by Lisa Plumley
Why, oh why, had she invented Bruno? He’d only complicated things better left simply heart wrenching and insolvable.
“I don’t want a man who’d only marry me out of duty,” Chloe said. “That’s no kind of life for me.” She looked up at him, needing to make him understand. “Don’t you get it yet, Einstein? I want the whole fairy-tale ending. White picket fence, a ring on my finger … and a man who loves me.”
Nick’s thumb caressed her belly again. “There’s more than yourself to think about now.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Why wouldn’t he understand?
“That’s the whole point, you big idiot!”
Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision until Nick didn’t even look like someone she knew anymore. Blinking hard, Chloe bent to catch hold of Larry’s collar and urge him to his feet. She had to leave, had to get out of there before she blurted the whole sordid truth to Nick and ruined everything.
“I’ll see you around,” she said, sniffling as she churned down the sidewalk. Power walking was almost impossible when you couldn’t see anything, she was discovering. “I’ve got more indulgent and incredibly self-absorbed things to do with my time than be lectured to.”
Behind her, Nick mumbled something about hormones and irrational women. Something stupid enough to make her blood boil, probably, if she stopped to listen. So she didn’t.
Chloe was already at her front door, scrabbling around in the zebra-striped mailbox affixed beside her doorbell, by the time Nick caught up with her.
“What do you want now?” she asked, throwing her hands up in frustration.
The mailbox lid clinked shut, neatly hiding the wrapped package of books she’d left inside for her mail carrier—a secret romance novel reader. They were a payment of sorts, for his part in her stupid ploy to get Nick to play the hero for her. She had to admit, his pepper spray threat had been the most inspired touch in her otherwise ridiculous plan. He probably deserved an extra book for that one.
What had she been thinking? She should’ve known her ploy was doomed from the instant she perched Shep on her shoulder and paraded past Nick’s window. Just getting him to glance outside at them had taken four trips.
And now, for some reason, she couldn’t get rid of him.
“I said, what do you want?” Chloe asked again. “Maybe you’ve got a textbook on pregnancy for me, or another earful of clueless, bachelor, non-father wisdom?” Getting angrier by the minute, she pointed her finger at Nick and backed him into the porch rail. “What’s it going to be, huh? I thought I’d had all the advice I’d ever need from my mother, but I guess there’s always room for one more opinion.”
She folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him.
He smiled at her.
“Arrgh!”
He laughed, the rat.
Chloe turned her back on him and whistled for Larry. She had the key in the lock before Nick finally came clean.
“I brought you this.”
She looked over her shoulder. He held out Curly’s scuffed exercise ball, offering it to her with the same attitude he might have used to lob over a grenade. “You left poor Curly stranded back at Mrs. Marchen’s yard.”
When you left in a huff, his grin added.
Chloe reached for it. Her fingers touched the edge, dug into the grooves, and pulled with no effect at all. He wouldn’t let go.
“I’m not up for another tug of war,” she said, reaching over to pry his fingers loose.
“Are you up for a peace offering? I’ll make you dinner tonight.”
Her heart stopped. Dinner at his place was Nick’s standard third-date maneuver with the what’shername’s in his life. Was he actually asking her for a date?
Yes, yes! her heart shouted. Say yes!
“Tonight?” she asked, feeling breathless.
Their fingers touched across the exercise ball. Heat jolted from his to hers, and when Nick gave her a wide, eyelid-crinkling smile to go with it, Chloe knew she was a goner.
Maybe she was going about this all wrong. Maybe running away from Nick was a step in the wrong direction—so to speak.
“Tonight.”
His voice sent a fresh shiver through her. How had she not noticed before how throaty, how thrilling, how all-out sexy his voice was?
“It’s a date,” she said happily, prying his index finger loose from Curly’s ball. He winced. She looked closer.
“Nick, you’re bleeding!”
“It’s nothing.” He shrugged, flexing his finger and looking macho. “I guess Curly thought I might taste good.”
