Sophie, let me know.”

“I will.” Silently, she added a “thank you.” Another point in David’s favor: his discretion. When it came to their outside relationship, he understood her desire to maintain a low profile.

Meanwhile, Allen was skimming the figures Sophie just handed him. Irrationally—because she’d double-and triple-checked the numbers—Sophie held her breath. There was an edge to the man’s demeanor that made her perpetually worry she’d screwed up. To compensate for her nervousness, she fished through her papers again. “I also have the revised model figures you asked for.”

“Never mind that.” He tossed the report on her desk as though it were a meaningless memo. “I have a new project for you. Franklin Technologies is planning an IPO. I need an analysis for my meeting in Boston tomorrow morning.”

“Of course. No problem.” She and her staff could pull together a couple days’ worth of research in a few hours.

And so began another typical Monday. She was going to need a whole lot of coffee.

Turns out, coffee wasn’t enough. From the second Allen walked out of her office, Sophie found herself rushing around like a headless chicken, without about as much sense of direction, too. Every time she turned around someone needed something else, and she was asked to be the go-to girl. She missed lunch and dinner. Come to think of it, she decided while wolfing down a protein bar and a couple aspirin, having her head cut off might be preferable. At least then her neck might not be so stiff.

Finally she broke away for her nightly run thinking the endorphins might improve her mood. Wrong. All the forty-minute treadmill simulation did was add hot and sweaty to her already gigantic list of complaints. What the heck happened to the air-conditioning in the club anyway?

“Hey, where you heading?” someone hollered out as she made her way through the locker room to the showers. “Didn’t you see the sign? The showers are closed.”

What? Sure enough, a sign hung next to the door advising patrons that the club would be painting the showers and therefore shutting down the facilities early for one evening. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” the note chirped at the bottom.

Her head sagged. Fat good an apology did her. She was a sweaty, frizzy-haired mess who still had several hours of work ahead of her when she got home.

And of course, since she was eager to get home, the trains weren’t running on schedule. Meaning the crowd waiting just grew larger and larger so that when a subway car finally did arrive, she was forced to stand pressed into a horde of commuters as ripe and sweaty as she was. Naturally, the air-conditioning didn’t work on the subway, either. And did the guy standing behind her, the one with all the shopping bags, really need to bump into her backside every time they lurched to a stop? Lurch, bump. Lurch, bump. No way was that a French baguette in his bag.

By the time she reached her front door, all Sophie could think about was stripping off her clothes and dousing herself with water. Maybe disinfectant, too, she added, thinking about shopping-bag man with a shudder. The water didn’t even need to be hot. So long as she got clean.

Sliding her key into the front door was a little like greeting a long lost friend. Home. David and others, they could never truly understand the pleasure the word gave her. Or why she was so stubborn about spending her weekend here. That’s because they’d been coming “home” their entire lives. They’d grown up in homes with normal parents and permanent addresses. For her, the term was still a novelty. True, since graduating college, she’d had apartments, luxury apartments in fact. Some in far better neighborhoods. But none had been hers. The day she signed her name to the mortgage, she’d achieved a goal she’d had since she was a teenager. She owned her own home. No more checks to landlords, no more temporary locations she could decorate but never really lay claim to. She could paint the living room neon green and it wouldn’t matter because the place was hers.

With a welcome sigh, she tossed her gym bag on the bed and made her way to the shower. White-and-green tile greeted her when she switched on the light. When she bought the co-op the Realtor told her the previous owner insisted on keeping the original fixtures so, like the entranceway, the apartment had a very Old World, nineteenth-century look. David, of course, thought she should completely modernize the place and give it a sleeker look, but Sophie wasn’t so sure. She’d clipped out a few sample photos from design magazines but nothing had truly captured her eye yet. Part of her liked the Old World feel. Again, it was that feeling of permanency. Knowing the building withstood the test of time. Kind of like her.

Then again, if she were using herself as a metaphor, modernizing made sense, too. A statement to the world that Sophie Messina had finally and truly arrived and was in control of her own destiny. Either way, she wasn’t in a rush. She much preferred to take her time and develop a plan.

Right now, she’d take a hose and spray handle if it meant getting a shower. She reached past her green plaid shower curtain and turned the faucet handle.

