by Avery Flynn
“Are you moving?” she asked as she did a full 360.
He snorted. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” she said, doing her best to sound disappointed even though that wasn’t exactly how she’d describe the feeling zinging through her, because she wasn’t going to describe that feeling. Stubborn? Her? Never! “That’s some kitchen.”
“Yeah, it was exactly what I wanted.” He wandered into the kitchen and pulled out a high-back chair from the island. “Take a load off and watch me make magic.”
“I warned you about the puff of smoke,” she said, only half joking as she slid into the seat.
Tyler shook his head as he rounded the island and headed toward the shiny pots hanging from a rack suspended above the counter opposite. “Don’t give up your day job for the comedy.”
It gave her the perfect opportunity to admire the way he filled out a pair of suit pants—well. Very, very well. He set the pot down on the counter, turned, and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing some premium-level arm-porn forearms thick with sinewy muscle and a smattering of dark hair. Oh mama, that’s not fair. Arm porn was a weakness. Whatever he did when he wasn’t on the job or being a pain in her ass was working—between the strong shoulders, highly smackable ass, and arms that made her bite her lip to stifle a groan, the man was an underwear model in suit pants and a button-down shirt.
Pull it back, Ribinski! The mental reminder stopped her from drooling on the island, but it had been close. “Didn’t you know I have my own comedy YouTube channel?”
He strutted—yes, strutted—across the kitchen and filled up the pot with water. “Is it called Being Salty?”
She laughed out loud, caught off guard by the easy comeback. “That was pretty good for someone who went to a fancy prep school.”
“On a scholarship.” He pushed down the faucet lever and put the pot on the high-end gas range.
“What?” Oh, that didn’t make any sense at all. Everything about Tyler, from the custom suits to the jaw-dropping wine selection in the built-in wine cooler next to the restaurant-grade refrigerator, screamed Daddy’s money.
“You thought I was like the Carlyles?” he asked, something cautious in the response.
Shutting her mouth before she could utter, “Hell yeah,” she considered the question as he started the gas flame under the pot of water and got a package of spaghetti from a cabinet. Okay, so she’d been a little overeager to paint him with the rich douchebag brush. He was just so infuriating with his cocky confidence, swagger, and laissez-faire coin-flipping addiction that it short-circuited her brain and set her straight to flipping-off-the-world mode, blocking out the details she should have noticed.
“Not exactly like them,” she said, articulating what she hadn’t really put into words until now. “You do live in the same building as I do, which while being nice isn’t exactly in the Carlyles’ neighborhood. I figured you for a slightly less rich upper-crust Harbor City guy.”
He grinned at her. “I’m from Waterbury.”
Uh-uh, she wasn’t falling for that. “No way.”
“What?” he asked, his voice dropping into the unmistakable accent from the other side of the harbor. “You think ya the only one who changed zip codes?”
“No shit?” she asked, her brain playing catch-up. “But you don’t sound like you’re from there, and you sure have the cocky I-can-buy-you-and-sell-you Harbor City attitude down pat.”
He shrugged and dumped the pasta into the boiling water. “Years of practice to talk correctly—we won’t mention the voice coach I stupidly mentioned to you before—and the attitude I was born with, if not the money.”
There were two kinds of people who made the transition from one side of the metaphorical tracks to the other. One, those who held onto their roots and attitude. Two, those who cut out almost every part of their old life like a skilled surgeon with a scalpel. She was more the first kind. Tyler? She’d have to put him in the second category, if only because he hid his roots so well.
“So how did all of that happen?” Nosy? Her? Hell yes.
He crossed to the wine fridge, pulled out a bottle of white, and opened it up. “Mrs. Diaz, who taught sixth grade algebra and thought she saw something special in a kid she caught doing calculus on his own in the library.”
She processed this tidbit as he got two glasses from the cabinet and brought them and the wine over to the island.
She could totally see a young Tyler elbows deep in boring math books. “That was you, huh?”
“Nah.” He poured a glass of white wine and slid it across the island to her, then poured one for himself. “I was the guy beating him up.”
Her jaw dropped, and he laughed hard enough that he nearly choked on the sip of wine he had just taken. After a short spluttering, he caught his breath and gave her a shit-eating grin.
Cocky bastard.
“Okay, you’re right,” he said with a hoarse chuckle. “I was the math nerd, and that led to a full scholarship to prep school.”
The pieces clicked into place. “And that’s how you met Sawyer and the Carlyles.”
“Yeah, my family life was…interesting, and I ended up spending time over at Sawyer’s house.” He took a drink, something dark brewing in his eyes that made her think he didn’t like all the memories bubbling to the surface. “By the time we graduated from college, the new doorman thought I was a cousin, and I’d promised myself that I was never going to be just another guy from Waterbury again. I was going to be more, and I was going to have it all.”
It was a nice story, but it didn’t make any sense. The guy had been a class-A dick to that same friend. “And you walked away from that because you had a disloyal bitch of a fiancée? That’s pretty weak.”
One of his eyebrows went up. “Don’t take it easy on me or anything.”
