When he spotted them a few minutes later, Travis shrank down in his seat, immediately feeling foolish. But when his brother pulled MaryJo in for a hug, his entire body stilled, each moment seeming to happen in slow motion. His chest tight, he could hear each breath, feel his pulse throb with a combination of jealousy. Anger. Possessiveness. And desperation to be holding her himself.
He didn’t realize he was following her home until he'd pulled up in front of her house. Shaking off the weird sensation that he was no longer in control of his emotions, Travis took her steps two at a time. His head clearing as he rang the doorbell, he dragged in a deep breath. He was about to cross a line . . . one he’d never felt even the slightest urge to breach.
"Hey—what are you doing here?"
TO SAY MARYJO WAS floored would have been an understatement. Standing in her doorway, she stared at her visitor, confusion and something close to—frustration washing over her. Why was Travis here? Like a phantom, he occupied her thoughts. Her dreams. Yet, Dream Travis never seemed to hold up in the light of day. There was no substance to their relationship. They were friends—without benefits. He didn’t call. He didn't text. He just—showed up. When he did, they had a good time. Then—he'd vaporize. Each time, she'd sense a breakthrough. She'd assume they were making headway. With friendship. With—whatever this was. Only to have him disappear again.
"I was hoping to see you after the practice, but you’d already left."
Or he did this: show up on her doorstep without any warning. Her emotions still on overload from the desperately sad conversation with Curt, she had trouble processing exactly what she was feeling. Her fantasy-come-to-life was standing on her doorstep, a hopeful expression on his face. But, what did it mean? Her suspicion growing, MaryJo had the uncomfortable sense that she was an afterthought. An item on his to-do list—but, only when he had nothing better to do. The smug, busy executive who occasionally enjoyed slumming it.
The knowledge that she was being played left her with the same emptiness she’d experienced earlier that morning. Always the friend. Accommodating. Willing to help. Eager to spend time with him. But never valued for anything more than what she could give him in the moment. And she was damned tired of it. "I just had lunch with your brother."
"I—saw him leave the practice." Travis hesitated. "I didn’t know it was with you. We could have all had lunch together."
Staring at him, MaryJo experienced a bleak wave of futility. She was so tired. Of being the random buddy. Of being fun enough to hang out with—as one of the guys. But never worthy of their interest. She’d never felt valued—for . . . herself. For . . . anything more than what she could do for them. "Did you want something? Were we supposed to meet?"
The fleeting surprise that crossed his beautiful features solidified her anger. "I-I was on my way home and I wondered whether you’d like to maybe go out for dinner."
"Dinner?" Probably tonight. Because—hey—she couldn’t possibly have plans on a Saturday night. And she wasn’t worth planning for. Her heart felt like a lead weight in her chest. Travis was important. He was someone. And she—wasn’t worth bothering over. "Dinner when, Travis?"
"I was thinking tonight, if you’re free. I have some work to do on my program, but maybe we could get together around eight?"
In her fantasy, she was giddy when Travis finally got around to asking her out on a real date. An official date. In her dream, she’d imagined dressing up for him . . . with a little help- Okay, a lot of help—from Alyssa and Jules. For once in her life—she would look sexy. She would be so damned attractive—his mouth would drop open. The evening would be romantic as hell—and when they returned, MaryJo would suggest he join her for a drink. But before she could even pour them, they would be undressing each other in the hallway. She would have wrestled the seven-date-rule into the closet. Bound and gagged—next to the miserable voice in her head.
But, today didn’t feel like that fantasy. Today, she felt old. Tired. Forgotten. And Travis wasn’t the hot, sexy prince. He was lazy, banking on her easygoing personality to just drop everything because it was convenient for him. A jolt of shock ran through her when she heard her voice respond. "I’m sorry, Travis. I already have plans tonight. Maybe we could do it another time."
