“I have a boyfriend,’ she threw out there to test his response.
“No, you don’t,” he replied as he perused the contents of her refrigerator.
“How do you know?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, miffed by his response. “I could have a boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh.” He grabbed her by her shoulders and turned her around. “Go get cleaned up, get comfortable. I’ll make us some dinner.”
As amazing as that sounded, it was weird to think of a person—not to mention that person being Remington—in her apartment while she just what? Got naked in her bathroom with the broken lock on the door?
It had murder story written all over it.
“I’m really trying here, Larkin,” he said with a shrug. “I’m trying to do right by you. Make you some dinner, make sure you don’t keel over before Merrick gets back. It’s not that big of a deal.”
She licked her lips, trying to figure out of all if those things were enough for her to trust him.”
“You can trust me,” he said, reading her thoughts in a totally non-creepy way. He backed away two steps before turning back to her kitchen and rifling through her cupboards. “Your boss trusts me.”
“Yeah but he also trusts me, so that doesn’t exactly help your case.”
He didn’t reply except to smirk at the frying pan he’d found and set on the stovetop.
“Fine.” She sighed and finally left the room.
She grabbed clean clothes out of one of her boxes and closed herself in the bathroom. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she kicked one of the dried blankets under the wide crack at the bottom. Unsatisfied, she got down on the floor and pressed the blanket into the space as tight as it would go. She stood up and looked around the small room. Seizing a pair of kitchen shears she’d used a few days ago to trim her bangs, she opened the blades and slid them horizontally through the trim around the door on the side where it opened.
Would it stop a really determined intruder? Probably not.
But it might slow them down long enough for her to come up with a better plan of defense.
Brenda’s suggestion that she take those self-defense classes with her was starting to sound less like a good idea and more like a plan.
She sighed and turned back to the mirror.
And sighed again.
It was her first look at the mess that was, well, her. Or what was left of her.
Her glasses were broken. One arm twisted and bent, barely keeping the frames perched haphazardly on her ears. The lenses were scratched all to hell, too. She took them off and let them clatter to the counter.
Opening the drawer by her left hip, she dug through the contents until she found her backup pair—thick rimmed and bulky. She hadn’t had to use these in a while. It’s what she got for trying to look professional and polished with her delicate expensive wire frames that lay in a twisted pile to her right.
Ugh.
She leaned over the counter and gently pulled her bangs back so she could examine the bandage that covered the stiches, disappearing into the nearly black hair.
And one more sigh for good measure.
She stripped out of her clothes and filled the tub with about six inches of warm water. Then she stood in the water and sponged the dirt off her body the best she could. The legs were easy, as were her arms. She tried not to curse Remington’s gorgeous model face as she cleaned her torso, careful of the bandage over the eight stiches there.
Stupid, rude, arrogant, beautiful man.
How she despised him.
The water turned murky as the dust and dirt sloughed off her tan skin. She stepped out of the water onto the towel she’d set there. The thin floor creaked with her weight and she cringed. A flash of light caught her eye and she bent in half, ignoring the doctor’s orders to stay upright for the rest of the day.
Blood rushed to her head and her glasses slid to the end of her nose. With one hand, she moved the towel an inch to the right and with the other she kept her glasses from falling off.
A sliver of light from Dweedle’s kitchen peeked at her from the seam of the floor and the bathtub.
Oh nice.
Was this bathroom made out of carboard scraps?
Slowly, so as not to cause a sudden collapse, she righted herself and took a step away from the tub. It probably wouldn’t save her if the floor was determined to send her plunging (naked) into Dweedle’s kitchen. But with the door still blocked by her clever towel and scissor trick, it was as close to being out of the bathroom as possible.
“Hey.”
The man’s voice just on the other side of the door she was almost pressed up against caused her to jump and suck in a startled breath.
“Get out here.”
“In a minute,” she snapped, holding her hand over her heart and glaring at the wood.
It was annoying—he was annoying. But you know what really sucked? That he had to be so damn good looking.
It angered her. It angered her because she was so aware of it.
Yes, she was a scientist. Yes, she was pragmatic and educated and understood the way hormones worked and blah blah blah. But she was a dummy when it came to hot guys. For the most part, it didn’t affect her in her day-to-day life. She worked in an industry where the men were mostly average in appearance and she didn’t have to worry about things like model-good looks making her tongue tied when she had to communicate intelligently.
Apart from Merrick.
But that ship had sailed.
With the ship being her, and Merrick being the shore.
She just wasn’t ever meant to stay.
If she were a plant, she’d be something simple. Like grass or oats. Anemophily pollination. Easily spread and moved by the wind. Not complex and beautiful like Ceanothus, the California wild lilac. Which was how she saw Merrick. Beautiful and delicate and worth the effort of pollination.
He wasn’t grass.
Neither was Remington. Though she hadn’t spent enough time with him yet to deduce exactly which flower he compared to.
She didn’t bother with a bra as she dressed in soft pale pink terry shorts and a black vintage RUSH tee.
