What Weston needed was to fit ten hours of work into five, clear his head for tonight’s non-pharmaceutical job, and prep for an unwanted date with Farzad’s daughter. “Thanks, but I’ve got to work.”
“All work and no play makes for a dull life,” Duncan said as they headed for their cars. “When does the great Weston Aldrich make time for fun?”
“Fun is overrated.” Weston waved vaguely as he unlocked his Audi and slid into the driver’s seat.
Duncan’s version of fun—dating, socializing, relaxing on weekends—was reserved for a different kind of person. Accomplishment drove Weston, professional strides and goals reached, which made the merger’s latest obstacle all the more infuriating.
His car nearly stalled as he decelerated down the garage ramp. He almost sideswiped one of the support columns. Date Karim’s daughter. Hopefully marry her. Rosanna’s awareness of the request made the sham even more confusing. The longer he ruminated, the more erratic his driving became, the city’s gridlock shredding Weston’s already frazzled nerves.
By the time he pulled up to the curb where Annie should’ve been, his grip was close to crushing his steering wheel. He searched the busy sidewalk for a girl in layers of vintage clothing, long blond hair tied into a knot on her head. He often told Annie she was one oversized sweater shy of looking like a tree-hugging hippie. She’d roll her eyes and tell him he wouldn’t know chic style if it bit him in the ass. His designer-filled closet proved otherwise, and there was no sign of Annie or her eccentric wardrobe anywhere on the bustling street.
Then a woman stood from where she’d been sitting on the stairs of the pizza shop, and his heart two-stepped. What in the actual hell?
This woman was definitely Annie. The birthmark above the left corner of her upper lip and striking hazel eyes, so much like her brother’s, were unmistakable. But this Annie’s lace top pushed up her breasts and bared her abdomen. Her black skirt showed more leg than a Radio City Rockette, and her tall black boots had every passing male licking his lips.
This Annie was about to get an earful.
He left his Audi, closed the distance between them swiftly, and removed his suit jacket, swinging it around her. He steered her toward his car, away from the man who’d just winked at him knowingly. Goddamn creeps in this city.
Annie dug her heels into the sidewalk, nearly toppling them both. “Aggressive much, Wes? Are you trying to break my legs?”
“I’m trying to get you into my car before someone offers you a key to a room that rents by the hour.”
She shoved him and his jacket off. “Are you for real?”
Was she trying to give him a coronary? “Since when do you dress like…this?” He motioned to her skimpy outfit, then sneered at a preppy jerk giving her the once-over. “If you value your face, buddy, keep it pointed ahead.”
The idiot snickered and walked on. Weston tried to shield Annie with his body.
She tipped her head back and sighed. “You are such an overbearing asshole sometimes.”
Honestly, this girl. He hadn’t driven through ungodly traffic, instead of poring over this merger disaster, for the pure joy of it. “If my memory serves me correctly, and it usually does, you’re the one who called me. Something about an emergency.”
Her face turned serious. “I was dying for one of those amazing gyros from that place around the block, but when I got to the restaurant I realized I’d snatched my keys but forgot my purse. And I may have left those keys in their bathroom and now they’re gone. Since there’s the teeny, tiny issue of me being late on rent, I can’t speak to my landlord today, and when I explained my situation to the nice man waiting for his gyro, he loaned me his phone so I could call you. Small mercies, right? So I’ll have enough cash for rent after tonight’s shift, but I’m cashless and cardless until then and can’t be late for my new job, so we really need to get a move on. I’ll also need to borrow your key to my place.”
He counted to five, making sure her verbal deluge had ended. Annie had three settings: Chatty Cathy, sarcastic comedienne, and pit bull. “What do you mean you’re late on rent?”
“It’s nothing. Just a small setback. All will be well tomorrow.”
“This isn’t a small setback. This is irresponsibility.”
She planted her hands her hips. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Wes.”
“No. You need me to rescue you.”
She added an eye roll to her confrontational pose. “I only called you because everyone else I know has a real job.”