Nothing came out.

Frowning, she tried the other hand. Again, nothing.

No way. This couldn’t be happening. She checked the other faucets, including the small guest bath next to her second bedroom. All dry. Someone had shut off the water supply.

No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. An overwhelming need to pout and stomp her feet bubbled up inside her. Where was her water? Had she missed a notice about work here, too? Just to be certain, she peeked outside to see if a note had been stuck to her front door. Nothing.

The pouting urge rose again. Of all the days to suffer her first home-owner problem. Why couldn’t the water wait until tomorrow to fail? Or better yet, this past weekend.

Weekend. Of course! As the realization hit her, Sophie did stomp—all the way to her front door. She knew exactly what happened. And it involved a claw-foot bathtub.




CHAPTER TWO


“WHAT do you mean you said no?”

Grant ignored the incredulous tone of his brother, Mike, opting instead for taking a swig of beer. On the wall, the latest edition of the Boston–New York baseball rivalry played out in high definition. That’s where he focused his attention. As far as Mike was concerned, he knew what was coming next.

“What heinous sin did the potential client commit this time? Choose the wrong paint color?”

Predictable as ever. “He wanted to go modern.”

“Oh, well that explains everything. God forbid someone might like contemporary design.”

“It was an original Feldman. Do you have any idea how rare those buildings are?” Scratch that. His brother had no idea. “There’s maybe a handful of them left and this guy wanted to gut the place and turn it into two-bedroom condos.”

“Better have him rung up on charges then. He’s obviously committing a crime against humanity.” Neither of them mentioned the fact that not so long ago, Grant would have committed the exact same crime.

“I hate to remind you, little brother, but there are people in this world who actually like living in buildings designed for the twenty-first century.”

Grant didn’t need reminding. “Then let them move into one built in the last twenty or thirty years, not rip apart an Art Deco gemstone.”

“Says the man ripping up his own apartment.”

“I’m not ripping apart anything, I’m righting a wrong.” In more ways than one. He raised the bottle to his lips. “Somewhere my historical architecture professor is pulling out his hair.”

“Give him a call, you two can ride off into the sunset on your matching high horses.”

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Mike had been born on a high horse. “Since when is having principles a bad thing?” So what if he developed them a little late? He had them now.

“There’s principles and then there’s cutting off your nose to spite your face. Sooner or later this attitude of yours is going to rear back and bite you in the ass.”

Couldn’t be worse than the injuries his old attitude caused. “Least then I’ll be symmetrical.”

Mike’s sigh could be heard in New Jersey. “Seriously, you can’t keep turning jobs down. Not if you want to build a successful business.”

Ah yes, success. The Templeton family mantra. Settle for nothing less than the top. Grant knew it well. Hell, for the first twenty-seven years of his life he’d embodied it. Better than his older brother even.

“Maybe I’m not looking for my business to grow,” he replied.

From the way his brother huffed, he might as well have suggested running naked through Central Park. “How about survive then? Did you miss the part of economics class where they explained you needed to have an income?”

“I didn’t take economics.” And he had income. Investment income, anyway. Enough to survive a good long dry spell as his brother knew perfectly well. “Another job will turn up. One always does.”

“You hope. One of these days there won’t be a job floating around. Then what? You’re not going to be able to rely on that boyish charm of yours forever.”

“Why not? Served me well so far.” Though he preferred to use it for more personal transactions these days. Seduction was so much more pleasant without business attached. Less weight on the conscience.

“You need to think about the future, Grant.”

Meaning he should get back on the corporate ladder where he belonged.

On television, the Boston first baseman watched a ball bound in front of home plate. Grant took a sip of beer in disgust, though whether it was over the team’s million-dollar-arm’s lousy performance or Mike’s lecture was up for debate. No matter how many times he tried to get his family to understand, they just kept pitching. They thought he was wasting his education. Drifting. Wallowing.

“Do you and Dad draw straws to see who gets this week’s ‘straighten Grant out’ phone call?” Grant asked. “I haven’t talked to Nicole in a while, maybe she’d like a shot, too, in between surgical rounds.”

“We’re concerned about you is all. You used to be so focused.”