“I won’t.” Okay, maybe she was being a bitch, but she had the feeling that there just weren’t that many people who called Tyler on his shit, and he needed to be. She took a sip of the wine—oh my God delicious, so crisp and fresh—and waited.
He held out but finally gave in with a sigh. “The truth is that what happened with Irena humiliated me.” Tyler stared off in the distance, a scowl forming between his brows. “Do you know what Sawyer said after he’d told me what happened?”
He looked her square in the eyes now, and she shivered. There was so much pain swirling in his inky-blue depths, her heart ached for him.
“He said it’s better I found out now she was just in it for the money. They’d all overheard her talking and knew she wasn’t right for me. My best friend had known my fiancée was only with me for my money, and he’d never once said a word? That’s not what I call friendship.”
She blinked. “But what if he’d hoped he was wrong?”
“Would you let Kiki marry some guy you knew didn’t really love her without telling her? Wouldn’t you at least share your fears with her?”
Well, that cut to the heart of it. She tried to imagine Kiki with some creep and no, she wouldn’t. The job of best friend wasn’t always to tell them what they wanted to hear. Sometimes, you had to be the one to save them from themselves, too. Tyler was right. Sawyer hadn’t been much of a friend if he’d known what kind of person Tyler’s fiancée was and said nothing. And it sounded like even though they were closer again, they still hadn’t talked about what really upset Tyler. Because to hear Hudson tell it, well, the story was very different.
She reached and placed her hand over his. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The only sound in the kitchen was the boiling water on the range. The moment stretched, something unexplainable passing between their gazes that neither of them wanted to examine too closely. It almost felt like friendship.
The sizzling splash of water overflowing from the pot on the range startled both of them. Tyler rushed to it, grabbed an oven mitt that, not surprisingly, was one of many in a stack by the stove, and took the pot off the flame. Unable to sit b
y and watch, she hustled to his side and took the colander off the hanging rack, setting it in the sink. Tyler poured the pot’s contents into it, and she turned on the cold water, rinsing the pasta so it would stop cooking. Not that it did much good. By the time he’d turned off the range and she’d finished draining the pasta, it was more than a little overcooked.
Standing next to her at the sink, Tyler poked at the twisted, soggy mass with a fork. “I blame you for distracting me.”
“Uh-huh.” She did a light hip check. “Keep telling yourself that. Where’s the sauce?”
Tyler opened up a cabinet, clanked a few bottles together as he searched, and finally pulled out—a bottle of ketchup. “I don’t think we can use this, but it’s as close as I’ve got.”
“God no.” That was just nasty, so much so she couldn’t help but laugh. “Butter?”
He put back the ketchup, pivoted, and opened the fridge, staring for a minute and turning back to her with a sheepish grin. “So in addition to not being a great cook, I kinda suck at grocery shopping.”
Searching her memory banks for anything helpful, she finally hit on one last option. “Olive oil?”
Tyler opened another cabinet, peeked inside, and then shook his head. “Sorry,” he half said, half laughed. “It’s been nuts lately, and I’ve been eating out a lot.”
The entire situation was ridiculous. It was pasta. How did you mess up boiling noodles? The cooking gods had cursed the man. She looked down at the mushy, kinda slimy spaghetti and started giggling. She clamped her mouth shut, trying to hold it in, but all it took was one look at Tyler, and the giggles were fighting to get out again. Tyler walked over to her side, snatched a wet noodle from the colander, and waved it at her with an evil wiggle of his eyebrows. It was too much. The laughter escaped.
Once they both had caught their breaths, she asked, “Alternatives?”
Tyler dropped the piece of spaghetti back into the colander and opened the cabinet next to the sink, bringing out two boxes of instant oatmeal. “Peaches and cream or apples and cinnamon?”
“Peach me up.”
A few minutes later they were sitting around the island, each with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of wine. The combination wasn’t exactly high class, but she was willing to roll with it—especially since she was starving. The usual tension that surrounded them had abated, and they ate for a few minutes in comfortable silence. Everly had just gotten the first peek at the bottom of her bowl when Tyler shifted in the seat beside her, drawing her attention.
“Look, I know you have your reasons for thinking I’ll screw over Alberto, but I won’t.” He used his spoon to push the little bit of oatmeal around in his bowl. “All I’m asking for is the opportunity to have a little face time. I won’t even bring up business. I just need an in so I can finally get an appointment with him, that’s all.”
Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice. Maybe it was the fact that she realized now that they had something in common. Maybe it was the fact that the man was in such desperate need of a cooking class. Maybe it was because all he wanted to do was get his foot in the door, and she knew exactly how that felt. It was just an introduction. There was no guarantee Alberto would even meet with Tyler later. Whatever the reason for her second thoughts, she couldn’t deny she was feeling a lot more open to the idea than before when she’d lost the coin flip in the gallery.
“Flip you for it?” she asked, not sure where in the hell that came from beyond her wanting—for once—to leave the final call up to fate.
“I’ve won the past two flips in a row. Doing it again doesn’t seem fair,” he said with a growly little tease in his voice. “Tell you what, how about you do this favor for me and I’ll do one for you.”
