"A woman I met Friday," he finally answered. Most women didn't appreciate being called only when the mood struck . . . or when he could wedge them in around his work. Booty calls had been marginally effective in college. Now, at the ripe age of thirty-four, they even sounded insulting to him. It was quicker and easier to hit on someone new when he was out with the guys and simply start the process over again.
What he didn't do was think about a hook-up after it was over. Rarely, he met someone who worked out for a few nights—or even more seldom, a few weeks. But there was something about MaryJo—he hadn't been able to stop thinking about. Two days later, it was seriously starting to piss him off.
"Who is she?"
"Just a woman." After the no-sex Saturday night dilemma had looped through his brain far too long, he'd switched to their conversation. Analyzing what he'd learned—and what he was now determined to discover about her.
"Where'd you meet her? And why wasn't I invited?" Slumping into the chair, the buttery, well-worn leather creaked as it conformed to Chuck's stocky build. Travis was irrationally fond of the chairs in his office. More than one decorator had wanted to banish them. But he'd always resisted, for the reason being displayed right now. Those chairs knew him. They knew his programmers. All the late nights his team had pulled inside this office—had been in these chairs. There were three scattered around. In every meeting held in his office, those chairs were the ones people fought over. No one dared leave for a drink or to hit the head . . . for fear of losing his seat.
Forcing a casual shrug, Travis was stung by the acknowledgment that he was forcing it. What the hell was going on? MaryJo was no different from the others. She'd been great company . . . at a time of high stress. When he'd needed a distraction. It wasn't as though he'd sought her out. Hell—she'd fallen from his damned tree. His mouth quirked at the memory. "You're married, remember? How could someone like you not have plans on a Friday night?"
"Yeah—boring married guy plans," Chuck admitted. "Dinner with some couple Gracie knows from work. It was okay."
"Wasn't that part of your vows? For rich or poor? For boring, Friday night dinners?"
Chuck's slow grin dispelled his grumpiness. "For carrying the bags on shoe-shopping Saturday. For watching bimbo bridezilla shows instead of the Sox game." Slumping further into the comfortable leather, he sighed. "Christ, I'm completely whipped."
"By the woman of your dreams," Travis reminded, still unable to fathom the idea of committing to one person . . . for his entire life? How had Chuck possibly known Gracie was the one for him? How had he stood there in front of everyone and basically lied—that he'd never leave? The whole sickness and health bullshit. Travis still remembered the cold sweat that had broken out that day. Could still feel the clamminess slithering down his back under his tuxedo. And he'd just been the damned best man. Had he been in Chuck's position, he would've thrown up—or worse. Hell, he would've run. Yet, Chuck had stood there, that stupid grin on his face while he signed away his freedom. Shaking his head, he released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Lately, they’re nightmares," his friend muttered. The long-suffering sigh from across the desk dispelled his increasingly fractured thoughts. "Since my life is completely boring. Let's talk about yours."
"I met her Friday and saw her again Saturday night."
"Two nights in a row?" Chuck's eyes widened. "Whoa—that definitely doesn't sound like you. She must've been crazy hot in bed."
Resentment flared for a nanosecond before Travis doused it with incredulity. What the hell was wrong with him? This was a completely normal conversation—with his best friend. With his partner. Why the hell would he take exception to it this time? Likely, it was the fact that he hadn't scored with MaryJo. Just thinking about her—made him smile. While he might be regretting it now, he sure as hell wasn't giving up on the chance for it. She was worth at least a second pass.
"Okay—seriously, dude? That grin says it all." Chuck pushed himself up on the chair. "C'mon—I'm an old, married has-been—forced to live vicariously through you for the past five years. I need details."
"Maybe later." His grin widened over the simple fact his friend was jealous. Despite not sleeping with Mariela, he could still torture his friend with the idea of it.
"You're holding out on me?" Chuck's eyes reflected shock.
"Maybe we should get to work," he suggested. "After all, I pretty much lost the whole weekend." He let that remark sink in, smiling when his friend groaned. The weekend may have been entirely lost for meeting deadlines, for de-bugging his new software, for keeping Patrice off his ass. But it sure as hell had been great, otherwise. For the guy who'd just met a sweet, beautiful, sexy prospect, the weekend had been pretty amazing.
