"The view looking back is certainly different from my perspective at twelve. The thought of being abandoned was the scariest thing I could imagine," she said as she pulled a tray from the cabinet. "I made sure to keep a low profile-"
"Not make waves? I know a little about that." Intrigued by what he was learning, Travis wanted to know more. Her frank perspective was refreshing—and hitting home about his own life in a way he'd never bothered to analyze. "I tried to stay out of the way as much as possible." Since he'd never known what to expect from each new guy his mother brought home, it was easier to stay out of sight. "Thank God for my laptop—it was my escape. I started with games and eventually realized I could create a better one."
"How old were you?" She arranged the bowls of toppings on the tray.
Smiling at the memory, he added a stack of napkins, liking the idea of eating in the living room with her. Somehow—it made their dinner more intimate, despite the fact that they'd be cheering for rival teams. "Thirteen, maybe? I was still in my arrogance-of-youth phase—believing I could do something better than the adult professionals. I guess that would adequately sum up the story of my life."
"And now you're a programmer." When MaryJo stared at him, he relived the sensation that she could somehow read his thoughts. It was an odd feeling—one he'd never experienced before. Not exactly uncomfortable—only foreign. As though she might have the ability to penetrate the dark, hidden parts. But, as the idea took hold, he dismissed it. No one had ever bothered to figure him out before. Why would she be any different?
Now would be a good time to clarify her misconception about his work. Owning the company was clearly different from programming. But, the timing felt awkward. She didn't know anything about Tiberius. Why risk sounding like he was bragging? He was on a roll with her—and he didn't want to lose ground.
Even better—Travis had the hunch she wouldn't care what he did for a living. MaryJo was just a nice person. A nice, sexy person, he corrected. A nice, sexy person who kissed like she would tear him apart in bed. His pulse quickening, he steered his mind away from that suspicion. For now—she'd invited him for dinner and a grudge match basketball game.
"So, your life's work started pretty early, then."
Startled by his wildly drifting thoughts, Travis nodded. "Looking back, it probably kept me out of trouble. A moody, rebel kid with zero parental guidance—not exactly a great starting point for success."
Her eyes sparked with recognition. "For me, it was sports. My dad loved anything competitive. Hours of practice each day—which also conveniently left no time for trouble. I was busy doing homework and practicing my jump shot."
He smiled. "We're both basically admitting our lives were built on a desire to avoid parental disapproval."
Her expression turned thoughtful as she sliced the cooling cornbread on a plate. "My dad always wanted a son. So, I tried to—be that for him."
Dropping her gaze from his, he sensed they were wandering uneasy territory again. But he didn't want her to stop talking. Surprising himself, he threw out a truth of his own. "I used to think if I was an amazing son—if I was just—good enough, maybe my mom would stop bringing home jerks."
Impulsively, she gave his hand a squeeze. "You wanted to be the main guy in her life. There's nothing wrong with that. That makes you a wonderful son."
"I don't know about that," he muttered, regretting his sudden honesty.
"If parents knew how hard kids try to fix things for them—they'd probably be mortified." She reached into the cabinet, withdrawing brightly colored bowls. Meeting his gaze, a wistful smile curved her lips. "I'm glad my dad finally has someone. Madeline is wonderful. I finally have a mother figure—even though it's twenty years too late."
"You seem to have turned out pretty well." The mouthwatering scent of chili hit his nose as she filled their bowls.
"I would've liked help—with the girl stuff."
Amused when her cheeks stained pink again, Travis realized he liked it. He liked her honesty. Her openness. The luminous eyes that seemed to express every thought. "Girl stuff?"
"Dresses. Makeup. Flirting." Her smile was touched with shyness. "All things I don't do well. My dad pushed sports. That's what I became good at. Basketball, soccer. Softball." She chuckled. "By default, I'm just way better at being a guy."
Suddenly feeling lighter than he had in months, Travis accepted the brimming bowls and set them on the tray. "If it's any consolation—you sure as hell kiss like a girl." And looked like one, too. His gaze drifted again to her jean-clad legs. Her body was nothing short of amazing. Memories of the previous night flashed before his eyes—holding her nearly naked body in the shower- As the lower half of his body grew uncomfortably hard, he was rewarded with a flattered smile he wasn't supposed to see.