No, he’d been a tunnel-visioned tool. Why couldn’t they see that he couldn’t go back to being that man? Not and live with himself. Just thinking about those days made him sick to his stomach. He took another swig to wash away the bile.

“It’s been two years,” Mike said in a quiet voice.

“Two years, four months,” Grant corrected. Did Mike really think that because some time had gone by, Grant would simply spring back to form? Nate Silverman wasn’t springing anywhere, and Grant wouldn’t, either, thanks to his self-centeredness.

“Nate would want—”

“Don’t,” Grant snapped. “Just don’t.” They both knew what Nate would want, and it had nothing to do with Grant or his future.

This time the bile couldn’t be washed away. It never would be completely.

You were his best friend, Grant. How could you not see something was wrong? He called you for God’s sake.

And Grant didn’t take the call.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Can we change the subject? Please?” The accusation haunted him enough. He didn’t want to go there right now.

To his credit, Mike relented. Even he knew when to back off. “Sure. For now.”

“Thank you.”

“But you can’t avoid the subject forever.”

No kidding. His family wouldn’t let him. “Did I tell you I met my new neighbor the other day?” Speaking of workaholics.

“The one who’s been slipping notes under your door.”

“In the flesh.”

“What’s she like?” Mike’s voice took on a wincing tone. “Or is it a guy?”

“No, she’s a woman, and she’s exactly what you’d expect from a woman who uses phrases like ‘cease and desist.’”

“I use that phrase.”

“Precisely.” Both his neighbor and his brother were high-end and tightly wound, only the neighbor was better looking. Grant could still picture her, all blonde and bossy with her “I’m trying to work” attitude. As if work was the be-all and end-all. Tension crawled up one side of him and down the other.

“I’m guessing from your description,” Mike said, “you two didn’t hit things off.”

“She threatened to report me to the building association. I told her I was the building association.”

“Nice. Now you know why you can’t rely on your charm forever.”

“We agreed you were going to drop that subject,” Grant muttered.

“Merely pointing out that not everyone finds you charming. Though I am surprised you failed with a female.”

Grant wasn’t so sure he completely failed. “Only because she wasn’t my type.” Personality-wise, that is. He had no problem with blondes, especially good-looking ones with slender lines and perfect breasts. Unless that is, she was so perfectly put together you could practically feel the hair trying to work free from her ponytail.

Problem was Sophie Messina had felt way too familiar. Dial back a couple years—twenty-eight months to be exact—and he was looking at the female version of his former self.

A sharp knocking sound pulled him from his reverie. Perfect timing. He had a feeling Mike was winding up for another lecture. “My dinner’s here.”

Soon as he said the words, his stomach began growling. When it came to pizza, he was worse than Pavlov’s dog. Giving a silent thank-you to whoever buzzed the deliveryman in, he told Mike he’d call him later in the week.

The pizza man was impatient. He knocked again. Grabbing his wallet, he strode to the front door, mouth already watering.

Except, he discovered upon opening the door, it wasn’t the pizza man. Instead, he found a very hot and bothered Sophie Messina, her arms folded across the very chest he’d just been thinking about.

“You took my water,” she charged, eyes flashing. “And I want it back.”

It took Grant a full minute to comprehend what Sophie was saying, partially because he barely recognized her. In fact, if pressed, he’d be hard to say this was the same person. The woman he met over the weekend had been glossy and tightly wound.

This woman though… Everything about her looked soft, right down to the way the front of her ponytail hung in long lazy curls around her face. One particularly twirly strand drooped over her left eye and practically begged to be brushed aside. And her lips…. He couldn’t believe he didn’t notice those succulent bee-stung lips on Saturday. The very male parts of his body stirred with appreciation. What had he been thinking about her not being his type?

“Well?” she asked, tapping her foot. “Are you going to turn it back on?”

“Turn what on?” he asked, distracted by the way her eyes switched hues. From deep blue to turquoise and back. He hadn’t noticed those before, either.

“There’s no need to stare at me like I have three heads,” she said. “There’s no running water at my place. You obviously turned the water off when you installed your tub. Since you’re finished—” her gaze flickered toward the beer in his hand “—I would like you to turn the water back on so I can shower. As you can see, I’m badly in need of one.”