"You really suck, Lockwood."
BY MID-AFTERNOON, TRAVIS had mentally returned to the driver's seat. He'd met with the team. Instead of doing all the beta testing himself, he'd assigned some of the more tedious aspects to two of the up and coming rock stars on his team. They were surprisingly eager to rise to the challenge. Shaking his head as he stared out the window, his view of the parking lot unobstructed, he felt a great deal older than he had earlier in the day. The guys he'd recruited—kids, really—wanted to be unleashed. They wanted responsibility. Ownership of the project.
So different from the 'adults' around him, who just wanted ownership of the profits. It was a nice feeling. Travis realized he wanted to spend more time with those kids—nurturing and mentoring their talent. Building a think-tank of ideas—immersing himself in possibilities, instead of sitting at this desk. Turning, he stared dispassionately at the pile of messages on his blotter. The quarterly financials stacked in his chair, a gift from accounting that would require his blessing before they could be released. "I hate this," he mumbled, turning back to the window.
"Hey—catch you at a bad time?"
Shock lancing him, his gloomy thoughts scattered with the surprise of his visitor. His younger brother rarely visited him, even less so at Tiberius. "Curt, how are you? I haven't talked to you in weeks."
"I've been busy . . . with work." When he remained hesitantly in the doorway, Travis motioned his brother inside.
"Sit," he urged. "Can I get you a drink?"
His brother eased into the leather chair, his posture rigid—as though he was enduring a job interview. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But not relaxed, either. Only his wavy, blond hair was in disarray. "No. thanks."
"It's great to see you, Curt." Struck by how young his brother appeared, Travis was reminded of the talented kids working three floors below. Yet, the similarity ended with their eyes. While the guys downstairs brimmed with boundless enthusiasm, his brother's eyes reflected wariness. The lines around them held fatigue—of just about everything.
"I don't want to keep you-" Reluctantly, Curtis leaned back in his chair. "I was in the neighborhood—" His voice drifted away, as though completing the sentence required too much effort.
"You're always welcome," he reminded. "I love when you stop by." He crossed the room to close the door. Be patient, he counseled himself. For all the times he'd attempted to help his brother in the past, Travis had learned not to get his hopes up. Curtis didn't usually want to hear what he had to say. About anything. "Catch me up. What's going on in your life?" For him to show up at Tiberius, the circumstances must be bad. As prickly as his brother acted around him, he was ten times worse when he visited Tiberius—as though a place—this place—made him uncomfortable.
When Curt finally met his gaze, he stared into eyes that were unnervingly like his own. "Work's good. I've been doing a lot of thinking . . . and I've decided-"
Jeez—what now? Travis schooled his expression. Likely, his brother's next words would be 'I've quit my job' and then—'I need money'.
"I've decided I want to help with a charity—a foundation . . ." His face reddening, Curt's voice trailed off. "I found out . . . the Marshall family—they set up . . . a trust—after the accident
." His brother dragged a hand through his hair, his gaze refusing to settle anywhere near him.
Uncertain how he should feel, Travis acknowledged relief flowing through him. "Did you want to make a donation? I'd be glad to help you with that."
"Yeah—I mean . . no." Misery flared in his brother's eyes. "Yes, I want to make a donation," he corrected. "But, I was actually thinking about something bigger." Finally able to meet his gaze, he kept his mouth shut, waiting for Curt to finish what he wanted to say. "I've planned a charity basketball game—it's three weeks from now. I've got the teams . . . sort of locked down and the gym. I've been advertising it at my company—and the Marshall family . . . is mentioning it on their website."
"You contacted them?" Disbelief forced him into a strange zone of suspended animation. "What did they say?"
Regret shimmered in his eyes. Over the last six years, Travis had never not seen it. Lurking. Coloring any conversation; overshadowing anything good Curt managed to achieve. His guilt had taken up residence, like a guest who wouldn't leave. Somewhere along the way, the unwanted guest had become permanent. "Over the past three years, I've—made donations anonymously—as much as I could scrape up. And . . . then, about a year ago—I stopped being anonymous."
