by Sally Felt
“I will,” he said. “Thank you for the invitation.”
All this and manners too. Not every man who looked like him would bother. Fewer still could make it work. She excused herself to get the door.
Steven had made it work, she reminded herself.
Not in coveralls, though. Never in coveralls.
It was Mike Lemley at the door. He handed her a bouquet. Of course. She kept inviting him to bring a special friend. He kept bringing her flowers instead. She should stop inviting him so he’d get the hint, friend of Charlie’s or no. Luckily, Charlie and his girlfriend Gina arrived on his heels, and Isabelle left the problem of entertaining Mike to her brother. Then she had her hands full, greeting her remaining guests who arrived two by two, including Stacey and Stacey’s latest, who turned out to be named Bob.
In minutes, the house was filled with friends and food and music. Isabelle took the hopeless bouquet into the kitchen. Stacey followed her, carrying her customary spinach dip.
“What do you think of him?” Stacey asked.
“Bob? I just met him.”
“He’s so hot. I have such a good feeling about him,” Stacey said. “He came into the paint department and we sparked right away, talking and talking. He stuck around for the end of my shift—now, here we are,” Stacey said as she peeled the plastic wrap off her bowl and turned to the refrigerator for the veggies Isabelle always cut for her.
“I hope he’s wonderful for you,” Isabelle said, hardly one to deny the reality of lust at first sight in spite of her friend’s tendency to blaze ahead and build whole relationships in her mind. Getting back on the horse was never an issue for Stacey.
As Isabelle dropped the flowers into a vase and fluffed them absently, Stacey pointed and squished up her nose. “Lemley?”
Isabelle nodded.
“At least they’re not glads this time,” Stacey said. “Someone must have told the boy only gay men buy glads.”
She would not smile. She wouldn’t. Mike was a sweet man. Maybe she should give him a try. Sweet might be nice for a change, assuming she ever saddled up again.
“Lemley ought to give you whatever kind of flowers they recommend for men who want to make you their mommy,” Stacey said.
Isabelle sputtered, Stacey snorted and to Isabelle’s horror, she found herself laughing at Lemley’s expense. Maybe she shouldn’t give him a try after all.
Stacey dug into her purse and gave Isabelle a business card. “I don’t want to forget, so I’ll give you this now. I know you want commercial business, and I think this guy would be receptive to what you can do. Last week, he spent an entire hour poking around the shelving department and didn’t buy a thing. Call him.”
Isabelle looked at the card.
Damon Franklin
President
Wall Werx Indoor Climbing Gym
“Thanks,” Isabelle said. “This means a lot to me.” Organizing closets for homeowners was fine, but she longed to test herself by taking her business into commercial spaces. She wasn’t sure what an indoor climbing gym was, but if Stacey thought they might need her skills, Isabelle was all over it.
Stacey grinned. “You and me. We’re not just simpatico, we’re symbiotic.” She laced her fingers together to demonstrate. “Besides, it’s all part of my plan. One day, you’ll be huge and I plan to be the one who figures out how to franchise you for big bucks.”
Isabelle laughed. “I’ll call him tomorrow. I wouldn’t want you to wait a minute longer than necessary for your payout.” She backed through the swinging door to carry the vase of flowers to the dining room. Stacey followed, setting the dip and accouterments on the dining room table.
“Stacey,” her friend’s date called, “come over here. I want you to meet a buddy of mine.”
Isabelle looked up to see who Bob had added to her guest list without asking and nearly dropped the vase.
“We’re acquainted. Nice to see you, Stacey, it’s been too long.” Isabelle’s ex, Steven, took Stacey’s hand, leaned close and kissed her cheek.
“Steven,” said Stacey, her eyes seeking Isabelle’s, her face stricken. She mouthed, Oh God.
Steven merely smiled. His dimples were out in force. He wore a civilized cotton sweater with khakis. He’d dressed up to come to her house, damn him. “Hi, Isabelle,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Isabelle’s brain refused to work. It was easy to be mad on the phone. In person, in the face of that smile…she turned and pushed through the swinging door back to the kitchen without a word.
He followed her. Of course.
“You look great, Isabelle.”
Isabelle clutched the vase of flowers she’d failed to put down in the other room. “What do you want, Steven?” Her throat constricted, her mouth dry. How could he have made such a fool of her? It was worse than college. At least Daniel had kept his foreign squeeze a stranger.
“Are those flowers from someone special?” Steven asked.
She wished, rather she wished they were from a man she was vastly in love with, a man who’d filled her life and erased every trace of this big jock with the silver tongue.
“Why are you here?” she asked. All she should feel was anger. Instead, she was sickened to find herself becoming lightheaded. Was she such a simple conquest?