Not from where he stood. But, that was neither here nor there. “Impossible,” he said, getting back to her accusation.

Her eyes narrowed. Her smudged mascara gave them a sultry, smoky look that managed to transcend her scowl. “Why not?”

“I didn’t turn it off.”

“Then who did?”

“Beats me,” he replied. “Did you pay your water bill?”

She stiffened, pulling her ramrod spine a little tighter. “I always pay my bills.”

“Whoa, take it easy,” he said, holding up his hands. Damn. He figured she’d be unamused, but the way she spat the words you’d think he’d delivered a blow. “I’m sure you do. I was just making a joke.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a sense of humor right now.”

No kidding. He would have said as much, but at that moment her shoulders sagged a little. “It’s been a really long day and I just want to take a shower.”

She said it with such longing, so much like a little girl who missed out on getting a treat, Grant couldn’t help but actually feel a little for her. Enough to give her a straight answer anyway. “Wish I could help you, but the only water I had anything to do with in this building is my own, and I turned that back on yesterday.”

“Any chance you turned mine off by mistake?”

“If I did, how would you have taken a shower this morning?

His question cut off that argument. “Besides, even if I did turn my water off today—which I didn’t—every unit has its own meter. You have to turn off each one individually.”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t give up easily did she? “Positive. You’re either going to have to wait for a plumber or shower somewhere else.”

“Terrific.” Her shoulders sagged a little more, and Grant swore for a moment when he saw dampness well up in her eyes. “Guess I better start making some phone calls.” She turned and headed down the hall only to stop halfway, as if remembering something. “Wait a moment. Isn’t this your job?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you were head of the building association. Isn’t it your job to look into building problems?”

Oh, that was rich. First she spends a month slipping notes under his door, then she accuses him of water theft, and now she wanted him to fix her plumbing? “Only regarding common areas,” he clarified.

“Plumbing’s common.”

“Nice try.” But like her complaint to the so-called building association, it wasn’t going to work. “You’re on your own, sweetheart.”

“What else is new?” At least that’s what it sounded like she muttered. She resumed her retreat, although this time her walk looked suspiciously like trudging.

Damn. Did she have to look so defeated? As if she were about to break? Guilt began snaking its way into his stomach. No way could he ignore that kind of distress. “Hold on,” he called out. “I suppose I could look in the basement. Maybe give you an idea of what to tell the plumber.”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, I would appreciate it.”

He minded, Grant said to himself. He just couldn’t say no.

Sophie continued her way downstairs, trying to decide if she felt foolish or justified. On one hand, seeing as how Mr. Templeton had disturbed her past four weekends, checking out her pipes was the least the man could do. On the other, barging upstairs and accusing him of water theft bordered on crazy lady behavior. For someone who believed in being aloof and in control she wasn’t doing a very good job. Templeton started it though, by shutting the door in her face and acting all flirty. She’d been stirred up for the past two days, and now, between the sweat and the work and the bumpy subway guy, she wasn’t thinking rationally. That was her excuse.

It was also, no doubt, why his presence felt as though it was looming behind her. The back of her nylon running shorts insisted on sticking to her thighs, so that when she stepped down, the material would pull upward, and, Sophie was certain, reveal way too much bare skin. Even though a man her neighbor’s age probably wouldn’t notice or care about her legs, she felt exposed. Which was interesting because she’d just ridden on two subway cars in the same outfit without a second thought. Then again, no one on the subway looked like her neighbor, either.

Two steps from the bottom she made a decision. They would have to pass her door on the way to the basement. She could slip into her apartment and ditch the shorts in favor of something more appropriate. That way, when he reported back about the pipes, she’d be rid of this weird self-consciousness.

Unfortunately, her front door was where her neighbor chose to catch up. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said when he saw her reach for the door handle. He caught her elbow with his hand. “You’re coming with me.”

Her pulse picked up. This new position had him standing almost as close as her subway friend. Either that or her awareness of him had increased again because he sure felt close. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re coming downstairs with me so we can both learn what the problem is together.”

“But I don’t know anything about plumbing.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want you to see that I checked everything out thoroughly.”

