by Jill Shalvis
side, leaned back, and then did what he had a hard time doing anywhere else.
Relaxed.
He let out a long breath and waited for calm to come over him.
But it didn’t. Not this time.
He’d long ago learned how to compartmentalize each section of his life. But at the moment he had so much going on that his brain raced over each problem, touching down and bouncing back up, unable to settle on any one thing. Part of this was his ADD. He had some serious attention deficit problems, always had. He’d gotten pretty good at managing it.
Mostly.
But not today. Today his brain felt like he had a full dozen massive flat-screens on, each set to a different channel, all at full volume. It actually physically hurt and he rubbed his temples.
“Headache?” asked the soft female voice that had seduced him in his dreams last night. A new voice that belonged to the woman he’d seen wet more times than dry.
Colbie.
Chapter 8
#HolyChickenNuggets
Colbie had spent the day happily wandering the city. She’d written some pages while sitting with her laptop in the Castro District, loving the rainbow sidewalks and relaxed atmosphere. She’d bought a pretty LBD and a pair of killer heels in Pacific Heights and was wearing it all now because she wanted to break in the shoes. And okay, because she felt like she looked amazing for the first time in . . . well, recent memory.
She’d located the roof access to the Pacific Pier Building by accident but got excited at the prospect of watching the city as the sun went down. She could hardly believe her luck when she’d found that the stairwell went all the way to the top.
The sign on the door had given her a second’s pause though. NO TRESPASSING. WE’RE TIRED OF HIDING THE BODIES . . .
Not that it’d stopped her. Truth was, not much did. She’d been sitting on the roof in the far corner, staring down at the incredible world she was so happy to be a part of for a little while, when Spence had stormed through the stairwell door.
His long legs had easily eaten up the space as he crossed to the far corner away from her and perched—to her near heart failure—on the ledge, legs over the side as he stared pensively out into the early evening.
She was trying to decide which was better, to remain quiet and give him time to himself, which he clearly seemed to need, or to announce her presence. In the end, her curiosity won. She’d made it to his side and asked him if he had a headache when from inside her purse, her phone went off with a call.
With a sigh, she gave Spence an apologetic smile, turned away, and dug out her phone, answering to one of her brothers.
“What’s for dinner?” Kent asked.
She had to laugh. “I texted you. Yesterday. I had Janeen text you as well. And you’ve texted me. Why in the world don’t you read my texts? I’m not home.”
Home being the place she’d bought for them all to stay, a place that was meant to be a real home but instead felt like a burden, as she’d become the housekeeper, chef, and prison warden all in one.
There was a silence while Kent clearly, finally, read her texts. “You’re on vacay?” he asked, sounding butthurt. “Without us? That sucks.”
“Not a vacation . . . exactly. I’m working.”
“You said you’re on a break.”
“Yes,” she said. “From New York. From being in charge of you all. I’ll be back on Christmas Eve.”
“That’s like three weeks away. I’ll starve to death.”
She would’ve laughed but he wasn’t kidding. Tough love, she told herself. You’re tough on yourself—it’s time to be just as tough on the people in your life. “You’re twenty-three, not five,” she said. “You’ll figure it out.” When she disconnected, Spence was watching her.
He pushed his dark sunglasses to the top of his head. He wore cargo pants and a hoodie sweatshirt that said I Can Explain It to You but I Can’t Understand It for You. “Husband?” he asked, tilting his head toward her phone. “Boyfriend?”
“Brother. One of two. Twin pains in my ass.”
He nodded his understanding with a small smile. “How are you doing? The apartment okay? Your elbow bothering you?”
“Fine, great, and nope.”
“You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” She knew she should be feeling at least a little uneasy over her impulsive decision to rent the apartment instead of going to a hotel. A hotel would have been more anonymous.
And she’d needed anonymity. Badly.
But she didn’t feel uneasy at all. The thing was, this building put her right in the thick of things, and she loved it. When she’d left New York, she’d hoped this would do it. A few weeks away would fill up the well, unleash her creativity, and unblock her.
One day in and she was already well on her way. She’d actually written last night as well as today, late into the night, in fact, and it’d all felt great. The truth was, she really loved this building, the views, the people. She was having a blast, feeling like a kid on summer break. Not that she really knew what that was like. Her own childhood had been cut way too short.
