Not My Romeo

by Kylie Gilmore

  “Maybe we should just get this over with,” she said at the same time as he said, “I’m going to be a godfather.”

  And then he pulled out his cell phone and showed her an ultrasound picture of a tiny, beautiful baby. “It’s a boy,” he said, pointing out the requisite equipment.

  “Oh, he’s so perfect,” she said. “So precious. Whose baby is it?”

  “My older brother Gabe’s,” he said, looking at the picture and smiling. Her heart stuttered at the beauty of that moment—one gorgeous man adoring a baby. “He’s due December fifth.”

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Have they picked out a name?”

  “Not yet. I keep suggesting Vince, but for some reason, they’re not going for it.” He flashed a smile, and she smiled back. Her gaze locked with his.

  She stopped smiling.

  He stopped smiling.

  The tension was palpable, a very inconvenient frisson of electric attraction ran through her, and she panicked. “So!” she said brightly. “More wine?” She grabbed the bottle and went to pour him another glass, but he covered it with his hand.

  “It’s still full,” he said solemnly.

  She forced a cheery smile, avoiding his eyes. “More for me!” She topped off her own glass and took a sip, all too aware that he was staring at her.

  “So what do you do when you’re not bidding on library construction projects?” Vince asked.

  “I work for a consulting firm. They send me out to look at historic buildings, evaluate them, and help them fill out the paperwork for tax credits and applying for the National Register of Historic Places. Things like that. It’s fascinating, actually. What about you?”

  “I build things,” he said, deadpan.

  She drained her glass of wine, knowing she was out of her element, but desperate to save her family’s business. If she could just hold it together long enough for her idiot brother, Mike, to stop following that damn band, graduate, and take over Capello Construction as he was supposed to, everything would work out.

  “Well, duh,” she said. She poured herself a third glass of wine.

  He cocked a brow. “How many glasses of wine have you had?”

  “Just two.”

  He took her glass and set it next to his own. “You’re done.”

  “What the hell! You’re not my father.” She reached for it, and he snagged her wrist.

  “You can drink all you want after I leave, but I’d like to have a semi-coherent conversation with you about business before I go.”

  “Ooh, semi-coherent,” she mocked. His grip on her wrist was warm, firm, and she liked it way too much. “Big talk.”

  He gave her a knowing look. “You’re just looking for a fight, aren’t you? You need someone strong to bump up against. Not one of those metrosexual types you usually date.”

  She lifted her chin, her heart pounding against her ribs. She yanked her wrist out of his grip. “What do you know about who I date?”

  “I guessed. Someone who can spend twenty minutes talking about a hundred-year-old fireplace needs someone nerdy to listen.”

  She huffed. “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?” He bit back a smile and sipped his wine, all smug-like.

  She reached for her wine again, and he snagged her wrist halfway there. “I can do this all night,” he said in a husky voice that made her stomach flutter.

  She glanced toward the door. The hell with him. She’d go into that next town council meeting, charm the council members, and win that project.

  Vince’s grip on her wrist tightened. “Don’t even think about bolting.”

  “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  He loosened his grip, but he didn’t let go.

  Her temper flared. “Is this how you treat all your dates?”

  “You are not my date,” he said. “You are business.”

  She swallowed and willed herself to calm the fuck down. She didn’t need him. And she sure as hell didn’t need all the aggravation that always seemed to land in her lap. “You can go to hell,” she muttered.

  “I’m taking you down with me, darling.”

  And damn if the words didn’t make her throb. This was terrible. Horribly inconvenient. And he was still holding her wrist. His rough, calloused hand against the sensitive underside was doing strange things to her insides.

  She glared at him. “Fuck this,” she said just loud enough for him to hear. Her cheeks heated. She rarely cursed, but wine always seemed to loosen her tongue. Especially when she was pissed off.

  His response was one slow, sexy, very knowing smile that made her squirm. “Business first, sweetheart, then pleasure.” He laughed.

  She yanked her wrist out of his grip, grabbed her purse, and left.

  Chapter Four

  “Ah, hell,” Vince muttered, setting his napkin and some bills on the table and following Sophia out the door. Women were so damn touchy. And this one. What a piece of work. She hurried down the sidewalk in stilettos, like she was wearing sneakers. He picked up the pace. “Where are you running off to?”

  “Home,” she hollered and kept going.

  He caught up with her. “I’m coming with you.”

  Her dark brown eyes flashed, and she tossed her long dark brown hair over her shoulder. “Like fucking damn hell you are.”

  He chuckled. She strung curse words together like she didn’t know how to use them. So damn cute. He fought back a grin and lost. “The mouth on you. Seriously, though. We need to talk.”

  She glared at him, fire burning in her eyes, and everything in him coiled and tightened with raw lust. Fuck, this was not what he needed right now. He needed to work out a deal with her and put Marino and Sons back on track.

  “So talk,” she bit out.

  He knew, just knew, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her so furious with him. He rarely apologized, rarely softened, but just this one time for his dad’s sake, he had to. For Marino and Sons, he told himself. Take one for the team.

