by Nancy Warren
He wondered if she could really cook. And if he did the weeding as well as cutting the lawn, whether her skills stretched to breakfast.
Then his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. His call display told him it was Brittany calling and he pulled his gaze away from his neighbor. “Tanner,” he said, because he always answered that way no matter who was calling.
“Hi Matthew, it’s me. Brittany.” Just as he always identified himself, so did she, even though she knew he had call display. Just one of those stupid things people do, he told himself, willing himself not to be irritated with the woman he was planning to marry. Someday.
“Hi, honey. You packing for the conference?”
She was heading out for a teacher’s conference in San Antonio for three days. “The conference was postponed. The main presenter is sick with pneumonia so it was rescheduled.”
“Too bad.”
“It’s fine. It gives me three days off, since I already have the time booked, and you know what that means?”
Matthew didn’t even want to speculate.
“It means that you and I can start our redecoration project.”
A drop of sweat trickled down his temple under his ball cap; he swiped at it with the back of his hand. “What redecoration project?”
“You know. Your house.”
“Since when are we redecorating my house?”
“Honey, don’t you remember when I said that I thought your colors were too dark and you agreed?”
He didn’t remember any such thing, but he knew he had a bad habit of not always listening too intently to everything she said.
“Right. But I didn’t necessarily want to change everything right away.” Or ever. His colors might be dark, but he was a guy. He was supposed to like dark colors.
He made a mental inventory of Brittany’s decorating style and thought he might as well just kill himself now as be ridiculed to death when his buddies saw throw pillows and a collection of antique dolls in his house.
“Well, why don’t we spend the day tomorrow looking at decorating stores and get an idea of what might work. You never know when things might change,” she said softly.
Once more he felt like a pig. She was right. They were an acknowledged couple, they got on well, were compatible in the sack, though he sometimes thought she tried too hard to please.
While his bride-to-be outlined an exciting day’s events shopping for paint samples and fabric swatches, and more sweat dripped from his forehead, he stole a look at his tenant next door. She was laughing her head off at something in that novel of hers. Must be a pretty good comedy. Kind of like his life.
The thought stole through his mind, unbidden, that Chloe would never be the kind of woman who would try too hard to please. He had a pretty good idea that she was one of the demanding ones who took what she wanted from a man and gave as good as she got.
Her shorts, pretty damn short to begin with, had ridden up her thighs and he had a vision of pale skin on legs that weren’t long, but were slim and shapely. As though she felt his gaze, Chloe glanced up and the laughter died on her face. Whether she’d read his mind or not he couldn’t tell, but a zing of lust, hot and visceral, shot between them like a very bad idea.
At the same moment, they both averted their gazes. She to her book, he to the row of bushes that needed pruning at the side of her yard, against the fence that bordered the road.
“…and then tomorrow night,” Brittany said, “maybe we could go out for dinner somewhere, just the two of us. We’ve both been so busy lately that we’ve hardly seen each other.”
“I know. Dinner would be—oh, shit. I just remembered. I’m having dinner at Chloe’s.”
“Chloe’s?”
“Yeah. My next-door neighbor.”
“You’re having dinner with another woman?” She sounded surprised rather than jealous. But that was Brittany all over. She’d expect a reasonable explanation before jumping to conclusions.
“I’m doing some gardening for her, so she invited us for dinner. I knew you’d be away so I asked Rafe along. I can’t really get out of it now, but why don’t I tell her there’ll be one more for dinner?”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“You won’t be. I’ll do some extra stuff for her. That should make it even.”
“I suppose it is better with even numbers. More like a double date.”
He chuckled to himself at the thought of scruffy, down-to-earth Rafe with the English princess. Should be an interesting evening.
“So, what about tomorrow?”
He could think of about six million things, including chopping off his toes with the weed whacker, that he’d rather do tomorrow than go shopping for a redecoration project he didn’t want to undertake, but he’d been less than stellar as a boyfriend to Brittany over the last month, so he figured it was penance. “Yeah, okay. I’ll pick you up at ten.”
He ended the call and finished the lawn before walking over to tell Chloe the good news that she now had a fourth for dinner.
She was chuckling again when he walked up and pulled out one of the patio chairs to sit down and cool off for a minute.
“Pretty funny book?”
She raised her head, looking like a movie star with the big hat and oversized sunglasses. “It’s not meant to be.”
She closed the book and showed him the title. He felt a jolt of pure nausea. “Perfect Communication, Perfect Love. What are you doing reading that crap?”
“It’s for business, actually.”
He opened his mouth and she forestalled him with a finger in the air. “So naturally, it’s confidential.”
It was funny, Chloe irritated him a hell of a lot more than Brittany ever did, but at least he didn’t feel boredom creeping over him at the same time he wanted to grind his teeth. With Chloe, it was pretty much only the dental problem.
She handed over the book. “You might want to give this a read. It might help you work things out with Brittany.”
His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I need help with Brittany?”
“Women’s intuition.” She rose. “You look hot. Would you like some iced tea?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He flicked through the book, which, from what he could see, was made up of rules to follow. For love. Like there weren’t enough rules in life, a man needed more.