She wasn’t sure what to expect when she returned to her kitchen. She did not expect what she found.
Remington. Shirtless. Making fajitas. Talking to his phone.
No, not talking on his phone.
His cell phone was propped up on the ledge above her stove and he was doing some kind of video.
She froze. Caught in the viewfinder of the phone and now involved in his video. Perhaps she could just slowly back away…
“Hey!” he turned around and held out one long muscular arm. “Come say hi.”
“What…uh. What’s going on?” She stepped toward him cautiously, eyes on the screen.
Great. Her mother’s most ludicrous fears were coming to pass. She was going to be killed in an amateur snuff film in her own apartment.
“I’m on Instagram live.” Remington took the pan off the stove and moved over to the counter where he’d cut up a bunch of fresh vegetables. “Say hi to my followers.”
Upon closer examination, she could he see he was on the social media app. And the number of viewers at the top of the screen ticked up higher every second.
“Hi...?” She waved belatedly. “All twelve thousand of you?”
“This is my friend, Lydia.” Remington elbowed her in the ribs as he introduced her. “She’s an amazing, amazing person. Super smart, super snarky. You guys are gonna love her.”
Lydia froze for the most part, frowning slightly at Remington on the screen. “Wow, liar much?”
His grin only widened.
“No, we’re not dating. She’s just a friend,” he said to the phone and stepped away.
Lydia’s eyes darted to the comments scrolling up the screen.
Is she your girlfriend?
You guys are so cute together!
I love you!
Ugh. I hate her. I�
��m so jealous! LOL
She frowned at the camera. “No, really. He ran me over with his bike. Nearly killed me.” She leaned closer and pulled her hair back from where the stitches disappeared into her scalp. “Stitches and a concussion.”
“Yep.” Remington picked up his phone and held it in selfie mode. “Now I’m gonna feed her and see if she pukes on me again.” Lydia gasped. But it only fueled the brightness of his grin. “I’ll check in with you guys later.”
He shut off the phone—she noted, it was shut down, down—and slid it into his pocket. They stared at one another. Her with her suspicion, him with his perfect glossy cover photo face and eyes that measured her in a way that—well it didn’t matter. She knew what they saw.
He spoke first.
“I’m hungry, so let’s make this quick.”
Lydia frowned and her eyes moved around the open space. “What are you talking about?”
He nodded at her once. “Your hair. Let’s get it clean and we’ll eat.”
Her eyes bounced from him to the chair he had backed against the counter by the sink.
How had she missed that?
“You’re going to wash my hair…?” She asked, unsure she understood him.
He turned his back and sauntered over to the chair. He patted the seat and turned his smirk to her. “I promise, no waterboarding.”
She rolled her eyes even as she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
Maybe, in a different life with different details, they would have been friends.
Maybe.
***
Remington
Lydia sat down on the chair and Remington draped a folded towel along her neck and shoulders. She tipped her head back, her eyes colliding with his.
And that’s really the only way he could describe what it felt like. A collision.
He’d noticed her eyes first thing the day he’d walked into Merrick’s office. He always did. Eyes were his favorite.
But she had been less than receptive to his harmless compliment.
Had he been flirting?
Probably.
Flirting came as easily as breathing.
He swallowed, coming back to the present. Lydia blinked, setting her mouth in a flat line.
Her mouth had been the second thing he’d noticed about her. And here again, he found himself…noticing.
It was too big. Wide. It stretched all the way across her face when she smiled, pulling her full lips into a curve of pink ribbons. Usually this smile was accompanied by straight, white teeth. So white, obscenely white.
“I’ll be careful of the bandage,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes and busying his hands with turning the water on and finding an adequate temperature.
The white porcelain sink was years beyond its installation. Possibly even decades. The entire apartment had a very distinct “bad late 60’s Art Deco” vibe going on. The bottom of the white sink was stained orange in places—probably from the rust in the pipes.
He lifted her thick dark hair with both hands under the running faucet, one of his arms blocking the view of her face. His armpit was basically right above her eyes but he didn’t care. As long as he didn’t have to feel her piercing gaze on him as he performed this task.
The water trickled out of her hair and down the drain, muddy and gross.
He grimaced, a stab of guilt hitting him in the gut.
What if she hadn’t been okay? What if her injuries had been worse? What if—?
But she was fine. A few stitches were all.
The sound of stifled laughter below him caused his movement to halt. Lydia’s body shook and he moved his arm so he could see her.
That wide ribbon of lips and laughter beamed at him, mere inches from his face. She brought a hand up to cover her smile even as a belt of laughter burst out of her mouth.
“Is…Is this—Should I call the doctor?” he asked seriously, not sure what to do and fighting for control of wanting to join her.
She waved a hand in front of her face and blinked the wetness from her eyes. “Look at us. What a pair of dummies.” She giggled despite her obvious resistance. “I mean, you hate me and I hate you and now you’re washing my hair in the kitchen sink… I can’t breathe.”