No—don’t. Was she crazy? She had no plans. Her words floated into the void between them, before she could snatch them back. But—it was official. Un-retractable. His eyes widened slightly—as though the possibility she could have something better to do was unfathomable. Women didn’t say no to Travis Lockwood. On the rare occasion it happened, he probably just moved down the bar to the next female he saw.
"Oh. Okay." He nodded, his expression a little dazed at the rare rejection. "Why—don’t I give you a call . . . and we can set something up?"
Yeah. Right. Her stomach sinking, MaryJo could pretty much guarantee she wouldn’t hear from him again. You'll have to be okay with that. Because she didn’t like the way he made her feel—as though she was over the moon for him, while he was just along for the ride. "That would be great. I’ll wait to hear from you."
Still hesitating on her doorstep, he turned to leave. Way to go, Mariela. She sure as hell knew how to scare them off. Before she could close the door, Travis turned back. "Is . . . something wrong, MaryJo? Did I do something to offend you?"
"I was just wondering why . . . you never call me. You just sort of . . . show up, always assuming I won’t have any plans."
"I showed up because I enjoy your company . . . I thought it might be fun to go out." His features went carefully neutral, leaving her with the impression he was familiar with this particular complaint. "I don’t have the kind of job that allows me to plan too far ahead."
His manner was a little too rehearsed. He'd used this excuse before. With nothing left to lose, MaryJo was less cautious than she might have been. "I’m afraid I don’t buy that, Travis. You schedule your EMT shift. If something matters to you, you seem to make time for it."
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he appeared annoyed that she would dare call him on his actions. "I’m sorry you feel that way. But—at this stage, I don’t owe you any explanations about my commitments."
"You certainly don’t." Her heart slowly icing over as she acknowledged what she was giving up, she forced a smile. Travis' walls were too high to scale. While she’d experienced glimpses of a wonderful, compassionate man on the other side of his fortress, MaryJo suspected it was beyond her ability to storm the gates. If his fear of commitment extended to making plans more than a few hours out, any woman would have a challenge on her hands. Maybe his upbringing had scarred him to the point he couldn’t change. Or—maybe he just didn’t want to. "It was nice getting to know you."
What she couldn’t do was keep placing herself in a position to be hurt by him. And Travis would hurt her. His disappearing act was already undermining her confidence. "I guess I’ll see you at basketball practice Thursday . . . assuming you can fit it in."
"MaryJo—wait." He extended an arm when she would have shut the door. "What the hell is going on?"
"What do you mean?" Surprised that she could stand there so calmly . . . and go toe to toe with him, MaryJo realized it was because she knew she'd already lost. Maybe her efforts could assist the next contender.
"I like you, okay? I like seeing you. I’d like to see you tonight," he emphasized, as though baffled by the way she was acting.
Releasing a sigh, she absorbed his confused expression. "You like that I'm convenient," she corrected. "If you were interested in me, you’d call, instead of settling for bumping into me at basketball practice."
"Okay—I get that. But, I did bump into you at basketball practice." His voice betraying amusement, Travis retreated behind his walls, likely convincing himself he was being logical—arguing with a flighty female. "Should I have not asked you out today? Is there a waiting period involved?"
Hell, maybe she was expecting too much. Resigned to looking a fool, MaryJo conce
ded defeat. "Travis, you know what I'm talking about. I feel as though I’m an afterthought. And . . . maybe that’s just the way you operate. I’m not asking you to change."
Arms folded loosely, he studied her. "Then, what are you saying?"
"I’m saying it doesn’t work for me." She shrugged, a tinge of sadness washing over her. "I like you, but I’m just not up for games. Wondering . . . if you’re going to call or—when you’re going to call. You seem to like me—until you don’t. And then you show up out of the blue—like this."
His smile forced, he nodded. "Well, since it’s only been three weeks, I can’t say I’m ready to do things much differently." Pushing off the banister, he turned for the steps.
This was for the best, she told herself as he descended the steps. Regret mingled with relief—that she hadn't fallen harder. "Your brother told me about Tiberius," she called after him. "He said you own the company. I was curious why you would lie about something like that."