She supposed she deserved that. “Fine.” Stepping sideways, she broke contact, silently advising him to take the lead. If she was going downstairs to the basement with him, she could at least avoid the skin on the back of her neck prickling.

Back when it was first built, part of the brownstone’s basement had been the servants’ kitchen. Thus, instead of being greeted by cold damp air, Sophie found herself stepping into a room that was warm and stifling. She instantly felt the air close in around her. The lack of adequate lighting didn’t help matters, either. There were, she knew, a line of overhead lights, but her guide apparently didn’t need to use them. Instead, he deftly navigated the space using the dim glow of the night-light. Sophie followed along. They walked past the storage cages and the skeleton of the building’s dumbwaiter and through the opening that led to the rear portion of the room. Here the air was slightly cooler but not by much. Lack of windows or space erased any air circulation that might have existed.

A cobweb dangling from the ceiling beam tickled Sophie’s face. She wiped it away, spitting imaginary strands from her lips.

Oblivious, her neighbor pointed toward the rear of the room where the heating units sat side by side. Perpendicular to them was a series of pipes with levers, each connected to a pipe feeding upward. He stopped in front of the first one on the left and bent down to study the joint.

“I think I found your culprit,” he announced. “Come here.”

She tiptoed forward.

“This set of pipes feeds to your apartment. Though I can’t tell for sure, I’d guess your gate valve is broken.”

“My what?” Peering over his broad shoulder, all Sophie saw was a collection of copper tubing.

“When they laid the pipes, the plumbers must have used an old kind of valve. Sometimes, when debris breaks off from inside the pipe, it knocks down the gate inside, blocking the water flow. I’m betting that’s what happened here. The water came in through the main pipe, and then got blocked at the base of your pipe.” He turned and gave a smirk from over his shoulder. “You can feel free to apologize at any time.”

Apparently, the blood flow to her cheeks wasn’t blocked because her face flushed with chagrin. “Can you fix it?” she asked. He was a contractor, right? She’d gladly pay him to get her shower running.

True to the rest of her day, however, he answered with a shake of his head. “Not without ticking off most of the area’s plumbers. Repairs like this are out of my jurisdiction, so to speak. You’re going to have to call a professional.”

And so, she was back to square one. Her skin began to prickle, a sure sign stress was raising her adrenaline. Just what she needed; more sweat. Where was she going to find a plumber that made late-night house calls? More likely she was going to have to waste a chunk of her day tomorrow waiting on one. Leaving her more behind than ever, because Lord knows Allen wouldn’t care what she had to stay home for. That’s why we gave you a laptop and smart phone, Sophie. She let out a decidedly unladylike oath.

“You’re welcome,” a deep voice replied.

Once again put in her place, Sophie cringed. “I’m sorry,” she said, brushing hair and cobwebs from her eyes. “I don’t mean to take my frustration out on you.”

“You sure? Why stop now?”

The remark made her smile, albeit ruefully. “I have been acting difficult, haven’t I? Sorry about that, too.”

He shrugged. “As long as we’re apologizing, I might have played a small part in your bad attitude.”

“When you say ‘small,’ are you talking about the banging or slamming the door in my face?”

“I did not slam the door. I shut it.” In the dim light, Sophie caught the gleam of bright white teeth. “The high ceilings made the noise sound louder.”

“My mistake then.”

“Apology accepted.”

Sophie brushed the hair from her eyes again—stupid curls refused to stay in place—grateful the darkened atmosphere shrouded her appearance. With their business in the basement now finished, she should be heading back upstairs to start looking for a plumber. Her feet didn’t feel like moving, though. Instead, she leaned against the chain-link cage behind her, hooking her fingers through the gaps in the pattern. “I think we both got off on the wrong foot,” she heard herself say. “I’m not normally such a witch.”

“Sure you want to use a W?”

“Very funny. And, I’m normally not that, either. Although my assistants might disagree.”

“I see. You’re one of those bosses.”

She drew her brow. “Those bosses?”

“The kind that demand a lot from their employees.”

“If you mean I have high expectations, then yes, I am.”

She could almost imagine him analyzing her words, and out of habit jutted her chin at him in silent challenge. Work hard and work smart. What was wrong with that?