The only thing she regretted with this trip was the little layer of guilt beneath it all. Apparently that old habit of feeling responsible for her entire world and everyone in it was harder to shake than her writer’s block.
She looked at Spence, noticing a tenseness to his shoulders. “And how about you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
His mouth curved in a small smile. “Almost always.”
“Almost always, huh?” She cocked her head and smiled back. “That’s quite the trick. Maybe you could teach it to me sometime.”
He snorted. “You think it’s a trick?”
“Yes, because you don’t really seem all that okay.”
“How would you know?” he asked. “We’re strangers, remember?”
“Ha,” she said at him using her own words against her. “Maybe I don’t know you know you, but I consider myself a good read of character.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s a hobby.”
“Because you’re a writer.”
“Yes,” she said, glowing with pleasure that he’d remembered that about her but also feeling the tiniest bit of dread. She didn’t want to taint this—whatever this was—by getting into who she really was. It changed everything, every single time. And she loved being here as herself, Colbie Albright, and not CE Crown, number one New York Times bestselling author of the Storm Fever series. “Why are you on the edge?” she asked.
“I guess it’s been a long few days.” He paused. “But on a positive note, I haven’t needed any bail money and haven’t had to hide any bodies yet, so . . .”
“Actually,” she said on a laugh, “I meant why are you on the edge, literally. Your feet are hanging over, Spence, which, I’ve gotta tell you, is making me incredibly nervous.”
He let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. “I like this spot. It’s where I come to think.”
“Think about . . . your deep, dark secret of a job?” she asked hopefully. “Or maybe . . . the woman who so damaged your heart you’ll never love again? Or just about what you’re having for dinner?”
That won her a grin. “You think I’m damaged?”
She tossed up her hands. “Aren’t we all?”
He shrugged. “And the ‘never love again’ part?” he asked.
“I thought if I threw that in there, you’d decide telling me what you do for a living would be the easiest response,” she admitted.
“Blatant manipulation.” He nodded approvingly. “Good strategy. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I really am much more interested in talking about what might be for dinner.”
She had to laugh. “I wouldn’t mind cooking something. Cooking is relaxing.”
“I accept,” he said quickly and smoothly, his stomach growling its own acceptance. Not that this seemed to embarrass him.
She smiled. “You don’
t want to first ask me if I can cook?”
He got off the ledge and straightened with an ease of motion that said he was in even better shape than he looked. And he looked pretty damn fine . . .
“If you even think you can cook,” he said, “you can cook better than me.” He took her hand in his and, with yet another heart-stopping smile, led her off the roof.
He took her down one flight of stairs to the fifth floor using his special keycard.
“I thought this floor was just gym and storage,” she said, confused.
“No, although most people think that.” He studied her for a few long seconds. “I live here.”
“In the gym?” she asked.
“Not exactly.” He opened another door and she barely contained a small gasp. “Holy chicken nuggets.” This was an apartment, and it was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows. The furnishings were simple, almost spartan, but masculine and utilitarian. Huge L-shaped couch, massive TV, and a glass coffee table that was completely strewn with . . . well, a wide assortment of electronic parts, tools, and multiple sets of plans.
There was nothing else in the vast room. What seemed like a football field away was the kitchen, and beyond that another room she couldn’t see. “This is your place?”
“Yes.”
“Are you ruler of the universe? Is that your job?”
He made the sound of a game-show-loser buzzer. Still holding her hand, he led her past the coffee table, where she caught sight of what she thought might be a trio of . . . drones? “Is that—”
“I’m starving,” he said, his broad shoulders blocking her view as he pulled her into the kitchen.
Okay. So the man was starving. After years of feeding her brothers, she could fix that in her sleep. Looking around, she found herself completely smitten with his beautiful chef’s kitchen, almost forgetting she was there to find something for dinner. When she turned to Spence, he gestured for her to help herself. So she opened the fridge. Pretty much empty.
“Damn Caleb and Joe,” he muttered. “Try the cabinets.”
She peered in one.
It was completely bare.
So was the next one.
The third contained two glasses and a pair of mugs, a salt and a pepper shaker, and a stack of takeout menus.