Floored, Travis released a harsh breath, breaking the silence between them. "Is that wise? Did the attorneys say you should-"
"I don't care about the lawyers, Trav." His brother cut him off, his eyes heating with anger. "I know what I did. The Marshalls- do you think they could ever forget? The law says I've paid for it." His shoulders sagging, Curt slouched back into his chair, the momentary fire extinguished. "But, we both know I can never pay enough." His jaw clenched tight, he paused. "I'll never be done, and I'm—okay with that."
It was likely the longest conversation Travis had engaged in with his brother in—years. Reeling with the information dump, he wasn't sure how to respond. Since the accident, his interactions with Curtis had been cursory. Practical. Discussions of the necessary. First, the terror over nearly losing him. The endless months of surgeries and rehab. The trial. His brother's jail sentence. Finally, three years ago Curtis had been released. But Travis had immediately recognized his brother's freedom existed only in the physical sense. Emotionally, mentally, he remained a prisoner.
"What can I do, Curt?" If they'd been close—the gratitude reflected in his brother's eyes would have been insulting. For Travis, it provided a measure of hope. His brother had been unwilling to accept assistance in any form over the past decade. After the accident, too weak to fight, Curt had no choice but to accept his brother's help. But as he'd healed, Curt had slammed that door shut. Did today signal a change of heart? Would they someday turn a corner? Where all the ugliness of the last decade would finally fade in the rearview mirror? Travis had reserved a molecule of hope they'd discover their relationship could be rebuilt. Despite everything that had happened, he'd prayed for it. At this point, he'd take anything.
"I wondered if you'd . . . be on my team? Maybe help me find a few more players?" Curtis' rigid jaw loosened for a half-hearted smile.
Hope igniting in his chest, he nodded. "Hell, yeah. I'm in."
"And . . . if you want to make a donation . . . or get Tiberius involved, that would obviously be . . . amazing. But, that's your call." His brother suddenly stood, as though he'd reached his conversational limit and had to escape. In a strange, lightheaded way, Travis felt the same. "I should go. I'll email you with the details . . . and . . . maybe call you next week to firm it up?"
"Yeah—that's . . . that'll be great. I'll put it on my calendar." When his brother bolted from his office, he followed him to the door. Several female heads raised from their cubicles, clear interest in their eyes as he passed, but Curt didn't spare them a glance. For most of his adult life, his brother had been paying a colossal price for the mistakes he'd made at twenty. Mistakes he should've been there to guide him through. As a boy, his brother had always been content allowing others to make decisions for him. Today, he had the appearance of someone who knew exactly what he wanted. And no one would deter him. Curt had become a man with a mission. Perhaps, Travis prayed, it might just save them both.
MARYJO SIGHED AS SHE examined her bruise in the hall mirror Monday morning. Back to work. Back to reality. She hadn't heard from Travis on Sunday. Forcing her thoughts from the puzzling man who'd overtaken her weekend, she concentrated on her reflection. "It doesn't look completely awful." She'd slathered on foundation, praying the office lighting wouldn't leave her looking like a crime scene photo.
"You didn't expect to hear from him," she reminded her disgruntled reflection. "It was one night." But—the night had been amazing. And she had expected to hear from him. Travis seemed to have a great time. Unlike most dates . . . she'd actually felt comfortable with him. "He liked you enough to want to stay." And to seem disappointed when she'd gently, but firmly discouraged him. But, he'd still kissed her at the door, passionately reminding her what she'd be missing. Lingering over the task. Her knees had weakened, along with all but a thread of her resolve.
A soft sigh escaped her lips. Why the hell had she sent him away? A gorgeous man who wanted to sleep with her. Those offers didn't come along often. She frowned at her reflection."Actually—they sort of do," she corrected. From far less attractive men than Travis. "That's the problem." She didn't want that offer anymore. Hadn't ever wanted it.
