Mona blinked back tears and rose to her feet as she handed him the photo he securely placed back in his billfold. “I’m going to go through my database and I should have two or three profiles to send to you by e-mail later this week,” she promised him.
“I look forward to hearing from you,” he said.
As soon as she walked him out, she locked the glass door of the office and leaned back against it, fighting the urge to kick off the neon green heels she wore with her linen suit and white blouse. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her slim-fitting pants, she walked across the hardwood floor to her desk. She picked up her phone. No missed calls.
She’d given Anson her number, but foolishly forgot to get his to check on him. He was a grown man and capable of taking care of himself, but she just felt so guilty. She was tempted to pop in again even though she wasn’t certain how serious he was in his threats to call the police. Mona had been so tempted to tell him that she had gone to his house to warn him that he would be in an accident, but the fact that she was the one who had hurt him made the premonition seem all the more foolish.
And then for him to think I want him.
She bit her bottom lip as she thought of his strong shoulders and defined arms in the white sleeveless tee he wore. He is a good-looking man. . . .
“A good-looking mistaken man,” she said, grasping the edge of the desk to pull her chair forward. She opened her folder of incoming online applications.
The love business was booming.
She focused on going through each application and ensuring she nor her clients were not getting cat-fished with phony identities and photos and that all applicants were of good standing, with no criminal history outside minor offenses. Mona prided herself on being diligent that everyone was aboveboard, including running SLED background checks and checking them against any Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram profiles. Even though she required them all to sign the appropriate waivers to protect her from liabilities, she still made it her business to deliver nothing but the best service in all aspects. She’d caught a few frauds during her years of business, but the disclaimers on her site let it be known that she checked backgrounds and most understood, respected, and appreciated that.
An hour later she ran her fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp as she pushed back a bit from her desk. She’d processed just half of the applications and still had to do the monthly billing, plus speak to her Web master to do some updates to the site.
Frustrated, she stopped massaging her scalp and freed her hands. Crossing her legs, she leaned forward to pick up the folder of résumés and applications the temp agency had sent over to her for the assistant position. Based on credentials, there were a couple in the stack she would hire on the spot, but she had no clue if she could trust them and that was most important to her. Their ability to respect confidentiality and a lack of sticky fingers beat out how many words they correctly typed per minute.
Her sister Reeba would be ideal, but Mona pushed that idea away. There was no way she was going through the headache of explaining herself or the good nature of her business again.
Her stomach grumbled and she thought of Castillo’s Pizzeria down the street. She picked up the phone to order a lasagna to go. She thought of Anson and ordered another.
I’ll just drop it off and keep it moving.
Anson hated being cooped up inside. He wasn’t even twenty-four hours into his injuries and he felt like a caged bird. Even as a small boy in Walterboro in the small house his family rented, he was always outside playing in the dirt yard or exploring the city for mischief to get into it. Working with the Jamisons to build homes while he was in college had been ideal for him, and he thought nothing felt better than the sun on his bare back as he hammered away.
Releasing a heavy breath, he sat back in the chair before his drawing board and studied his initial sketches for a law office to be developed in Mount Pleasant. He wanted something that would stand out but not look out of place with the abundance of brick structures in the area. He hoped they loved the glass and wood structure as much as he did.
“I can’t promise I won’t be back.”
But she hadn’t been back. Not yet anyway.
Looking up through the lightly tinted windows of his office, he saw nothing but his landscaped front yard and only his vehicle parked in the drive. The quiet of the house seemed so . . . loud.
Her laughter—their laughter—had been nice. Not in a forever after way, but nice. Cool. Refreshing.
He was no more interested in anything with Mona Ballinger than she was in him.
I mean, she’s fine. Don’t get me wrong. She’s just too flaky for me. Too spontaneous. Too quirky. Too different.
Besides, Anson wasn’t interested in looking for a love match. The knowledge of Carina’s betrayal and the final words she’d said to him had hit home and left him heavy with thoughts of needing—then wanting—to change the way he viewed love and relationships.
You’re so cold and distant.
Grabbing his crutch from where it leaned against the side of his drawing board, Anson raised up off the high chair and moved over to the leather love seat positioned in front of his fireplace. He dropped down on it, careful of his injured wrist and ankle, and elevated his foot onto one of the thick and lush throw pillows Carina insisted he purchase to break up the darkness of the room. He had a conference call at four, which wasn’t for another couple of hours. He picked up the remote and used it to turn on the flat screen television on the wall over his fireplace.
This was the first business day he’d had off in years and he was clueless to what was on television during the day. He had just settled in to watch Poetic Justice on BET when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Leaning over, he retrieved it. “Anson Tyler Design,” he said, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Well, this is Devon Jamison of Jamison & Jamison Contractors, Inc., and welcome to the team, young boy.”
Anson punched the air in victory. “Yes!” he exclaimed.
Securing the position as lead architect would mean plenty of business, money, and prestige for his own small firm. Another check on the list of plans for his life. “Thank you so much. I appreciate the opportunity and I will come through each and every time for you guys. I can promise you that,” he said.