Well, wasn’t that the cherry on this shit-flavored day. “Did you hit your head this morning? Is there some kind of frontal lobe damage I should be aware of?”
It would explain the wardrobe malfunction and the asinine comment. Annie knew Weston clocked upwards of eighty hours of work a week. She was well aware he ate, drank, and breathed his job. Aside from fitting in hours at his home gym, squeezing in dinner with her every couple of weeks, and the evening activities she’d never know about, his life revolved around Aldrich Pharma.
She sassed out her hip, a move that hiked her miniskirt farther up her thigh. A bike messenger whistled at her. Weston gave him the finger as the moron plowed into a parked car.
“Let’s dissect this, shall we?” Annie said, oblivious to the male chaos she was creating. “Did you have to tell someone, a boss for instance, you had to leave work?”
He glared at her, and she smirked.
“Are you worried,” she went on, smug as a Cheshire cat, “you might get in trouble for sneaking off? Be given a warning? Lose your job?”
He curled his lip at the implication. Just because he had freedom to come and go as he pleased didn’t make the demands of his job any less real. Or less stressful. He was being told to date, hopefully marry, a woman for God’s sake. But there was no point explaining his responsibilities to someone who flitted from job to job, barely making rent, quitting when anything got too tough. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Anthea.”
“Come on, Weston Aldrich. The word ‘rich’ is in your freaking name. You don’t know from real work.” The pit bull unleashed.
“And this outfit you’re wearing,” he said, unsure why he was getting so angry, “is that for a real job? One that won’t have your brother rolling over in his—”
Annie flinched, just enough for shame to silence him. Mentioning Leo was a low blow. Too low. They never outright fought. Ragged on each other, sure. Went out of their way to tease and torment. Something was different today, though—her outfit, this weird protectiveness that had him wanting to build a castle around her. With a moat. And sharks.
During the thirteen years since her brother’s death, he’d watched Annie grow out of her gawky limbs and boyish figure, into this…woman. He wasn’t sure when the change had fully struck him. It felt gradual, yet sudden. Expected, yet feared. Forward momentum he was powerless to control. The past year he’d found himself staring at her occasionally as she’d fuss over one of her scrapbooks, her teeth lodged into her bottom lip, T-shirt carelessly slipping off her shoulder. He’d forget himself when she’d laugh, the sound huskier than he remembered, her head tipped back and her throat open, so much easy joy in the sound.
Yeah, he’d noticed the burgeoning beauty in Anthea Ward, little sister of Leonardo Ward—in a totally platonic way—which meant other men had noticed, too. And here he was, tasked by her brother to ensure some idiot didn’t hurt her or take advantage. Near impossible in her current outfit.
“Just…please get in the car, Squirrel. We can yell at each other in there while you tell me about your new job.”
Annie didn’t glower or snark back at him. “Sure,” she said softly, her fierce eyes oddly downcast.
A weird ache pinched the center of his chest.
2
Wes’s car still had that fancy new-car smell, like it smelled of money. Come to think of it, everything about Wes had a distinct scent: his cologne/soap mix conjured scenes of snow-drenched pine
s, a roaring fire, and a cocky man wearing an extravagant smoking jacket. His stark loft apartment was almost odorless, save for hints of lemon and lavender and subtle whiffs of ostentation.
Annie clicked on her seat belt and melted into his new Audi’s expensive-smelling leather. They probably stuffed hundreds into the cushioning for extra-special comfort.
“So,” Wes said, his hands on the wheel, eyes dead ahead, the car still in park. “Why are you late on rent?”
She rolled her head over the headrest and faced his stern profile. “That aromatherapy course set me back.”
“You told me you had money to pay for that course.”
“Yeah, but there’s a new craft store on 6th and it’s like being in a scrapbooking wonderland. I mean, only a cyborg would leave there without five bags of glitter and glue, and you should have seen their bowls of buttons.” Buttons so cute they’d be the envy of her online scrapbooking group. Craft supplies outweighed adulting times a million. You couldn’t put a dollar value on that level of awesome.