When Chloe returned with a huge glass of iced tea, he thanked her with a nod and downed half of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You were laughing when you read this.”
“It’s the most ridiculous nonsense,” she said. “Listen to this.” She took the book back and flicked pages. “Conflict is a natural part of any relationship. Bad feelings can be destructive if you let them grow, leading to alienation or shouting matches. We recommend a regular session with your loved one. Imagine you’re in our office. Talk to each other about your issues, how it went this week. Always end by holding hands, looking each other in the eye, and saying, ‘I love you.’”
He loved the sound of her voice, so crisp and British, so different from what he was used to hearing. That was probably why she was so intriguing to him. She was different. She was an English rose in a field of Texas bluebonnets. That was all.
“Sounds like a load of crap to me.”
“Exactly. I’m all in favor of a good row. Clears the air.”
“Leads to some great sex, too,” Matthew remarked. “With all those emotions flying.”
“My thoughts exactly.” She seemed happy that they viewed arguments the same way and he thought she’d say more, but suddenly she snapped the book shut and looked past him. “The lawn looks lovely. Thank you for taking care of it so promptly.”
He wasn’t positive about what had suddenly made her treat him like the hired help, but he had an idea. He rose from the chair. “You’re welcome. I need to ask you a favor.”
“Yes?”
“I need to bring one more person for dinner tomorrow night.”
/> Her brows rose. “How many girlfriends do you have?”
His teeth wanted to grind again. “One. And she was supposed to be out of town. The chaperone I already invited is a buddy of mine.”
“I see.” She glanced at him. “You knew I was expecting Brittany. Why didn’t you tell me you’d invited a man?”
He thought about it for a second. Decided to go for the truth. “There’s something about you that just begs to be riled up.”
She shot him a look that was surprisingly understanding. But then, he suspected she’d spent her life riling up other people. Unfortunately, the list had his name on it, right at the top.
“So, we’re four for dinner. How cozy.”
“Look, I feel bad about this. Why don’t I bring over steaks and we can barbecue?”
She looked delighted and, he thought, a little relieved. “That’s very nice of you. I’ll prepare appetizers and salad and pick up something for dessert.”
He rose. “And I’ll keep taking care of the lawn for you.”
Her surprise showed even behind the glasses. “What do you want in return? More dinners?”
“I’ll call in the favor if I ever need any private detective work.”
Instead of rising to the bait, she gave him a smile that was suspiciously smug. One he didn’t trust at all. “I’m at your service,” she said.
Chloe loved markets. She loved the smell of food, the vendors, the colors and textures of produce—and here, everything was so different. The displays seemed larger, the fruit bigger.
Of course, she hadn’t brought many recipes, but the Internet was an amazing source of inspiration and she knew her favorites by heart.
Two men, and if his friend was anything like him, he’d be big and a man of simple tastes, she thought, immediately discarding the idea of frog’s legs, escargot, or anything with too many sauces. In the end she opted for fresh prawns in a coconut masala, and a salad with organic greens and her own special salad dressing in which the secret ingredient was champagne.
She bought cheerful sunflowers for the table, some pretty blue cloth napkins, and candles. A nice white wine for the appetizers and a hearty red for the steaks. Dessert, she decided, would be a selection of cheeses and fresh fruit.
When she returned home, she got to work, singing along to Taylor Swift as she prepared the masala.
Her doorbell rang at seven precisely. Chloe ran lightly down the stairs, slipping the second diamond earring into her ear. How prompt.
She opened the door and suffered a slight shock. A disheveled-looking thuggish type stood there in a battered leather jacket, jeans that no designer had had a hand in, and scuffed boots. His hair was too long and he needed a shave.
“Can I help you?” she asked, wishing she wasn’t always so impulsive. She really ought to use the peephole in the door. Still, at least Matthew was next door. One good scream away.
The guy on her doorstep gave her a crooked grin, as though he’d read her mind reasonably well. “I’m Rafe.” Then he raised his hand and, instead of some deadly weapon, he held a wrapped bottle. “Matt’s friend.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, accepting the wine. “Come in.” She stepped back and said, “Can I take your coat?” She noted the shiny black helmet. “And, um, your bike helmet?”
“Thanks.” He handed her both and she put them in the hall closet, wishing Matthew would hurry up. She had plenty of social graces and ease, but there was something criminal and unnerving about the man behind her.
“I thought we’d start outside,” she said, leading the way down the hall into the kitchen. “It’s such a nice evening.”
“Sounds good to me. It was nice of you to invite me. The kitchen smells great.”
Well, at least he had manners, and a rather delightful Javier Bardem inflection to his tone.
She settled him on a patio chair at the table out back. “I can offer you wine, beer, or a margarita.”
He sent her a white-toothed grin that suddenly lightened his face and made him seem much less sinister. “I’ll try your margarita. But I’m a tough judge.”
“Oh, dear. I’ve never made them before. I got the recipe off the Internet.”
He looked seriously worried. “Did you use a mix?”