  “I’m—” Cough. He cleared his throat. It was harder to get out than he’d thought. “I’m—”

  “What? An obnoxious arrogant fucking damn hell jerk who laughs inappropriately at women trying to do their fucking damn hell job?”

  Vince forced a straight face. He didn’t dare open his mouth. He might laugh again.

  “Yeah, you are.” She kept walking.

  He kept up with her. “I’m sorry if I was inappropriately…I’m not supersensitive or whatever. Can we just talk about the project?”

  She picked up the pace. The woman could really move in stilettos. He kept up.

  “Go home, Vince.”

  No way in hell he was going home. She’d never agree to meet with him again, and he was not going into that next town council meeting without knowing he was at least getting a piece of the pie. He followed a step behind her for a couple of downtown blocks. She stopped at the traffic light before the bridge. Across the bridge were a row of homes along the riverbank, each of them large and expensive. Of course that’s where she’d live.

  “Which mansion is yours?” he asked.

  She turned. “I swear I will pepper spray you if you don’t leave me the fucking damn hell alone!”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Would you just calm the fucking damn hell down?”

  She glared at him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” She turned and stepped out into the road.

  “Watch out!” He saw it like slow motion, a Ferrari speeding around the turn, Sophia about to get clipped. He grabbed her, yanking her back, and crashed to the sidewalk with her in his arms. His head hit concrete, a flash of light went off behind his eyes, and then everything went black.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sophia’s heart was racing. Vince had saved her. That red car. It was coming so fast, she’d barely had time to react before he’d grabbed her. And now the man underneath her was eerily still.

  She got off him and knelt down next to his head. “Vince! Are you okay? Oh
no, oh no.” She listened closely near his mouth. He was breathing. She pulled her cell out, about to call nine-one-one, when he groaned. “Vince! Talk to me! How bad is it? How many fingers am I holding up?” She held up three fingers in his face.

  “Three.” Her hero slowly got up, holding the back of his head. “Damn, that’s gonna be a goose egg.”

  “Let me see.” She peered at the back of his head. There was some blood. “Come on. I’m a block away. I’m getting you ice and a doctor.”

  “No doctor.”

  Sophia knew better than to argue. She’d convince him after she got him settled at home. “Can you walk okay?”

  He took a step and limped. Oh God, this was all her fault. If her temper hadn’t gotten the better of her, she never would’ve run off, she never would’ve almost gotten run over, and he never would’ve had to save her. She scooted up against his side and put his arm around her shoulders. “You can lean on me,” she said.

  He did, and he was heavy. Six foot something of solid man was tough for a woman in stilettos, but she bore up under the weight because it was the least she could do. She was five foot ten, so at least he didn’t have to lean down too far. They slowly made their way to the house. She got him inside and directed him to the living room sofa. He slumped heavily onto it.

  She slapped his face rapidly. “Don’t fall asleep. You might have a concussion.”

  He snagged her slapping hand. “Ice,” he bit out.

  She hurried to get it and grabbed some Tylenol and a glass of water too. She handed him the ice pack and set the other things on the end table next to him. She wrung her hands together. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel—” he winced as he put the ice pack on the back of his head “—like I just took a header to the sidewalk.”

  She wrung her hands some more. “What can I do? How many fingers am I holding up?” She held up four.

  “Four. You know what would make me feel better?”

  She leaned forward. “What?”

  “A little thank you.”

  “Thank you!” she gushed. “I would’ve said that earlier, but I was so worried. Thank you for saving me. I’m sorry I ran off like that. Sometimes my temper—”

  He held up a hand. “Got it.” He shook out some pills and swallowed them down. “You got anything to eat? I’m a little light-headed from not eating lunch, and we didn’t get to dinner.”

  He was hungry. He couldn’t be that bad off if he had an appetite. She blew out a breath of relief. “Yes, of course. I’ll make us some sandwiches. Be right back.”

  He closed his eyes. Maybe light-headed was bad, though. Maybe he had a concussion or some serious head trauma. She slowly backed out of the room, watching him in case he suddenly slumped over.

  “I’m fine,” he said. How did he know?

  She darted into the kitchen. She quickly put together two turkey sandwiches on whole wheat bread and returned to find him in the same position, eyes closed. “Vince?”

  He slowly opened his eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  She sat next to him and handed him the sandwich. He took a big bite. “Thanks,” he said around the sandwich.

  She took a bite of her sandwich. Then she remembered his ankle and hurried to get the ottoman. “Here, you can put your feet up. I’ll get you more ice for the ankle.”

  He put his feet up. She rushed from the room and returned with another ice pack. She quickly lifted his pant leg and draped the ice pack over his ankle. Her pulse thrummed through her. His calf was muscular, some dark hair, not overly much, tanned. Very manly. And beautiful.

  “Thank you, Sophia.”

  Her insides fluttered. The way he said her name. His voice sounded like it could be on the radio—melodic, deep, reverberating through her mind. She tore her gaze from his calf to meet his eyes, which were softer now. Probably because he was in so much pain.