Wes shook his head. “Are you even planning to use the aromatherapy training? Or was that as big of a waste of money as your glass blowing class?”
“Neither of those felt right in the end. Not everyone needs to have their lives planned out by age five.”
He gestured wildly at the busy street. “You’re stranded without a purse because you can’t pay your landlord. Don’t you think it’s time you started acting your age? Take some responsibility for your life.”
Weston’s holier-than-thou attitude was long past tiresome. From his first appearance at the shelter Leo and Annie had called home, he’d walked around like he’d been better than everyone. Not a stretch back then. Wes was rich. Smart. Swoon-worthy to most girls, or certain guys—really anyone who had a faint pulse. Including a twelve-year-old Annie.
Until she’d learned his volunteer hours had been an ultimatum laid down by his mother. Until he’d hung around Leo more often, the two boys leaving her out. Until Leo had died while partying with Wes, and Wes had made it his mission to be Annie’s stand-in brother.
She appreciated how hard he tried to look out for her. She really did. It was sweet when he wasn’t driving her up the freaking wall. She knew he still harbored guilt for being there the night Leo died. She understood the responsibility he felt toward her. But why did he have to make her feel so inept? So young? Like a charity case he’d been saddled with.
At twenty-seven, she didn’t need to be anyone’s pity sister. “How about I start adulting when you quit acting like a constipated eighty-year-old.”
The corner of his lips twitched. “I was going for ninety, so I must be off my game. And do you want to tell me again why you’re wearing…that?”
She bristled at the disdain in his voice. “I don’t recall telling you a first time.”
“Why are you always so difficult?”
“Why are you always so tyrannical?”
“Honestly, Anthea.”
“Honestly, Weston.” She deepened her voice to mimic his.
He looked ready to smack his forehead on his steering wheel, and she laughed. Okay, sometimes it was fun sparring with his overbearing self. “I’m sorry. You’re just too easy to rile up. I have a new bartending gig at a hot spot in the Meatpacking District. Tight clothing means more tips.”
The car remained parked. He opened his mouth and closed it, hopefully thinking before spewing more judgmental nonsense. “What happened to the waitressing job at that”—he squinted through the windshield—“sports bar?”
“I got tired of smelling like chicken wings. And I may have dumped a beer on a regular who thought my butt was a hand rest.”
Weston’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “You have to tell me when you need help. They can’t fire you over that.”
“They didn’t fire me. I quit. And I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was fourteen.”
He sighed and slumped slightly, the defeated pose so unlike Weston Aldrich, and guilt pressed on her lungs. She really had been more defensive lately, mainly with Wes. He was just so meddlesome. And infuriating. Unbelievably controlling. The way he’d sneered at her clothes hadn’t helped. She didn’t like her outfit much more than him. Not because it was revealing. The skimpy halter-skirt combo was typical clubbing attire, which made her think of carefree kids dancing to a DJ’s beats, which made her think of Leo, which made her think about the approaching anniversary of his death, which made her sad and crabby.
“Can we start driving so I’m not late for my new job?” she asked as she tugged down her skirt.
His eyes flicked to her thighs, then quickly away. Without replying, he turned the ignition and waited for a break in traffic.
Wes didn’t tease her about starting yet another job as he drove. She didn’t taunt him about his one-dimensional life, which revolved around work, work, and more work. He seemed stuck in his head, the tight clench of his jaw hinting at an internal yelling match. About her? His job? There was no reading Weston’s mind. Especially when she was eyeball deep in her own frustrations.
This new job wasn’t going to be much better than her last one. She would reek of booze and sweat instead of chicken wings and beer. Men would make sloppy advances. Her feet would hurt from hustling all night. She knew these jobs didn’t utilize her creative energy, as Wes never failed to mention. What he didn’t know was she had a plan.
And a piano.