“There’s only one problem with that statement.”

He strolled toward her, his figure casting a towering shadow on the wall. “I don’t work for you.”

“I know that,” she replied.

“You sure?” He smiled again, his curvy grin curving crookedly across his face. “Because the last couple of days you seemed to have a different impression.”

Sophie’s cheeks flushed again. Good Lord, but she’d blushed more in the past couple of minutes than in the past year. This man definitely made her act out of character. “Is that your way of asking for another apology?”

“Just making sure you don’t forget the true nature of our relationship.”

“Which is?”

“At the moment, barely civil neighbors, although I suppose now that we’ve buried the hatchet, we could drop the barely.”

He strode a little closer, until the space between them wasn’t more than a few feet. Without thinking, her eyes dropped to the V of his shirt and the patch of smooth skin peering out of the gap. His skin smelled faintly of beer and peppermint. Its aroma lingered in the basement air like a masculine perfume. Wonder if his skin tasted as good as it smelled.

What on earth…? Since when did she think such kinds of things, about relative strangers no less. For goodness’ sake, she didn’t even know the man’s full…

“Name!”

In the quiet basement, the word came out louder than necessary, causing them both to jump. “I mean, I don’t know your name,” she quickly corrected. “Only your first initial. From the mailbox.”

“Grant.”

“Grant,” she repeated. That was better. Knowing his name made it better. That is, made him less of a stranger. She still had no business thinking about his skin. Extending her hand, she pushed all inappropriate thoughts out of her head. “What do you say we start fresh? I’m Sophie Messina.”

“Nice to meet you, Sophie Messina.”

His handshake was firm and strong, not the soft grip so many men adapted when greeting a woman. Sophie could feel the calluses pressing rough against her palm. They were hardworking hands. The sensation conjured up images of work-hewn muscles rippling under exertion.

Lifting her eyes, she caught the spark of… something… as it passed across his caramel-colored eyes, bright enough to light them up despite the shadows, and briefly she insisted their gaze dropped to her lips. Sophie’s mouth ran dry at the thought. He cleared his throat, alerting her to the fact she still held his hand. Quickly she released his grip, and they stood there, awkwardly looking at one another.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.

No, not a bell. A buzzer. Once. Twice. Then nothing.

“Dammit, I forgot…”

She stumbled slightly as Grant rushed past her. “Forgot what? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy taking the steps two at a time.

“Wait!” she heard him call to someone from the top of the stairs. It took her a second to catch up, but when she did, she found him standing in the foyer, front door open, staring at the traffic passing in the street. A missed date?

He glared at her from over his shoulder. “You owe me a dinner.”

For the second time that evening, Sophie heard herself saying, “I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he said, nodding toward the front door, “was my dinner. I missed the delivery because I was downstairs showing you the broken meter.”

In other unspoken words, he blamed her.

“I’m sure if you call, he’ll turn right around.”

Another glare, this one accompanied by him jamming his fingers through his hair and mussing it. If only disheveled looked that good on her. “It was pizza from Chezzerones.”

“Oh.” Sophie was beginning to understand. Chezzerones had the best pizza in the area, as well as a very strict delivery policy. Fail to answer the door and your number got put on the “bad” list. Something to do with drunken university students and too many wasted calls. Sophie made the mistake of inquiring and had gotten a very detailed explanation from Chezzerone himself one night. It looked like, by helping her, Grant had gotten himself stuck on the bad list.

Darn it all, she did owe him a dinner.




CHAPTER THREE


LAST thing Sophie wanted was to have a debt hanging over her head. “All right, come with me,” she said.

This time Grant was the one who scowled. “Why?”

“For dinner. You said I owed you a dinner. I’m paying you back. Now come with me.”

As she fished her keys from her pocket to unlock her door, she once again felt him standing close, his peppermint scent finding a way to tease her from behind. A flash of heat found its way to the base of her spine.

What was with her? Lord, you’d think she’d had never crossed paths with a good-looking man before.

She so needed a shower and good night’s sleep.