Huh. She looked at him. He was staring at the empty shelves, seeming just as surprised as Colbie, and she burst out laughing. “Are you sure you live here?” she asked.
“Pretty sure.” He shook his head. “But with me, you never know.” He paused. “I get immersed in a project and I forget to come up for air.”
He said this like it was an admission that she wouldn’t want to hear. But for her, it meant they were kindred souls and she saw him in a new light. “I get that,” she told him, and when he looked at her doubtfully, she smiled. “No, really, I do. I write for hours and hours at a time and shut out everything else.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . my family and friends,” she admitted. “Everything. I’m not easy to be with.”
“Maybe it’s that other people don’t get it.”
She looked at him. “You think so?”
Something interesting happened then. His eyes changed. Softened somehow. “I know so,” he said. “You’re just focused, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that, Colbie.” And this time when he smiled, it went all the way to his eyes and practically changed the temperature in the room. It certainly changed her temperature.
Half an hour later, Colbie was sitting at Spence’s kitchen island, eating a feast that she’d put together for them with the things she’d run downstairs to her own apartment for.
It hadn’t been all that difficult, at least not for her, as she’d long ago learned to make do with what she had. She’d made turkey burgers and salad, and Spence shook his head in marvel as he finished up.
“I don’t know what’s more impressive,” he said. “The fact that you conjured all of this out of almost nothing, or that you’ve got me eating a salad with beets and blueberries and . . .” He lifted his fork and stared at the glistening leaf. “I’ve got nothing.”
“It’s kale.”
“Kale,” he said with a shudder.
“You don’t like beets, blueberries, or kale?”
“I’m not a fan of green stuff but . . .” He showed her his empty bowl. “Either you have great skills or your distraction skills are amazing.”
“I think it was probably the salad itself,” she said.
“I think it was you. That husky laugh of yours,” he said. “Or maybe it’s your amazing eyes. They’re beautiful.” He waited until she met his gaze in surprise. “You’re really good in the kitchen, Colbie.”
Unused to compliments, she looked away and shrugged. “Survivor skills.”
“On your own young?” he asked.
She bought herself a minute by carrying their dishes to the sink, but he grabbed their glasses and came to the sink as well, meeting her gaze.
“My mom was pregnant with twins when my dad walked off his job because his boss was a hard-ass,” she said. “He spent a year on the couch with his booze feeling sorry for himself before he went out for a six-pack and never came back.”
“Sounds rough.”
“Sounds like a country song,” she corrected.
He gave a low laugh. “Or that.”
Her mom had rallied a few times, eternally in love with love, but she’d still managed to self-destruct every single relationship she’d had since.
A tendency Colbie had tried really hard not to inherit. Wanting to make a very long, boring story as short as she possibly could, she said, “My mom worked all the time. She had to. So as the oldest kid, I took care of everything else.”
“Including the cooking.”
“Yes.” That’d been the easy part—when they’d had money for groceries, that is. Raising hell-bent-on-trouble twin boys had been the hard part.
“How old were you when your dad left?” Spence asked.
“Six,” she said and turned on the water to rinse their dishes. “The twins had just turned one.”
“Jesus, Colbie.” Reaching past her, he turned off the water. “I don’t know how it works at home, but here the cook never does the dishes. Especially since I imagine you’ve done more than your fair share over the years.”
“Hey, without those years I’d not have been able to make you this amazing five-course first-class meal.”
He smiled, as she’d intended for him to, and if he felt sorry for her, he was smart enough to hide it.
“You still close to your mom and brothers?” he asked.
She felt her own smile slip a little. “Sure.” She turned the water on again.
And he turned it off. Again. “It’s funny,” he said, “how sometimes when you talk, your mouth says one thing but your eyes tell me another story entirely.”
“Such as?” she asked, not liking where this conversation was going.
“Such as . . .” Not even a little scared off by her “back off” voice, Spence stepped in closer and cupped her jaw, holding her face up to his as he searched her gaze. “You like to put a good spin on everything.”
“Well, I am a pretty good spinner.”
“I bet.” His mouth quirked on one side and it was disarmingly sexy. “I’m not. But I’m actually a pretty good listener when I’m focused.”
Her breath caught a little bit. Or a lot. “And you’re . . . focused now?”
“Very.”