Turning back, a flash of comprehension dawned in his eyes. "That’s what you’re upset about?"
"You led me to believe you were a programmer," she reminded. "Why wouldn’t you mention owning the company?"
"Why does that matter?" Travis’ eyes reflected genuine curiosity—as though he hadn’t deliberately withheld information.
"It matters because—it’s one of those things you reveal about yourself." She stepped out on the porch. "It's basic information, Travis. Like where you went to college. Whether you have brothers. It's not as though I asked for your social security number."
"And if I'd said I owned the company . . . how would now be any different?"
She shivered when a cold breeze swept over them. He was one of them, the insecure voice in her head reminded. How was he different from the arrogant jerks she'd dated in the past? Aside from the shimmery moments of 'amazing', Travis was treating her as though she didn't matter. "You know what I'm like. I would've been—uncomfortable," she admitted.
"Because . . . I have money?"
Floundering, MaryJo acknowledged she’d dug the hole for herself—her words not coming out the way she’d imagined. "I’m . . . not the sort of person—someone like you would be interested in."
"Someone like me." Leaning against the porch rail, Travis appeared to settle in for a long conversation. "Clue me in, MaryJo. What kind of guy am I?"
"Rich guys are-" Cruel. Careless. Superior. "Your type-"
"My type-" He repeated her words like an accusation. "Okay—so now I’m not a guy you know. I’m a type?"
"You—in college—those guys-" Her voice laden with misery, she wished with all her might she hadn’t brought this up. Why? Why had she done this? "They were so arrogant . . . they made me feel like less of a person." Glancing up, she found his gaze locked on her. Probing in a way that made her skin prickle. "Were you mocking me? Pretending to be a normal guy—so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself?"
Travis stared at her, refusing to cut the awkward silence. "If you recall, you were in no shape for conversation that first night. His mouth lifted in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "I lied about being a weightlifter, too. You didn’t seem to have a problem with that."
Shocked, she met his amused gaze. "You’re not?"
"You were self-conscious. I said something that made you relax. Was that wrong?"
She stared at him, unsure now exactly what she was upset about. "No. I guess not. But—your job is bigger than that. Why would you hide that?"
He hesitated. "I guess I didn’t want it to matter to you. I liked that you—seemed to like me . . . without any of the baggage."
Her anger dampened under the increasingly dismal feeling that she’d blown it with him. "I did. I mean . . . I do . . . like you. I just—I’m not comfortable around-" Way to go, MaryJo. Why was she so good at ruining potential relationships? Did she want too much? "I don’t think I could meet your expectations."
"What are my expectations, MaryJo?"
Shivering in the sudden chill, she wished they could’ve had this conversation in the warmth of her living room. But, the way their conversation was heading, she wasn’t sure he would accept an invitation at this point. "You—you need someone who . . . isn’t awkward." What the hell—at this point—it was over. Why not go for broke? "You need someone beautiful and . . . confident. Someone who can help you-"
"Help me? What are you talking about?" His voice was amused, but not in a good way. "I think I’m doing okay on my own, Mariela."
Unwilling to meet his gaze, she looked beyond him to the yard. "I’m not good in social situations. I’m good at talking sports. I’m good at playing sports," she emphasized. "I’m not good at making small talk with executive wives."
"And you . . . somehow think I need that from you?"
His comment lanced through her. Putting her in her place. Making her feel smaller than she ever could have imagined. She’d really done it now. Overstepping her bounds. You think I need that from you. . . after knowing you a few weeks? That’s what he really meant.
Humiliation crashing over her, she took a step back into the foyer. She’d done enough damage for one day. "No, Travis. I don’t think you need me for anything." Offering him an apologetic smile, she willed back the tears she knew were moments from spilling. Pounding through her brain was the question—how could she have screwed this up so drastically? "I should go. I’ll let you get back to your day."