So did Chloe, when she arrived at Nick’s place that night. He opened the door against the orange and gold rays of the setting sun, wearing a pair of slouchy navy shorts, an open-necked white shirt, and a smile. His hair was still damp—from a recent shower, she guessed—and it looked as though he’d even shaved for the occasion.
Very tasty, indeed.
Smiling in appreciation, Chloe edged a little closer and considered taking a bite. Right at the intriguingly masculine-looking place where the side of his neck disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Or maybe she’d just nibble gently on his earlobe, finding the secret spot she now knew was ticklish.
Instead, she tamped down the impulse and settled for a simple, “Thanks for the invite.”
His grin widened, probably because he’d caught her ogling him. “Thanks for coming.”
She handed over the sparkling apple juice she’d brought, and froze as soon as the bottle hit Nick’s hand. He looked at it, then at her, with something akin to confusion.
“It’s non-alcoholic, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I … okay.” His voice told her he hadn’t been wondering if the apple juice was forty proof. “I’ll put this in the fridge. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He stepped back to let her in, holding back the lush foliage of a potted palm—one of his growth-accelerated beauties, Chloe guessed—so she could pass. She shimmied between the plant and Nick’s chest, wishing his hands would touch her as gently as they did those shiny leaves … but then, the plant was part of his dream. She wasn’t.
Chloe ducked beneath an enormous spider plant in a hanging planter, gazing around her at the well-tended greenery that filled his living room. I hate plants.
The screen door slammed behind her, and the aromas of tomato sauce, garlic, and roasted peppers wafted from his kitchen. “Smells good,” she said.
“Thanks. If my research came together half as easily as my pasta puttanesca, I’d have had the growth accelerator finished a month ago.” He hefted the tapered bottle of apple juice. “I’d better go put this in the fridge.”
Chloe eyed the wine-shaped bottle. It practically screamed her hopes that this was going to be A Real Date. A new romantic beginning between them.
Idiot! she told herself as Nick disappeared around the corner. The refrigerator opened and shut, then came the sound of something scraping in a pan to the accompaniment of Nick’s humming.
This was definitely a Non-Date. His confused glance at the bottle had told her that much. She really had to start clamping down on that wishful-thinking routine of hers.
Chloe collapsed onto Nick’s sturdy tweed couch beside a pile of clean laundry and buried her face in a jumble of towels and faded jeans. See? He hadn’t even bothered to tidy up for her visit, she thought morosely, hugging the pile closer. All she wanted was to disappear. Maybe Nick wouldn’t notice if she slunk out the front door and went home?
His jovial-sounding, humming entrance into the living room wrecked her getaway plans. Moaning, she stuffed her face deeper into the pile and inhaled big lungfuls of fabric-softener-scented air, trying to get a grip on herself. The last thing she wanted was for Nick to guess how much she wanted to move things between them to a non-platonic level. How much she wanted him to do the moving … and the kissing, the touching, the lovemaking that they’d … .
His hand on her bare thigh sent
her bolt upright.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty. Aren’t you hungry?”
If he only knew. Chloe tilted sideways to straighten herself and wound up at eye-level with his groin. She eyed the fit of Nick’s shorts, remembered what lay beneath, and had to fight the urge to lick her lips. The night they’d spent together had only been the appetizer, just enough to make her hungry for more.
“Appetizer?” Nick asked.
She whipped her head upward and almost brained herself on the tray of bruschetta in his hand. Her heart quit racing just as she recognized the toasted bread topped with tomatoes and herbs. She cleared her throat and selected one, hoping he hadn’t caught her leering at him.
Sheesh. Hormones.
Who was she kidding? Love.
Grinning, Nick plucked something from her hair, making static electricity crackle above her head. Something white flashed past her field of vision. She recognized it as a pair of white briefs—oh, God, she’d been wearing his underwear on her head!—and wanted to crawl under the sofa.
“Cute,” he said, dropping the tidy whities back into the laundry pile. “But I like your outfit better without the headgear.”