“Well, we believe in you, and we are so anxious to lock this deal in, so we called an emergency board meeting instead of waiting for next month,” Devon said.
Anson looked at his foot in a cast and then the cast on his wrist. “There’s just one thing,” he began.
He filled Devon in on his injuries and vaguely told him how it all happened.
“I should be all mended in six weeks and neither break will affect my ability to design,” he assured him.
“It’s all good. We still have some other minor issues to clear up in forming this new venture; it will be a month or so before we really get the ball going. Okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Take care, Anson.”
This was a great opportunity for Anson Tyler Design. Anson was usually laid back and reserved. He held his emotions in check, but in that moment he was so excited he thought his heart would burst out of his chest.
Lying back with his head on the arm of the sofa, he allowed himself to think of the past only because he had just moved further away from it. Like the night he watched his mother and father physically fight each other over drugs as he stood in the doorway of his nearly empty bedroom. Neither his presence nor the tears streaming down the face of their seven-year-old son had stopped them.
“Go back in your room,” his mother had screamed at him.
The memory of that day and many others was just a dull ache and not a sharp pain that radiated. He hadn’t felt that for nearly a decade or more.
He smiled so broadly he was sure every white tooth in his mouth was on display.
He tilted his head back at the sound of a car door closing. Not expecting Ma
lik, until the next day, Anson grabbed his crutch and made his way over to lean past his drawing board and look out the window. Mona stood by her obnoxious little car. She had changed out of the casual clothing she’d had on earlier that day. She carried a plastic bag obviously filled with takeout containers.
His stomach grumbled at the thought of food.
Or did his stomach clench at the sight of her?
Anson frowned as he watched Mona come up to his porch and then turn to head back to her car. Two times.
Mona lifted her foot up onto the first step of Anson’s porch and then whirled around and turned back to her car. She made it halfway to her vehicle and then turned back, strode up the walk, and stepped up onto the porch once more. Only to step down again.
She knew she looked ridiculous and was glad the road running by the house was a dead end so that no one was witness to her foolishness.
“Mona.”
She let out a little squeal and turned in surprise to find Anson leaning in the now open doorway. “I brought you some lasagna from my favorite pizzeria,” she said, slowly climbing up the steps. “I just wanted to drop it off and make sure you weren’t hopping around the kitchen trying to cook.”
“Thanks,” he said.
She looked up at him and smiled as she reached into the bag and pulled out one of the round metal containers. She handed it to him. “Okay, bye,” Mona said, turning to head back down the stairs.
“You’re welcome to join me . . . if you want,” he called behind her.
Mona paused and turned on the stair. “No idle threats of calling the police because you know you weren’t gonna call them anyway?” she asked. “And no more questions about Carina . . . ?”
“Cool. Now you promise to stop offering to match me up,” he said, stepping back as she climbed the stairs.
“Your loss,” she said, cutting her eyes up at him as she eased past him to enter the house.
“Since your services aren’t free, I believe it’s your loss,” Anson countered.
Mona paused long enough for him to lead her into the kitchen.
“So you only know how to act like a grown-up when you’re dressed like one,” he threw over his shoulder.
Mona eyed the back and forth motion of his hard buttocks in the pants he wore. “I was a little pushy this morning, but you were being so mean and bullheaded,” she said, sitting the bag on the island. “Pushy and cute works for me.”
“Yeah, you’re pushy,” he agreed, allowing her to come over and guide him to the same stool he used earlier for lunch.
“Not cute?” she asked, glancing up at him.
“You’re a’ight.”
“Hmph. The lies you tell.”
“Conceited much?” he asked, grimacing a little as he took the seat.
“Foot up,” she demanded softly, helping him lift it onto another stool before moving around the kitchen to retrieve plates, utensils, and glasses.
She felt his eyes on her and she hated the nerves that made her so aware of that fact. “And I believe every woman is beautiful, should feel beautiful, and she should have the nerve to say she’s beautiful. I don’t care if she’s crossed-eyed and buck-toothed; she’s beautiful. That’s called confidence, not conceit. Thankyouverymuch, Mr. Dark Skin Men Rule the World,” she finished with mockery as she did air quotes with her fingers.
“And it’s that confidence that gets these oh so beautiful women to pay top dollar for you to match them with men?” he asked, swiping a fine sheet of sweat across his brow.
“Are you okay?” she asked, moving closer beside him.
“Actually, could you go in my bedroom and get my pain pills off the nightstand?” Anson asked before clenching his teeth.
“Is it your wrist or ankle?” she asked.
“Both,” he said before pressing his lips together.
Mona kicked off her shoes and dashed from the kitchen. In the long hall she checked every closed door including the glass one leading to a large circular pool room in the center of the house. Continuing on, she finally reached the master suite at the end of the house. “Well, my damn.” She gasped, gazing at the rich wood and copper furnishing and architectural details with sleek, dark brown decor.
Forcing her gaped mouth closed, she rushed over to his nightstand and scooped up the two medicine bottles sitting beside a carafe of water and a glass on a bronze tray.