Remington’s mouth cracked the smile that wanted to come out and play with hers. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No,” she shook her head slightly and sniffed. “Not at all. My head hurts and my side hurts and I’m hungry.” She stopped and smiled up at him. The corners of her pretty eyes crinkling. “But I’ll be okay.”
His mouth gave in and smiled crookedly at her, the tension in his shoulders eased. He tugged her wet hair back under the water, followed that with as much lather as he felt comfortable distributing, and rinsed.
“How did you meet Merrick?” she asked.
His eyes drifted from the suds in his hands to her face. “What?” he asked, confused.
“Merrick. How did you meet?”
He frowned at her before answering. The water temperature began to rapidly decline in warmth and he hustled her thick hair through it.
“Uh, I met Merrick at a seminar.”
“One of yours?”
Unsure how much he was supposed to reveal about this particular subject, Remington stuck his tongue in his cheek as he thought. “Yeah, one of mine,” he confirmed.
When he looked back down at Lydia her gaze had drifted over his shoulder and lost focus.
Remington shut off the water and grabbed a nearby towel. He carefully draped it over the wettest parts of her hair without touching the bandage.
“Done.” He wiped his hands on the sides of his shorts and backed up a step. “How about we eat.”
And change the subject, he added internally. He made a mental note to ask Merrick how much she knew. Because within the past couple of hours he’d put together that she wasn’t just his secretary.
He turned his back and added the prepared food to the twin plates he’d found in the cupboard.
Utilitarian. If her apartment could be described in a word. Also, messy.
Which seemed to be at odds with one another. She had very few possessions, almost no furniture and dishes, and yet it felt cluttered. He couldn’t tell if she was living out of the couple of boxes he’d spotted, or if they served an alternative purpose.
He handed her a plate, which she took with one hand, the other hand still rubbing the towel through her wet hair. She motioned with her chin and he followed her into the living room where she took a seat on the floor under one of the windows, her back to the wall, her long tan legs stretched out in front of her.
After a moment’s hesitation, he joined her.
“When did you get that tattoo?” she asked, pointing at his torso with her fork.
He glanced down. “Which one?”
He had five tattoos visible to her in that moment.
“The Latin one. Illegitimi Non Carborundum.”
“When I was in the Marines. It means don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
She nodded, mouth full. “Or the unlawful are not silicon carbide.”
“What?” he asked, chuckling over his confusion.
“That’s not Latin on your skin. It’s close, but not quite. This is delicious, by the way,” she added, forking another mouthful in.
“Thanks.” He was oddly pleased at her comment, even if a bit baffled by her previous statement. “It was your food. I just put it together.”
“Mm-hm.” She nodded, not slowing down.
Remington chuckled and tucked into his own food.
“So,” she took a breath and wiped the corners of her mouth. “How long are you planning on invading my space?”
He considered his answer before replying. “The doctor said you should be observed overnight. So…overnight.”
She stared at him for a second before huffing. “You’re not staying the night.”
“Again with the sexy talk, Larkin,” he said around a mouthful.<
br />
She arched her eyebrows confrontationally.
“I like those glasses better on you.” He nodded to the thick, square Buddy Holly glasses that framed her hazel eyes.
Was he pushing her buttons? Yes. It’s like he couldn’t help himself.
“Well, thanks,” she replied darkly. “My nice ones are ruined.”
“These ones are better anyway. Why don’t you have any furniture?”
“Na-uh,” she said, swallowing a mouthful. “I get to ask questions now.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“Which one of your jobs is your favorite? The super model, the entrepreneur, or the guru?”
He choked and swallowed a few times to clear his throat. “I’m not a super model.”
“The cape comes separate?” she asked with a nod like she understood how it all worked.
Remington took a slow breath, easing his brain into the next stage of his life.
Every once in a while, he was lucky enough to catch it—the exact moment everything changed. A shift, often very slight, causing him to reevaluate his purpose and intentions. He taught his clients to watch for these moments. To savor them, lock them away to revisit on the days when they felt unsure of their path.
This, here, having dinner on the floor with a woman he’d written off as an underachiever… this was a moment.
There was no way he could know how or what impact this moment would have. Perhaps a small ripple giving him insight he wouldn’t otherwise have had. Or maybe it would change everything.
He couldn’t know.
And he loved it like that.
Licking his lips and cataloging the details surrounding them—the light streaming in the large west-facing windows, the sharp lines of shadows adding boundaries to the room without furniture, the way Lydia’s hazel eyes were more of a forest green in the shadows, the high sharp angles of her cheeks, the naturally high arch to her eyebrows, the dark freckle right on the hinge of her jaw—he lost himself in the present.
“I was kidding,” she said, rolling her eyes.
He smirked, the only outward sign that the unease he’d harbored against Lydia since day one had dissolved.
It was just… over.
“Yes,” he nodded solemnly. “The cape comes separate. But the modeling is just a job. It’s not really a definition. And I don’t do that anymore.”
In Between the Earth and Sky Page 5