His gaze skimmed over her clothes—electric blue shorts and a neon green loosely-buttoned shirt—as though committing their smooth, washed silk textures to memory. His scrutiny did disturbing things to her ability to think or react—or even chew, apparently. A dollop of tomato slipped from her bruschetta and plunked down her chest.
He watched it slide beneath her vibrant green silk shirt with a starving man’s look. It gave her an unreasonable amount of hope for their potential couplehood—far too much to pin on a half-inch piece of cold tomato. Then Nick shook his head and blinked, fingers on the temples of his eyeglasses.
“And preferably without tomato sauce, too,” he added on a grin, grabbing a fluffy blue towel from the laundry pile. “Here, let me help you.”
Chloe sat still, dying to suck in a gulp of air to bolster herself for his touch, but too filled with anticipation to move. Frowning, Nick scrubbed at the neckline of her shirt, lifted the corner of the towel to assess his efforts, then scrubbed some more.
The ends of the thick terrycloth towel flopped in her lap, tickling her bare thighs. It was nothing compared with the friction he’d set into motion with his clean-up efforts. Her shirt rubbed against her breasts, sensitizing them even through her layers of silken shirt and silkier bra.
Watching Nick’s strong, capable hands at work, Chloe briefly considered dumping the rest of the bruschetta tray in her lap, then abandoned the idea. She had all she could handle already.
“Wait,” she gasped, catching hold of his wrist. “I think it’s clean. Much more of that, and you’ll rub me naked.”
Which sounded pretty great, actually, no matter how much she wanted to groan at having blurted it out. But there was no way she could stand being touched like this for much longer and not reciprocate. Not with Nick and definitely not in the supersensitive state she was in. Biting her lip, she fished her other hand into her shirt to retrieve the tomato herself.
No dice. The little bugger must’ve slipped past her bra. Letting go of Nick’s wrist, she lifted her shirt hem just enough to glimpse a plump bit of red just above her navel.
Before she could move, Nick ducked. His mouth fastened on the tomato, sucking gently against her skin as he nibbled it up. Too shocked to move, Chloe stared down at the incredible sight of his familiar, golden-haired head against her. His lips puckered on her tender flesh, igniting flickers of yearning, remembered passion in places lower than the rounded belly he kissed.
If she hadn’t been sitting already, her knees would’ve surely buckled. Wowsers! Shivering, Chloe delved her hand in his hair, wanting to pull Nick closer, to draw him upward where she could properly kiss him back. His hair buzzed beneath her roving hands, spiky soft shafts that tickled her palms even more than the towel had tickled her thighs earlier. She thought of feeling those close-clipped shafts where the towel had been and was squirming in her seat even as Nick’s mouth popped away from her belly.
“Got it,” he murmured. Then he winked at her, leaned over to gather up the pile of laundry, and straightened. “You’re good as new.”
Chloe boggled as he juggled the armful of clothes against his chest, smoothed her shirt in place again, and casually said, “I’d better get these out of the way before I find you wearing a pair of sweat socks or something.”
Sweat socks? He could talk about sweat socks, after what had just happened? Shivering, she settled deeper into the couch’s nubbly tweed and watched him disappear down the hallway with the clothes.
Nuzzling her bare belly was not the act of a platonic best male friend, no matter how Nick tried to pretend it was. Never mind the fact that as friends they’d been swimming at the lake dressed in less than she had on now. Never mind that they’d nursed each other through colds, income taxes, and broken hearts. That wasn’t TLC Nick had administered just now. At the least, it qualified as a pass. So what was she supposed to do about it?
Before she could decide, he returned, looking vaguely warm, rumpled, and so much like everything she’d ever wanted in a man that Chloe felt like sobbing with the unfairness of it all. He was as perfect for her as she was for him—except for his disinterest in having children as soon as five months from now.
I’m lucky as hell not to have kids yet, Chloe, he’d said. I swear I’d never get anything done.
And if there was one think Nick wanted, it was to get things done. To accomplish his dream of becoming a great inventor. How could she stand in the way of that?