Still not meeting his eyes, she nodded to the laden tray. "I think we'd better eat before this gets cold. I still have a game to win."
Balancing the tray, he followed her to the living room. Thoughts jumbled, he wasn't certain exactly what he was feeling at the moment. Lust, certainly. But there was a whole lot of 'like' going on, too. MaryJo was completely different from the women he was usually attracted to. There was a—kindness to her. A thoughtfulness that seemed to permeate her essence. To someone not paying attention, it could easily be misinterpreted—as an eagerness to please. Travis wondered about it. Had she spent her life trying to live up to her father's expectations? As he'd spent his childhood trying to win his mother's affection? Wanting to be first in her eyes, yet always coming up short.
His answer had been to wash his hands and move on. To make something of his life—prove to her she'd chosen the wrong guy. That her sick desperation to be loved by any loser who glanced her way—had cost her the son she could've loved. The rich, successful, talented son Travis had determined he would become—if only to show her. Always planning to bask in his success. He'd finally turn his back on her—as she'd done to him all those years ago.
His long ago decision had brought him everything he'd sought—except the satisfaction he'd believed he would gain by achieving it all. His mother received money—when she asked for it. Gifts on all the 'celebration' days she claimed an expectation of hearing from him—as though the mere existence of sons meant Shirley was owed a tribute. Days that held no meaning, nor memory for him. But, the thing she claimed now to want most—time with him—Travis withheld. Now that she was older . . . and temporarily alone . . . he and Curtis had finally moved into first place. Yet, it failed to feel like a victory.
Isolating himself from his mother had meant abandoning his brother. To save himself, he’d left Curtis behind. His college scholarship had been the reprieve he’d waited for his entire life. But, Curtis had been only twelve. Four years away from that hellish house had saved Travis. The same four years had destroyed his brother. Something he'd tried desperately to rectify in the years since, with only limited success.
MaryJo's acceptance. Her forgiving nature—made him question those tactics. She was an appealing blend of both awkwardness and self-confidence. About the important things, she seemed to know exactly where she stood. She'd managed to forge a relationship with her father, despite some pretty obvious disappointments. His thoughts drifting to his failed relationship with Curtis, he was left wondering. What would she have done about it?
AT HALF-TIME, WITH her team up by only three, MaryJo rose from the couch to refresh Travis' beer. The evening was progressing better than she'd hoped, despite the early conversational bump when she'd asked about his family and he'd set off warning flares. "Are you ready for dessert yet?"
A hand to his stomach, he protested. "Dessert is one of those important details you tell people up front. If you'd mentioned it earlier, I might have stopped after two bowls of chili."
Amused, she ran her gaze over him. Despite his lanky frame, Travis could seriously put away food. If she'd had any doubts about her ability to impress him, she'd come away feeling confident in her culinary skills. "You ate half my corn
bread, too. Do you really think dessert would've stopped you?"
"Probably not." Grinning, he rose from the couch, displacing Jack from his perch on the cushion. Danielle was still unsure about Travis. Maintaining her distance, she eyed him suspiciously from her chair in the corner, tucked safely under her desk. "Maybe I should run a few laps around the block to lessen my guilt."
Chuckling as she set their bowls on the counter, she lingered by the sink for a breather. Hands down, this would be etched in her personal history as the best night of her life. A gorgeous guy. An amazing, stupendous, earthshaking kiss. With the gorgeous guy. Who'd proceeded to marvel at her cooking. And plop down next to her on the couch—when he could've chosen anywhere to sit. All while trash-talking each other's basketball team during a great rivalry game.
No spillage. No awkward moments. No lapse in their conversation. Being with him was easy. Almost too easy, her secret, doubting voice whispered. "Stop thinking of ways to ruin this," she scolded, smothering her disbelief. Enjoy the perfection of this single evening. Her pumpkin would arrive in a few hours for the journey back to reality. For now—she would muzzle Doubting Voice—and chuck her in the hall closet.