Chapter 10
What had just happened? Travis stood on her porch, more confused than when he’d arrived. He’d gone there with the intention of asking her out. He wanted to see her. And because he’d been acting stupid and distant—he’d wanted the next time with her to be as soon as possible. He’d finally turned a momentous corner— admitting he wanted her. That it was okay to want her. That it was okay for him to bend his rigid rules—as long as it was solely his decision to do so. That she hadn't pushed him into it.
Then MaryJo hits him with all the stuff he knew he was guilty of. He didn't call. He didn't plan. Because he'd never had to. He'd never wanted someone enough that it mattered what she thought. He’d laid that line on any number of women who'd been daring enough to question him—and it always worked perfectly. They stammered and stuttered and felt guilty for pressing him. And he let them feel that way. Gaslighting them into believing they had no right to demand anything from him. Because his terms were not negotiable.
Along came MaryJo. Sweet, kind-hearted, balls-of-steel MaryJo called his bluff. As though she could see right through him. As though . . . she’d finally had enough. And maybe—maybe she didn’t care whether she saw him again. His ragged breath crystallized in the blustery air. Caught between the need to fix it with her and a slowly building panic, Travis stood there on her porch, paralyzed. He’d finally admitted he was willing to take a chance on a relationship . . . if it meant he could have her. He hadn’t counted on dealing with her fears. Her expectations. Her deal breakers.
She’d been hurt in the past. Her self-consciousness about her height. Her worries about not being girly enough—whatever that meant. The hurt in her eyes when she confronted him—admitting she knew he’d been stringing her along. Seeing her embarrassment as she spoke bluntly about something most women shied away from, made him realize what a jerk he’d been. His heart pounding, Travis retraced his path up the steps and rang the bell.
When MaryJo opened it, a question in her eyes, he nearly stumbled with relief. Before she could say anything, he reached for her hand—and felt it tremble with surprise. "Mariela—I’m sorry. I came here today to ask you out. I’ve wanted to . . . ever since last Tuesday. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you." His heart pounding in his ears, he hesitated. "But—I . . . don’t usually allow myself to . . . want things."
Velvety, brown eyes widened. "I don’t understa-"
Did he really want to go there? Just to get a date? Could he possibly put into words the dread he was feeling at that moment? And not run her off? He was desperate for her . .
. and terrified by those feelings at the same time. How did one express how deeply screwed up he was—without scaring the other person away?
"I like you." Not sure he could adequately explain himself, Travis pushed forward. "A lot. And I'd like to go out with you as soon as possible. Would tomorrow night work for you?"
Speechless, she nodded. He released a gusting breath. "Okay. Tomorrow night. Dinner," he repeated, ignoring the nausea roiling his stomach. "I’ll—pick you up at seven."
"WE’VE GOT TO SEX YOU up." Alyssa frowned over MaryJo’s choice of dress.
MaryJo glanced at her watch. Sunday afternoon, T minus three hours until her big date with Travis. Standing in her bedroom in her utilitarian underwear and bra, she had mere hours remaining to pull off the miracle she'd hoped for. "I don't think I can pull off sexy."
"This reads librarian—circa 1987."
"I bought this like—three years ago," she protested. "It's still good. Maybe four," she conceded. "Okay . . . it was five."
"I want to see hot, sexy librarian." Standing behind her in the mirror, Jules scrutinized her body from different angles. "Don’t you have anything with a plunging neckline?" She moved to her closet, her trained eye flicking through the rack—clearly finding nothing she’d want to buy. "Where the hell have you been shopping, MaryJo? Everything is either a boring, business suit . . . or it’s workout clothes. I see jeans. Where are your sexy camisoles? Where are the cute, short skirts? Where are your sexy, black, take-me-up-against-the-wall pumps?"
Blushing furiously, she turned to the closet. "I'm 5'9. Why would I want to look taller?" She shoved a bunch of clothes to one side. "I'm sure there's a tank top in there somewhere. For summer."
"Seriously?" Alyssa rolled her eyes. "You have legs I would—stab you for."
MaryJo raised an eyebrow. "Are those the pregnancy hormones talking?"
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