She couldn’t.
And she couldn’t forget her vow to give her baby a loving home with two loving parents, either. Buck up, she told herself. He’s just a man. You can resist him.
Suddenly, Chloe found new sympathy for Nick’s what’shernames.
He reached out and tousled her hair. “Hungry? How ‘bout some grub, blondie?”
“Sure,” she said, feeling her spirits plummet even further as his hair-tousle turned into a brotherly shoulder punch. “Lead the way, galloping gourmet.”
Poor Bruno, Nick thought later. Poor, doomed, besotted Bruno. How had he faced temptation like this and survived?
Maybe fortitude like that was what made a man a marine.
He and Chloe had finished the pasta puttanesca, polished off the better half of the bruschetta, and moved the party onto his back patio. Out here beneath the clear dark skies and bright stars of early summer, Nick could almost believe it was a night like any other they’d spent together. The pink bougainvillea bloomed along the backyard fence the same as they ever had. The cicadas chirped just as constantly beyond that fence, and the citronella candles burned just as lemony-sharp on the wrought iron table between them.
The difference was, this dark night felt intimate in a way it never had before. And he’d never before been forced to watch Chloe savor a dish of vanilla ice cream with strawberries, bite by slow shivery bite, like he’d been doing for the past ten minutes. It was enough to make a guy yearn to be a soup spoon.
“This is so good, Nick,” she said for what had to be the fifth time, turning over the spoon to lick a strawberry remnant from the tip. “Yum, yum, yum.”
Yeah … yum.
The piece of strawberry disappeared between her lips. Reminded of the tomato he’d nibbled up earlier, Nick shifted in his chair and tried not to think of what an insane move he’d made with that. “Glad you like it.”
Curled up in a patio chair beside him, Chloe spooned up the last of the ice cream from the big plastic bowl on her lap. Licking her lips, she let her spoon clatter back in place.
“Every bit as delicious as the first bite,” she announced, swabbing her finger leisurely around the bowl. When she popped her finger into her mouth and sucked off the creamy vanilla, Nick knew he couldn’t take any more.
“Wanna watch a movie?” he blurted out, taking the empty bowl from her lap as he stood. “
I rented Norgon’s Revenge.”
“Another monster flick?” Chloe asked, grinning and shaking her head. “I swear, Nick, you’re a little boy trapped in a man’s body.”
Just as she got up from her chair, Nick passed in front of her with his arm outstretched, headed for the patio door. They wound up nose to nose. Or, more accurately—since Chloe was a few inches shorter than he was—forehead to chin.
“Oh! Whoops,” she said, teetering. He put his hand out to steady her, then sidestepped out of the way. So did she—in the same direction.
“Sorry,” Chloe said, laughing when they found themselves pressed even closer together than before. “I’m a little wobbly these days.”
Her hand went to his upper arm, holding onto him as she explained something about hormones, pregnant ligaments, and other medical trivia items he didn’t quite catch. Her fingers stroked up and down his arm, making it impossible to concentrate on anything except the feel of Chloe touching him. Nick had the stupid, nonsensical urge to flex his biceps, to sweep her off her feet … to show her he could be every bit as manly as the Brunos she was so enraptured with.
He ought to go inside, get away, leave things as they were between them. Chloe had Bruno now, and to hear her talk of him, he’d been all she’d ever wanted in a man, even if things were temporarily off—kilter between them. She didn’t need that mucked up with tomato nibbling and soup spoons and kissing. Not when she’d found herself a man ‘too special’ to talk about, even with her best friend.
Friend, schmiend, the rebellious part of his soul prodded. Bruno was gone and Nick was here and this was a moment that might never come again.
“I don’t mind,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him, and the amusement simmered out of her smile, replaced by something a little bit … wilder.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
Somehow, his hand went to the nape of her neck instead of the patio door. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes in the flickering candlelight, and although he meant to kiss her, all he could do was stare in wonder at how beautiful she seemed.