Before she left, she did pause to lightly stroke the fur throw across the foot of the bed. It felt too creepy not to be real and there was a matching throw in front of the fireplace.
With one last look over her shoulder at the room that could easily swamp the entire house she rented, Mona went dashing on her bare feet back to the kitchen. “Sexy room, Mr. Tyler,” she joked as she continued past him to fill a glass with water.
“What would I do without your approval?” he said with sarcasm.
Mona handed him the glass. “Which one is the pain pill?” she asked, showing him both bottles.
He pointed to the one in her right hand and Mona rushed to open it and drop one into his waiting palm. “I was supposed to keep it elevated, but I was working at my drawing board since you left,” he admitted before tossing the pill into his mouth and following it with a deep swig of water.
Mona fought the urge to wipe his sweaty brow with her fingertips. “Is this high enough?” she asked, looking down at his foot upon the stool.
He shook his head.
“Then why are you up? Why aren’t you in bed?” she wailed, reaching for the crutch and tapping it against the floor. “Let’s go. Back to bed, Anson. Don’t shred my nerves. Please.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but then he winced. “Okay,” he acquiesced, rising to his feet and taking the crutch.
“Are you too proud to let me help you?” she asked, looking up at him.
He raised his left arm and she instantly moved to his side to lightly grasp his waist as he carefully settled his arm across her shoulders, being mindful of his injured left wrist.
Mona’s head reached just at his shoulder and the spicy and warm scent of his cologne or deodorant was pleasant. Beneath his thin T-shirt she could feel the hard and defined contour of his waist. And she could feel his pain causing his pulse to race.
“You finally gonna get me in the bedroom, huh?” Anson joked.
“Really. Like . . . like really?” she asked, looking up at him.
He chuckled.
They made their way to the rear of the house and into his bedroom. He turned to sit on the edge of the bed before she helped him raise both legs. “Thanks,” Anson said, leaning back against the pillows stacked high against the towering leather headboard.
Mona picked up some pillows strewn across the bed and propped them under his foot.
“You really jacked me up with that little bug, you know that?” Anson asked, his eyes following her as she moved around the bed to place some pillows under his wrist.
Mona looked pained. “I know. I’m sooo sorry,” she said.
“How do I know this is not like that movie Misery?” he asked, already sounding sleepy from the medication.
“Misery?” she asked, carefully sitting down next to his legs.
He nodded. “This famous writer gets kidnapped and held hostage by one of his super fans. She’s crazy and eventually whups his ass for the whole movie until he escapes.”
Mona arched a brow. “And what reason would I have to be a fan of yours?”
“You copped a feel last night when you were getting my phone. So you tell me,” he said, just before his eyes drifted closed and his mouth opened to release a low snore.
Mona felt her cheeks heat up with shame. “That was an accident. . . .”
She rose from the bed and searched for the door to his bathroom—which was equally stunning—to dampen a washcloth with cool water. Back by his bedside she lightly dabbed his brow.
He mumbled in his sleep and snored again. She lifted the cloth from his head and looked down at his
features, relaxed in sleep. He really is fine.
His deep chocolate complexion with his jet black hair and bright white teeth and eyes were a sight to behold. Especially when he smiles.
Her eyes dipped down to his lips and she took note of the middle of his bottom lip, which had a small dip that was just the right groove for a woman’s tongue. My tongue?
Startled by that thought, Mona stepped back from him and went to toss the cloth in his hamper—which was free of dirty clothes. She allowed herself a longer look around at the ivory and chocolate decor. Every bit of the house she had laid eyes on was neat as a pin. Even his sink was free of the usual glob of toothpaste or the splatter against the mirror that most men cared nothing about.
She gave him one last look and then left the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. As much as she wanted to wander about and see more of the decor of his home—and the former of home of a celebrity like Chloe Bolton—Mona resisted the urge and respected his privacy. Instead she headed back to the kitchen and slid the take-out pans in the fridge before she padded barefoot out to her car to retrieve her iPad and the files she brought from the office.
Not wanting to leave him, she settled herself at the kitchen island and busied herself with work as she waited for him to rise.
Anson licked his lips as he stirred in his sleep. When he finally opened his eyes, the darkness surrounding him was a surprise to him, as was the lightweight throw across his body. He recalled how the small, nagging pain he had felt all day had suddenly escalated to what felt like sharp daggers being stabbed into his ankle. And Mona had helped him to bed. But she didn’t put a throw on me . . . not that I remember.
Shrugging, he’d assumed by now she had gone home. He reached over with his right hand to turn on the bedside lamp. Carefully he rose and used his crutch to go to the bathroom to relieve himself. It wasn’t easy, but he got the job done.
Anson brushed his teeth and washed his face while he was at it, before heading back to bed. He still felt a little loopy from the pain pill. Because of his parents’ addictions, Anson had always been leery of any type of drug and alcohol. He’d learned in college that children of addictive parents were more prone to develop dependency themselves. The only time he had ever voluntarily taken a pain pill had been that day and only because the pain had become intolerable. If he had to stay in bed and elevate his foot to prevent another dose, then he would do just that.
Want, Need, Love Page 6