“It’s Monday, Izzy. I knew I’d find you home.”
At the sound of that ugly name, it became easier to breathe. No matter how many times she explained her name wasn’t “Izzy”, he seemed to think it cute. It was not cute. And now he’d called her predictable as well.
“You mean you figured there was less chance I’d call the police if I had guests.” That was better.
“You wouldn’t call the police,” he said in the voice that had made her forget so many arguments in the months they’d lived together. No more.
“Try me.”
He smiled, showing those damn dimples. “I miss you, Isabelle.”
“I don’t miss you,” she said, though her voice was growing weaker the longer this went on. She still wasn’t ready to deal with Steven in person, she was much better on the phone.
“Is it because of him?” Steven gestured at the vase of flowers Isabelle still clutched. His smile changed to the wistful one he’d used to explain the other woman didn’t mean anything, Isabelle was the one he loved. Idiot. His dimples weren’t that great.
“Not exactly. Isabelle has many admirers.”
Kim Martin, sleek and dangerous in his silky knit pullover, gave Isabelle a smile that drained even Steven’s dimples of power. He cocked his head at her from the kitchen doorway. “Right, Isabelle?”
He was asking if she wanted rescuing. She wanted more than rescuing. She wanted to wipe the dimples right off Steven’s lying face. Being on the arm of this charismatic hunk sounded like a nice start.
“There you are,” she said, setting the vase on the kitchen island and extending her hands to the plumber. He crossed the kitchen to take them in his. His amazing eyes told her he had an idea what was going on, while his fingers were like sandpaper. She shivered at the unexpected friction.
“Kim Martin, this is Steven Yaeger, the cheating son of a bitch I threw out of my life but who won’t go away. Steven, this is what a real man looks like.”
“Steven,” Kim acknowledged, his face serious. He circled an arm around Isabelle’s waist. “You didn’t tell me he carried a torch for you, Isabelle. Are you trying to make me jealous?”
Kim was perfect. Steven’s face flamed red. He never could stand being one-upped in the charm department.
Isabelle smiled up into that gorgeous, dimple-free face and let herself feel the heat that had arrived on her doorstep with Kim Martin, knowing Steven would see it on her skin and in her eyes. Knowing it would make him crazy. “Only one torch in here,” she murmured.
Kim pulled her closer. He smelled clean and soapy, though sexy stubble showed along his jaw. His ringed eyes were incredible—intelligent, intense and coming ever closer.
Steven would never forget this moment. No doubt about it.
As she was about to ease back and offer the plumber a beer to seal the scene, Kim Martin kissed her.
Chapter Two
He was going to get slapped. Kim knew it the moment his lips touched Isabelle Caine’s unresponsive mouth. Clearly, the lady hadn’t intended this act to extend as far as kissing.
Neither had he. But holding her close like this, with her cheeks flushed and her lips parted and her smoldering eyes suggesting an imagination even more interesting than his own, he couldn’t help himself.
And now he was going to get slapped.
Or maybe not. She relaxed against him, her hand resting on his arm. Even better, her mouth moved against his, taking his lip between hers and tugging, inviting a second kiss.
Happy to oblige.
She tasted of spice—oregano and bay and something wilder. Her back warmed beneath his hand. He wanted to touch her skin, wanted to see how far her becoming flush extended, to find out whether she tasted the same all over.
And if he tried any of that here, he would be slapped.
He let her go.
She gripped his sleeve, her eyes unfocused, and seemed far more exposed at this moment than mere flushed skin would tell. It did something to his gut that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with protecting her from more hurt at the hands of her football jock ex. Or anyone else.
It wasn’t like him. He wasn’t Protector Guy. He was the fun one. He was good at being the fun one.
She pulled herself together and gave him an uncertain smile that made him ache. Then she frowned past him. A frat-boy type in a blue button-down had pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door, rubbing his chin with a napkin.
“You okay in here, Isabelle?” he asked.
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said. “Could you show Steven the door, please?”
Charlie grinned, lounging in the doorframe. “You’d think after getting tossed through it, he’d remember where it was, but if he’s that dumb, okay.”
Whoever Charlie was, Kim liked him.
“Isabelle, I really need to talk to you,” Steven said.
“He’s that dumb, Charlie,” said Kim. “You want help?”
The jock’s face got red and cords stood up on his massive neck. Funny, he didn’t like being called dumb. “I left something here and I need to get it back,” he said.
Isabelle stiffened as if he’d surprised her. “I took your stuff to the Salvation Army,” she said. “They might still have some of it. You can look for it there.”
Steven took a deep breath and his neck shrank marginally. “It’s not like that, