Good Neighbors (Book 1 of the Home Again Series)
Page 36
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He could have offered her a loan, for crissake. Seed money for advertising her business and renting gym space. Or a job. Brennan ground his teeth together as he drove from Erica's house toward his Mission Avenue store. He could have offered Erica some more practical, less personal form of aid. But, no. He'd had to play superhero.
By the time he parked in his spot in the underground garage, he was filled with self-disgust. Had he seriously imagined Erica would go for such a piss-poor proposal? It was bad enough he'd imagined he could rescue her; he'd gone and compounded his sin by telling her that's what he intended! He could not have been more arrogant and insulting if he'd tried.
He stomped up the stairs and took the door leading straight into the store.
Sonya, his downstairs assistant, was adjusting the sign near the entrance that advocated using Diehard's tennis racket repair services. She turned with her habitually sunny smile. "Hi, Mr. Swift."
With great effort, Brennan managed not to snarl at her cheer. His bad mood was not poor Sonya's fault. He could not come up with a smile, however. "Good afternoon, Sonya."
"Uh, Mr. Swift—" She swiveled to accompany him as he stalked toward the cash registers. "I just want to remind you, you said you'd help me rearrange the team sports section today."
Brennan halted. He looked at Sonya.
She took a step back, her big smile shrinking. "Uh, when would be a good time to do that?"
Get a grip. You're frightening Sonya. Brennan drew in a calming breath. "Now," he decided. "Now is fine. Great, in fact." Sure. Something to distract him from his self-disgust. His only consolation in the situation was that he hadn't offered Erica love. If he'd gone that far before she rejected him, this would feel even worse.
"Oh," Sonya said. Apparently she read Brennan's expression rather than his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt anything—"
"No, no. You're not interrupting." Brennan scrounged up an unconvincing smile. "Let's walk over there."
"Okay." Sonya did not look entirely certain, however.
Sensing that he was infecting Sonya with his mood, Brennan made a greater effort to modulate his behavior once they stood before the display of basketballs and handballs. His angst did not improve. As they discussed the arrangement of colorful boxes, he felt no interest in the task at hand, its potential outcome or rewards.
All he felt was raw, scraped misery. It was a sensation he remembered from years ago, when he was going dry and dealing with Lois's rejection.
So much for avoiding pain.
"I think you have the right idea," Brennan told Sonya, wrapping up their discussion as quickly as he could. His mood was clearly infectious. Her smile had disappeared altogether.
Not wanting to do any more damage to his employee, Brennan excused himself and made his way to his private office. Once the door was closed after him, he put his hand over his eyes and squeezed them shut. Mistakes, one after the other, ever since he'd first met Erica Carmichael. Could he possibly have handled matters any worse than he had, from helping her at the funeral to—to—just everything?
Suppressing a groan, Brennan sank into the chair behind his desk. He did not lean forward to switch on his computer but sat with his head in his hands.
He should not have had one single thing to do with Erica. She'd always been off limits to him. If he'd been smart enough to avoid her completely...?
Oddly, the thought of never having associated with Erica—never having made love to her—managed to make him feel even worse.
Brennan stared at the surface of his desk and wondered what he could do to ease this sensation of pain. Was there any way he could crawl out of his own skin?