This should be good. She leaned forward, the move bringing her in closer to him. “What’s that?”
“I’ll get the landlord to cover your first triple net fees.”
Her back stiffened. That scumbag landlord. The company wasn’t supposed to share confidential information like that with other tenants. She was going to nail the sucker who leaked that information, just as soon as she dragged it out of Tyler. “How did you know about that?”
Gathering up the last of his oatmeal in his spoon, he kept his gaze lowered. “I own the building.”
“What?” She sat up in shock. That lasted all of about thirty seconds before the embarrassment of being stupid enough to have a war of words with the man who controlled her fate took over. And BAM! The anger at Mr. 2B’s lie of omission hit her smack between the eyes. “You insufferable ass. How could you keep that a secret?” In the midst of taking a breath to unleash a round of fury on his hot ass, one thing stood out. “If you can afford to own this building, what in the hell are you doing living in it?”
“It was my first one.” He shrugged and ate the last spoonful of oatmeal. “It’s got sentimental value.”
“First one?” First one??? “How many do you have?”
He almost looked embarrassed as he fiddled with his empty wineglass. “A few.”
“Un-fucking-believable.” This whole time, he’d been double fucking with her—as her pain-in-the-ass downstairs neighbor and as her greedy landlord—all without any orgasms.
“Look, I know it was wrong, but after our awful beginning, well, things didn’t seem to ever improve.” He ran his hand through his hair again. The poor man would be bald at this rate. He shrugged and offered, “Would you believe there just never was a right time that wouldn’t make you uncomfortable?”
He seemed sincere, but her mama didn’t raise no fool. “I’ll concede you might be telling the truth, but I reserve judgment to bust your balls about this later.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded. “So what do you say? That’ll give you more time to establish your gallery and firm your financial footing. I’ll have the intro that I’ve been trying to get for months. We both walk away happy.”
Damn it. She hated it when an asshole made sense. But he did, she couldn’t deny it. And there was a lot more riding on her gallery’s success than just her personally. Nunni had given her so much after her mom died when she was twelve and her dad flaked, refusing to take her in. What should have been her grandma’s golden years became a second tour of parenthood duty. She had to do right by Nunni and ensure she was cared for properly. Not to mention if she was on more secure financial ground, she could finally start paying Kiki for her catering services instead of adding to her IOU tab.
All she had to do was spend the afternoon with a man who made her want to strangle him as much as he made her want to jump him. Surely her sense of self-preservation and self-control could make it through a few hours of playing nice with Tyler without promises of anything beyond an introduction. Then, they’d return here and things would go back to how they were with her stomping in stilettos and him stinking up her apartment with his failed cooking attempts. She could totally do this. She could—but she wasn’t about to be dumb about it.
She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I want the triple net fees to be covered for at least a year, and I want it in writing.”
His eyes went wide, and he practically jumped up from his stool. “Done.”
Before she had a chance to realize what was going on, he’d encircled an arm around her waist and swung her in a celebratory circle. When the whirling had stopped, they were not even a half inch apart, with his butt against the island, their positions the opposite of how it had been in the parking garage when they’d ended up making out on the hood of her car. Her breath caught. Her pulse sped up. He shifted his stance, and there was no mistaking his hard length pressed against her stomach. Awareness ricocheted through her body like a pinball in a machine, touching every part of her. If they’d switched positions, that meant it was up to her to kiss him. The idea of it made her nipples pucker as she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. The move snagged Tyler’s attention, and he let out a soft groan. His hands went from around her waist to her hips. Teetering on the edge of temptat
ion, she nearly fell over, but the last gasp of her survival instinct saved her.
She stepped back before she tumbled over. “I have to go.”
“Running away?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I’m not running.” Okay, she was totally running, but she wasn’t about to admit that.
He chuckled. “Just walking really fast?”
Wasn’t she the one doing him a favor? Yes, she was. And she was making a strategic retreat. There was nothing wrong with that. “You are so annoying,” she said as she opened the door.
He waved from his spot at the island. “See you tomorrow, sugar.”
Determined to disappear before she did something she’d regret, she hustled out the door, her feet moving as fast as her heart rate up the stairs to the third floor. What in the hell had she been thinking? A whole afternoon with Tyler Jacobson without kissing or killing him? She was going to have to put out a call to her nunni’s friends to light a candle for her because she’d never make it through the afternoon without ending up in trouble for one or the other.
Chapter Seven
The follow-up phone call Saturday morning with Kiki went just about as expected. It was a tradition they’d had since Everly had opened the Black Heart Art Gallery and Kiki had been catering events for an IOU and a ton of referrals to the rich art lovers who needed someone for their cocktail parties. Usually it was the nitty-gritty debriefing of what happened and what could be done better next time, because Kiki not only ran an amazing catering service and gave the best unfiltered feedback, but her waitstaff always brought back the best unfiltered reactions from patrons about who liked what so Everly could follow up later in the week. However, this morning’s call had gotten sidetracked when Everly had mentioned that she’d sorta accidentally kissed Tyler. Twice.