For a motherless girl with an emotionally distant father, MaryJo had craved relationships. She'd spent her life seeking connections with other humans, enduring the hook-up culture during college because there'd been few other options. Night after night, she'd found herself alone in her apartment—while her roommates went out. She'd finally given in. But in the years since, she'd grown increasingly less tolerant of casual hook-ups.
Whether she ever met a guy who believed she deserved more—MaryJo knew it. Keys in hand, she was hit with a grim Monday-morning vision. "Five years from now, you'd better not be muttering those words to your cats."
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, MaryJo related the details of her crazy, Cinderella-esque weekend over lunch with her faux sisters-in-law.
"MoJo—what the hell were you doing in the man's tree?"
When Maddie's son Matt married Juliet, MaryJo had seized the opportunity for another family member. Logical to her core, she'd figured if her father ever convinced Madeline to marry him, Jules would be legitimately, indirectly related.
Her gorgeous sister-in-law picked at her salad, oblivious to the attention she received from nearly every male diner within a six table vicinity. Shimmery, blond hair capped a cunning brain, packaged in a head-turning face. If Jules wasn't one of the nicest women she'd ever met, MaryJo would likely be completely intimidated by her.
"It's a tough market. You've got to put yourself out there to meet guys now." Alyssa's sapphire eyes glowed with humor.
Only child, my ass. Using the same logic, she'd gained Alyssa as a sister and her husband, Teagan. With little work, she'd become Auntie Mo to Matt's son, Thomas. In a few short months, she'd be an auntie again to Alyssa's baby. If the two couples kept reproducing, she'd soon have more relatives than she knew what to do with.
"Oh, I was out there, alright. On a limb, about twenty-five feet off the ground." MaryJo poked at her chicken salad. At this stage of pregnancy, Lyss was pulling off the beach-ball-under-her-shirt look pretty well. "How are you feeling these days?"
"If she's anything like I was with Tommy, she probably feels like a whale." Julie wrinkled her nose at her salad. "Where's the good stuff? There's supposed to be goat cheese in here. And walnuts."
"I'm more worried about Teagan," Alyssa admitted. "His brothers keep telling horror stories about all the giant babies on the O'Brien side of the family." Snagging the rest of MaryJo's fries, she paused to dunk them in ketchup. "Then T turns green like he's going to faint."
Jules smirked. "Note to self: remind Matt to harass Teagan about his weak stomach."
"That's not nic
e," MaryJo protested, thinking how cute it was that Alyssa's giant, linebacker husband was worried for his teeny, little wife. "He loves her."
Lyss rolled her eyes. "I've heard rumors of an eleven pounder." Leaning over, she stole the pickle from MaryJo's plate. "You don't want that, right?"
"Uh-" Watching Alyssa inhale it, she hid her smile.
"Seriously," she said around bites, "what were you doing in his tree?"
"I told you—Jack bolted from the house. It's not as though I make a habit of traipsing through the woods in the pouring rain. Especially to that neighborhood." Raising the long-stemmed water glass, she took a sip. "I'm afraid to jog through that subdivision," she admitted. "As clutzy as I am, I could stumble into a Beamer and scratch it. Or set off the Mercedes car alarm. Or—trip on some thousand dollar skateboard."
"So, he has money?" Jules glanced up, fork halfway to her mouth. "That's always nice."
Easy for her to say. Julie knew how to relate to rich people—how to speak their language. But—for a kid raised by a no-nonsense cop, MaryJo had always felt completely out of her depth. Not that she was poor, exactly. But memories of the rich, frat house jerks in college still sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine.
"I'll settle for smokin' hot any day." Alyssa grinned, resting her hands on her enormous belly.
"T is pretty hot," Jules admitted. "Money just means a really nice dinner before you have great sex." Giving up on her salad, she reached for the menu again.
MaryJo disagreed. The guys in college had been insecure jackasses who'd wanted to sleep with her—before reminding her why she'd never actually be good enough to date. Their subtle put-downs containing clubby references she'd never quite understood. Ten years hadn't improved much in the dating arena. Ignoring the tingle of discomfort, she searched the bread basket. "His house is nice," she admitted. "He's a software programmer."
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