The eight hundred dollar used Yamaha upright would be all hers tomorrow. She was excited and nervous, but mostly nervous. Piano had been Leo’s thing: learning to play, then learning bass, then drums, then tinkering with DJ mixers and controllers, anything that made sound, spending hours in his high school’s music room and music stores, earphones on, boasting that he’d be a huge DJ someday. He’d even found a rec center with a piano. They’d never complained when Leo used it to teach Annie.
She hadn’t touched a keyboard since the night Leo died.
Last month, everything had changed.
A couple of glasses of wine in her system, she’d sauntered into the subway station and could have sworn she’d heard Leo playing. It hadn’t been him, obviously. But the sound had drawn her, along with the strangest urge to play. Ten dollars placed in the busker’s hat, she’d asked if she could tickle his ivories.
“You can tickle anything of mine you like,” he’d said with a friendly wink. He’d stepped back while fanning his hand toward his electric keyboard, and she’d taken what had felt like her first breath in thirteen years.
She had played. Couldn’t believe she remembered how. Leo had told her she’d been a natural. She had felt something special as a twelve-year-old, closing her eyes, the cold-firm press of the keys beneath her fingers, the vibration traveling up her wrists as the notes spilled from her hands. All to impress her big brother. For two years they’d played as often as possible, her skills surprising even Leo. That same rush had blindsided her last month, the addictive pull to play, be closer to her brother.
Now she owned a piano that would be delivered tomorrow. She planned to practice until she could teach beginners the way Leo had taught her. What she wouldn’t do was tell Wes craft supplies hadn’t been the only purchase she’d made in lieu of paying rent. If he told her teaching piano was yet another dead-end job, it would cut deep. She didn’t want to defend her choice or put into words how she thought Leo would hear her if she played. She wasn’t sure why it had taken her thirteen years to touch a piano again.
“I thought you said you were worried about being late,” Wes said.
Annie looked out the window. She hadn’t noticed Wes pull over, but they were at her newest gig. A job that would pay the bills (and cover emergency craft-shop purchases) while her new plans marinated.
She unclicked her seat belt. Wes did the same. Which was odd. When he opened his door and his intentions sank in, she reached over him and yanked his door shut. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He cast a derisi
ve glance at the bar. “I’m not letting you walk in there on your own.”
Imogen’s did look seedy in the light of day. Cigarettes and garbage littered the sidewalk. Buildings were in various states of decay, this section of the Meatpacking District less gentrified. Still nicer than the streets she’d once called home. She could handle herself anywhere, anytime. What she couldn’t handle was explaining to her coworkers that she’d needed a chaperone her first day. “You’re not letting me do anything. I’m doing this on my own because I’m a functioning adult who doesn’t need an escort.”
“A functioning adult wouldn’t be locked out of her apartment.”
Oh, man, he was cruising for a bruising.
His phone rang from the center console, and Duncan’s name flashed on the screen. She’d met the dashing blond at last year’s company Christmas party. Wes invited her to the event every year. After a handful, she’d begun declining.
The Aldrich Pharma staff knew Wes had met her while volunteering at a shelter, doing his Good Samaritan work. They’d seen Leo’s picture on his desk. Their pitying looks made her feel like she was Wes’s philanthropic project. Last year, free booze and food had outweighed her pride, and Duncan had introduced himself with a kiss to her hand, flirtation oozing through his bedroom voice. Wes had warned her to stay away from him after dragging Duncan away by the elbow. If Wes wanted to unleash his inner control freak, she’d have to fight dirty.
She grabbed Wes’s ringing phone and hit Talk. “Hey, Duncan! It’s me, Annie. We met at the Aldrich Pharma Christmas bash.”
“Must be my lucky day,” Duncan said, his cheerful voice a contrast to Wes’s scathing look. “To what do I owe the honor?” Duncan asked.
“I’m with Wes and your name popped up on his phone. I remembered how nice it was chatting with you, and I simply couldn’t resist answering.”
Scowling, Wes grabbed for the phone. She dodged the control freak, but his hand swiped her boob, and he pulled back, as though horrified. He didn’t try again, and a strange tingling spread up her neck. And down her thighs.
The Beat Match Page 2