Of all the co-op residences in the building, Sophie’s was the largest. U-shaped, the apartment reached around the back stairway onto the other side, where the master bedroom was located. The main living area was really two rooms, a parlor turned living room and a dining area. Both rooms featured the same heavy black woodwork as the foyer and contained beautifully scrolled wood and marble fireplaces. The kitchen was located in the rear, on the other side of the dining room. Having let them in, Sophie headed in that direction only to find Grant hadn’t followed. Turning, she found him studying the framework dividing the two spaces.

“You kept the doors,” he noted, tracing a finger along the molding.

He meant the pocket doors, which could be drawn to divide the space. Obviously he’d been in the space before. “For now. I’ve only been here a month. I figured I should live with the place awhile before making any major changes.”

He nodded, and without asking, gave the door a tug. There was a soft scraping sound as the heavy panel moved outward. “Did the Realtor tell you that these are original?” he asked, brushing the dusty wood.

“He mentioned something.”

“Etta—Mrs. Feldman, the owner, insisted on keeping a lot of the original fixtures. Most of the other units are far more modernized.”

“The Realtor told me that, too.” Apologized, really, over the fact that Sophie’s hadn’t been one of the redesigned spaces.

“My…” She found herself stumbling for a word to describe David. Companion was most correct but the word felt awkward on her tongue. Then again, she was finding talking difficult in general watching Grant caress the paneled door with the tenderness of a long-lost lover. “My… friend suggested I remove them and paint all the woodwork white.”

“God, I hope not.” She swore he winced at the suggestion. Better not to tell him David’s full suggestion—that she gut the place. “This is black walnut.”

“So?”

“So—” his look was way too condescending for someone so young “—you paint soft wood, like pine. Hard wood like walnut is meant to be shown off.”

“I didn’t realize wood came with rules.”

What she did know was watching him run his hands up and down the woodwork was damn unnerving. The soft brushing sound of calluses against the wood’s rough surface made her stomach knot.

“Did you know Mrs. Feldman well?” she asked, pushing the door back into place.

“We met when she turned the building into apartments. She filled me in on the building’s history.”

“The Realtor told me she was the original owner.”

“Well, not the original original,” he noted. “This building predates the Civil War. But, her husband’s family was. The only reason she converted was because she was convinced a developer would gut the place after she died.” Sophie swallowed a kernel of guilt on David’s behalf. “She fought right to the end to make sure the building retained as much of its original look as possible. Especially her living space. ‘You can push me into converting, but you won’t make me change my living room,’ she used to say.”

“Sounds like you two were like-minded.”

“Last couple years, I’ve come round to see her way of thinking.” He gave the woodwork one parting swipe.

There was regret in his words that made him sound older than his years. Look older, too, as a melancholy shadow accompanied them, darkening his golden features. Odd.

“I have to confess,” she said, trying to break the mood, “I like some of the old fixtures. The entranceway for example. It’s nice how the place is both modern and antique at the same time.”

“A brilliantly designed blend,” he softly replied. Almost sounded as if he was reciting a quote. Again, the words came across as weighted and old.

She had little time to wonder because Grant had crossed the dining room and was already pushing the swinging door leading to her kitchen. After trying to move him along earlier, she now found herself scurrying to catch up. She did only to find he’d stopped short again. This time he was studying the kitchen cabinetry with the same sensual attentiveness. She had to catch herself from bumping square into his back.

“Then there’s the kitchen.”

Unlike the edge from before, this time she heard a note of amusement in his voice. Though she couldn’t see his face—she was still stuck behind his broad back—Sophie could easily picture his expression, basing the image on the many amused looks he’d shot in her direction over the past two days. Interestingly, in hindsight, those looks weren’t nearly as infuriating as they seemed at the time.

“You don’t like this room?” she asked.

“Etta was stubborn. She insisted on keeping it as is. Right down to the hardware. Making a last stand, I suppose.”

The last line was said as he knelt down to examine a lower cabinet door. Sophie took advantage of the movement to slip past, sucking in her breath to avoid brushing up against him. Her neighbor, attention on the cabinet, didn’t appear to notice.

“Maybe she simply knew her mind.”

“That she did. Your hinges need replacing,” he added, opening the cabinet door.