“Of course not. I never use mixes.”
“Let me see.” He rose and followed her into the kitchen. Pored over the recipe she’d printed off her computer.
She had the ingredients assembled on the counter alongside the recipe and after he put the printout down, he picked up the bottle of tequila and nodded his approval. “You buy good tequila.”
“I wasn’t sure. I just bought the most expensive kind they had in the shop.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “That’s how you pick stuff? By price?”
“No. Not always. But it’s not a bad method. You said yourself that it’s good tequila.”
He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, washed two of the limes, and said, “You want one?”
“Thank you. I was thinking of making a pitcher of them.”
She wasn’t a bit surprised when he shook his head. “Margaritas should always be made fresh.”
She chuckled. “I am officially putting you in charge of the cocktails.” He was clearly one of those take-charge men, good in the kitchen and, she suspected, in bed. There was strong sensuality in him and, she guessed, he was the kind who’d take charge of a woman’s pleasure before worrying about his own. She highly approved.
While he squeezed limes and she skewered huge bay shrimp, she said, “So, how do you know Matthew?”
“Through work.”
“Real estate?”
“No. Before that. We were on the force together.” There was a slight pause. “He’s a good cop,” he said, with a trace of sadness.
“So, you’re a police officer?”
He grinned that charming smile once more. “Surprises a lot of people.”
“What branch are you in?”
“I do a little of this and that,” he said evasively. And she nodded, thinking, undercover. How exciting.
By the time Matthew and Brittany arrived half an hour later, she and Rafe were fast friends. She would have thought they’d have nothing to talk about, but he was in his way a foreigner too. He could relate the things he’d found strange about Austin and Texas and she could tell her stories.
“At least you can get Mexican food here.” She’d passed many a Mexican restaurant. “I have yet to find a place that serves a decent cup of tea. Or a scone with proper Devonshire cream.”
He grimaced. “Tex-Mex? Don’t get me started.”
Then Matthew strode into view, with that sweet-looking blonde beside him. Chloe rose. “Hello.” She walked forward. “You must be Brittany. I’m Chloe.”
“Hi, sorry we’re late. We got held up at a fabric store.”
There was a choking sound from Rafe. “Come again?”
“Nothing,” Matthew said hastily. “I was helping Brittany with some things.”
Chloe wondered what on earth Matthew had been doing in a fabric store, but at least that explained the tight look around his mouth and the pinched skin edging his eyes. He looked irritable, hot, and bored. But he held a tray of thick steaks, so at least he’d remembered those.
Brittany simply looked confused. Poor dear. She was holding a pie in her hands, which she handed over. Chloe beamed at her. “Pie. How clever of you.”
Once Rafe had made two more of his super-excellent margaritas, there was a slight pause.
She turned to Brittany. “Why don’t we let the men do whatever men do, out here with the barbecue. Perhaps you could help me in the kitchen.”
“Sure.”
In fact, Chloe had already done most everything, but she wanted some time alone with Matthew’s girlfriend. Matthew sent a worried glance her way, but she ignored him.
Brittany seemed like a nice woman. There had to be someone who would suit her better than Matthew. In fact, there must be dozens
.
She glanced briefly at Rafe, obviously single, but one look at the scruffy bad boy and the blond cheerleader type had her shaking her head. As much as she believed in opposites attracting, one could only go so far.
In the kitchen, Brittany went immediately to the book, Perfect Love, Perfect Communication, which Chloe had left on the counter. “Oh, you have this? How is it? I’ve heard it’s wonderful. I have to get it.” She glanced shyly at Chloe. “I think it might be good for Matthew and me.”
The thought of Matthew being forced to listen to that twaddle almost made her feel sorry for him. “I haven’t finished reading it, but I have to say it seems a bit rule-bound for my taste.”
“I kind of like the idea of rules in life, don’t you?”
“God, no. The only rule I follow is never to buy anything you have to line up for or order in advance. Otherwise, I prefer to wing it.”
Chloe was dying to tell the other woman that it wasn’t the rules that were her problem.
It was the man.
Chapter 11
In spite of the odd collection of personalities and the fact that they all knew each other and Chloe didn’t know any of them, she still managed to be the life of the party. It was her talent. One of many.
Her appetizers were spectacular, and as the evening progressed, she found everyone loosening up, especially Matthew.
Over steaks—and she had to give her neighbor credit, the man could cook a steak to perfection—and salads, talk turned to when he and Rafe had worked together. Matthew was kidding his former partner about the mess he always left in the squad car and how nobody would ever work at his desk because it was such a disaster, when Chloe had her brilliant idea.
Bright lights, like those on Broadway, lit up inside her head.
Messy, disorganized, and dressed like a gang member, Rafe, who was also intelligent, fiercely committed to justice, and attractive in an entirely unusual way, might just appeal to Deborah of the rules of engagement, rules of marriage, rules of love, engage in weekly therapy sessions with your loved one, rule book.
At least, it was worth a shot.
But how would she convince him that he was exactly the man to inspire Deborah to throw her rule book away and embrace all the messiness of life?