Sighing, she stared at her reflection in the window over the sink. It was cold and dark outside the window. Yet, inside—she was warm. Happy. And practically starry eyed over Travis Lockwood. It was dangerous, risking being snared in his charismatic web. Despite his smiles and pretty obvious interest, he struck her as a loner. She had the sneaking suspicion this was not a normal Saturday evening for him, either. Likely, tonight was merely an amusing interlude to stave off boredom. She would do well to remember it.
"Hey—I think I've discovered a secret about you."
Travis' voice carried into the kitchen. Grateful to dispel the gloomy thoughts trying to ruin her perfect evening, she forced a smile as she opened the fridge, withdrawing two beers. "In the living room? I usually hide my secrets upstairs, so I don't scare away my guests."
"Well, you slipped up this time-" His sexy voice grew closer. "Mariela Josefina? How did such a beautiful name get shortened to MaryJo, MaryJo?"
Her diploma. Travis must have seen it on the wall near her desk. Her home office was tucked into the far corner of the living room. "My mother called me Mariela all the time," she explained. "Before she married my dad, she was Isabella Puccini." She relayed her mother's name with an over-the-top Italian accent. Basking in his approving grin, she was surprised to discover how much she liked receiving smiles from the mysterious man in her kitchen.
"I'm sorry—how was your mother's name pronounced? I didn't quite catch that."
Repeating it, she added a theatrical hand gesture. "Anyway, my mom somehow managed to convince Boston, Irish-Catholic Sean Mullaney their firstborn should have a seriously Italian name. If I'd been a boy, my dad claims I would've been Giuseppe."
"What's wrong with Giuseppe?" Mimicking her atrocious accent, Travis added a pantomimed moustache twirl.
Smothering her laughter, she briefly questioned his sanity. "Giuseppe Mullaney? We're living in New England, not Tuscany."
"So—what happened? To Mariela Josefina?"
"It was my dad." Shrugging, she felt a twinge of regret. Not exactly the most upbeat story to tell the handsome man in her kitchen. "After my mother died, he-" Pausing, she struggled to find the right words to explain something she'd always known, yet had never voiced to anyone. "Saying my name seemed to . . . hurt him. As though calling me Mariela made him—miss Isabella more. He started shortening it to MaryJo. Eventually, it stuck. Mariela just sort of . . . disappeared."
His silence spoke volumes, though Travis hid his thoughts behind a neutral mask. She imagined what he was thinking. What sort of weak, desperate girl gives up her name? Allows it to disappear—as though it had never been a part of her?
"Please tell me you still use it in some way." His expression was more puzzled than critical.
"It's still my legal name. A few people at work call me Mariela."
"Would you mind if I do?"
Her pulse skyrocketing, she stilled. Did that mean he might want to see her again after tonight? Taking a step closer, Travis removed the beer bottles from suddenly nerveless fingers. Her heart tripping erratically, she swallowed around a lump of panic. "No—I like my name."
"I like it, too. Mariela Josefina," he whispered, closing the distance between them. "Whenever I kiss you, I'm going to call you Mariela."
Completely floored by his nearness . . . by the way he simply blurted out what he was thinking . . . By nearly everything about him—she could only nod. This was a dream. A perfect, amazing dream. Any moment now, she would awaken and find herself half frozen—at the base of his tree. Or upstairs . . . in her own bed. Alone. Because things like this simply didn’t happen to women like her. "I think—I can live with that."
He cracked up. Setting their beers on the desk, he stared at her. "Just to confirm—the kissing part or the Mariela part?"
Her heart bouncing off the walls of her chest, she stepped into his arms, a wave of confidence crashing over her. "Both." She pulled his head down for another heart-stopping, soul-melting, toe-tingling kiss that left them both out of breath when she released him.
He returned the favor, settling her against her desk as he proceeded to melt her heart from the inside. His mouth brushed softly over her bruise, sending a helpless surge of wonder to the pit of her stomach. And when he stared into her eyes, as though searching for something he may have lost—her heart cart-wheeled to the floor.
A few minutes later, his forehead resting against hers, arms clasped loosely around her, they both startled when Danielle meowed. Trapped on the desk chair, she'd reached the limits of her patience. Glaring at them, she leaped to the floor. "I hope that wasn't commentary on my performance."