“I wouldn’t mind replacing the entire room.” Although she spent little time in the kitchen, Sophie found the space narrow and cramped. She found the room even more cramped now thanks to the addition of Grant’s large form. His broad shoulders—so broad they practically filled the expanse between the counters. “Unlike your Mrs. Feldman, I don’t need to keep this room exactly as is.”

“Won’t get an argument from me. Any idea what you’d do?”

Not really. Oh, she had ideas, but they were nebulous and atmospheric, based more on fantasy than any actual plan. “Brighter, definitely,” she told him. “Sunnier. With windows and gleaming wood cabinets.”

“Sounds like another woman who knows what she wants.” Their eyes met, and he flashed her a smile that implied far more than cabinetry. Or so it felt from the way her insides reacted.

“Pizza,” she announced abruptly. Goodness but the kitchen was cramped. And really warm. There was absolutely no air circulation at all on these hot nights. “What kind would you like?”

“I have a choice?”

“Of course. I might not match Chezzerones, but I have a decent variety. Cheese, pepperoni, Hawaiian, chicken, pepper and onion…”

“Holy cow!” His voice sounded from over her shoulder causing her to jump. The guy didn’t believe in personal space, did he? “It’s like looking at the frozen food section at the mini-mart.”

“I like to keep food on hand in case of an emergency is all.”

“What kind of emergency? Armageddon?”

Ignoring the comment, Sophie reached into the freezer. Gooseflesh had begun crawling in the wake of his breath on her bare neck, putting her out of sorts again. She’d feel better once she was alone again.

“Here,” she said, pulling a box from the stack and thrusting it into his hands. “Go Hawaiian.”

He looked down at the box, then back up at her.

“Is there a problem?” she asked him.

“What about cooking?”

She pointed to the side of the box. “Directions are right here. I don’t have my reading glasses, but I’m pretty sure you preheat the oven to four-twenty-five.”

“Okay.” He didn’t budge. Clearly he expected her to cook for him.

Sophie let out a frustrated sigh. It had been way too long a day, and she still had to track down a plumber and finish her paperwork. She didn’t have time to entertain her neighbor. Especially one that had her set off balance since their first meeting.

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that when a sound interrupted the kitchen’s silence.

It was her stomach growling.

“Fine,” she said, snatching the box back. “I’ll cook. But you’re on your own for dinner company.”

With the pizza safely in the oven, Sophie excused herself and escaped to her bedroom. Hopefully, by freshening up, she could regain the self-control that seemed to be eluding her these past couple days and become more herself. Arguing about pizza? Thinking about what his skin tasted like? Not exactly the most mature of behaviors.

Don’t forget barging up to his apartment like a madwoman.

She meant what she told him in the kitchen. He better not expect company. She had way too much to do.

Case in point. Her smart phone told her she’d missed eleven messages since arriving home. Make that a dozen, she amended as her in-box buzzed again.

There was a box of moist wipes in the bottom drawer of her vanity. She grabbed a handful to give herself a makeshift sponge bath. Not as refreshing as a shower, but she felt a little cleaner. “Score one for being prepared,” she said as she used one to dampen down her hair. She combed out her ponytail and exchanged her running clothes for a jersey-knit maxi dress.

In the middle of touching up her eyeliner, she paused. What are you doing, Sophie? Freshening up or fixing up? She stared at her reflection. Instantly her eyes went to the deepening lines around her eyes and mouth. Two decades of adulthood lay behind those lines. And yet here she was so frazzled by a… a… a boy she was putting on eyeliner to eat frozen pizza.

“Get a grip,” she snapped at herself. For goodness’ sake, she wasn’t some cougar on the prowl. There was absolutely no reason to let her neighbor get to her like this. Setting down the eyeliner, she grabbed a brush instead and combed her hair into a sleek damp bun. Much better, she decided. She looked more like herself again.

During her absence, Grant had moved into the dining room. Soon as she walked in, he looked up, and she swore the corners of his mouth turned downward. “What?” she asked smoothing the sides of her hair.

“You changed.”

Why did he sound as if he meant more than clothes? Really, she chided, she had to stop reading undercurrents in everything. Whatever tone Grant had, real or imagined, was irrelevant. The guy was here because she owed him dinner. Soon as he ate, he would leave and most likely, their paths wouldn’t cross again.





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