  Guilt stabbed at her, and she sat next to him again. “I’ll take you to the emergency room as soon as you’re done eating.”

  “I’m done, and, no, you won’t.”

  She glanced over, shocked that he’d finished the sandwich so quickly. “Are you sure? Are your eyes dilated?” She peered into them. It was hard to tell, they were such a deep brown surrounded by dark lashes. She held up two fingers in his face.

  He grabbed her fingers and held them. “Please stop making me count.”

  “I heard that’s how you check for concussion.”

  He released her fingers. “I’m fine. I’ve taken worse headers playing football.”

  She peered worriedly into his face. He was hard to read, sort of blank. Was he losing focus? Was that a symptom? “But you weren’t wearing a helmet this time.”

  “Didn’t wear a helmet wrestling my brothers either.” He leaned back. “I’ve got five of them, and they liked to pile on me because I’m the biggest. That’s where most of my scars come from.”

  She cringed. “Really?” That sounded terrible.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” She leaned closer, peering into his eyes again, trying to figure out if they were dilated. “Are you losing focus?”

  He looked away. “I’m sure.”

  “Oh.” She took his hand. It was rough, but so warm, she didn’t want to let go. “I’m really sorry.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’ll live.”

  “Thanks again for saving me. I was being a jerk.”

  He slipped his hand from hers. “You’re welcome. I was being a jerk too. Unprofessional.”

  They sat for a few moments in silence.

  “Should we talk about the library?” she asked, picking up her sandwich.

  “Could I take a rain check on that? My head’s not great right now.”

  She turned to him. “I knew it. What can I do?”

  “Just sit with me a bit. Give the Tylenol a chance to kick in; then I’ll head out.”

  “I’ll drive you home. You shouldn’t be driving like this.”

  “All right. I’ll have my brother come back with me for the car tomorrow.”

  She set her sandwich down, her appetite trumped by concern for the man she’d been nothing but rude to—she’d cursed him out like nobody’s business—and he’d saved her. No one had ever put themselves out there like that on her behalf. Her throat felt tight. There was no reason to cry, she told herself. He was fine.

  She shifted, leaning her head against his shoulder, trying to bring him comfort. He sat very stiff and still. The pain must be terrible. She raised her head and met his eyes. He gazed down at her with those deep chocolate brown eyes framed by long lashes. A surge of affection rushed through her, and she kissed him, a soft brush against his lips. A question, waiting for an answer.

  The answer was no.

  His lips were not kissing her back. At all. She pulled away, embarrassed.

  He leaned forward and took the ice pack off his ankle. “I should go.” He was looking around the room, looking at everything but her.

  She quickly stood. “Of course.” She grabbed her purse and led the way to the garage. He followed at a slow, limping pace behind her. She hurried back to him. “Lean on me.”

  “I got it.”

  She didn’t know which made her feel worse, his obvious pain or his rejection. She felt like an idiot confusing a rescue for any feeling on his part. She was so used to doing the rescuing that she didn’t know how to respond. A simple thank you was all that he’d asked. Cheeks burning with mortification, she headed for her car.

  Chapter Five

  Vince followed Sophia to the garage with only one thought in mind—he had to get out of there fast. As strange as it sounded, he’d never had a woman kiss him. He was always the aggressor. He took what he wanted when he wanted, and that was that. Her mouth had been soft and yielding. And she smelled like roses with a hint of spice, sexy and sweet. It took everything he had not to kiss her back.

  Sophia was a complic
ation that he damn well didn’t need.

  He stopped short when he saw her car—a Mini Cooper. “I’m supposed to fit in that thing?”

  “It’s surprisingly roomy,” she said, walking past him with her flowery sex scent.

  He didn’t move. She peered at him from across the roof of the car. “It’s either this or I drive your car, but then I’d need a cab ride back. It could take a while for the cab to show up, and I have a feeling you want me out of your hair, so get in.”

  With that, she got into the driver’s seat, leaving him no choice but to follow suit. He bent his tall frame, wincing at the pressure on his ankle, he must’ve twisted it as he fell, and squeezed into the passenger seat. He adjusted the seat, pulling it back as far as it would go. There was just enough room for his long legs.

  “See, you fit,” she said, grabbing the stick shift and putting it in gear. His dirty mind immediately went to her grabbing his stick. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “Your head hurting?” she asked after she’d pulled into the street.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll get you fixed up. Where am I heading?”

  “Eastman.” He rattled off the address in the town next to Clover Park. He owned his own home, a dilapidated place that used to be the carriage house for a large Victorian on an estate. He’d bought it because it was cheap, and he knew he could fix it up in his spare time. It was a work in progress.

  He cracked the window open, finding her rose scent too damn distracting in the confines of the car. All he could think about was burrowing into her neck, her cleavage, every damn place, and breathing her in.

  “Would the radio make your headache worse or better?” she asked.

  “Depends on the music.”

  She turned it to a classic rock station. “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” This was the same station he listened to. He closed his eyes, not liking how he was finding things they had in common when he was supposed to be taking control of this situation and staking his claim on the project. He let out a long breath, exhausted from his day.