Shoulders shaking, MaryJo brushed a kiss along his jaw, liking how his arms tightened around her. She would have been content to stand there all night. "With practice, I'm sure you can improve."
Travis' eyes sparked with amusement. "Challenge accepted." Releasing her, he stepped back. "We've got three minutes 'til the second half starts. Despite your attempts to distract me, my team has a rally to stage. Where's this dessert you promised?"
"HE WAS WITH A WOMAN. So—who is she?" Thirty-six hours after her first phone call, Patrice’s voice was still threaded with impatience. Seriously? How hard was it to follow someone? And type up a damned report?
"He left at midnight . . . and it's a woman in the neighborhood. That's all you've got?" Was she the only one with any sense of urgency? Drumming her fingers on the desk, she endured several unnecessary sentences of useless information. "Oh, good. She jogged this morning? That’s great. Maybe you could tell me what she ate for breakfast."
She was working with buffoons, all of them. "I don’t care who this Mullaney girl is—I want to know what she is to him. Is she a hook-up? Is she his girlfriend?" What good was information if she didn't understand its power? "That’s the important part. What the hell is she to Travis? When you can tell me that—call. Otherwise I'll find someone who can." ***
Chapter 6
Leaning back in his chair, Travis gazed out the window during a brief respite from the incessant phone calls. Mondays were typically a nightmare, this one even more so because he hadn't worked enough over the weekend. He still hadn't grabbed hold of the day, due to the team meeting he'd been jotting notes for. Patrice had sent him a lengthy email reminding him—ordering him to use her list of concerns to discuss with his team. As though he couldn't possibly remember their conversation Saturday. Releasing a sigh, he steered his thoughts away from her micro-managing style. Becoming distracted by her would serve no useful purpose. He needed to be productive today.
Compounding his crazy Monday was the fact that he'd done far too little work on Sunday. Coming off an amazing Saturday night with MaryJo, he'd expected to wake up Sunday, ready to attack the endless list of problems still facing the beta. Testing his software wa
s going monumentally slow. A legion of problems continued to crop up, seemingly out of nowhere. Yet instead of plowing through them with determined focus, Travis had wasted a hefty portion of Sunday—thinking about Saturday night.
"Mariela Josefina." Meeting her had been like discovering a thousand dollar bill in a pair of pants he'd never noticed hanging in his closet. He'd discovered a gorgeous, sexy woman hidden under a baggy disguise. Mariela—the secret, sexy name for the MaryJo next door. A woman he might never have noticed had she not fallen into his arms. Since leaving her Saturday night, he'd wasted a ridiculous number of hours thinking about her. Analyzing their evening. Decoding her words. Her expressions. Admitting how much he wished she'd let him spend the night.
That admission forced him to spend an inordinate amount of time analyzing why she hadn't let him spend the night. 'I don't do that anymore,' she'd said. Which had left his over-analytical brain no choice but to wonder—when had she? And how often? And why not now with him?
Eventually, he'd circled back to the obvious question. What right did he have to question her decisions? "Zero, dude." Less than zero. Shaking his head to clear the stupor, Travis was surprised to discover he'd spoken the words aloud. "You don't even know her."
"Don't even know who?"
Startled by the direction of his increasingly alien thoughts, he blinked, almost relieved to discover Chuck leaning against the doorframe. "How long have you been standing there?"
His friend smirked. "Long enough to see you puzzling through a chick problem." Crossing the room, he flopped into the leather chair across from his desk. "Okay, spill. Who is she?"
Still a little outside his comfort zone, he hesitated. This didn't usually happen to him. He dated women. Lots of women. He bagged them. He slept with them. And then he typically forgot them. His brain shifted from one task to the next—like the highly efficient computer it was. Like the programs he designed. Once a task was complete, he moved on to the next one. He didn't think about a woman in the context of the next day or even the next date. He went out; he made small talk; the investment of drinks and meaningless banter usually resulting in him getting laid. Then, he moved on. Back to work. Back to programming. Back to deadlines. When the stress began building again, or he started getting itchy, he repeated the cycle.
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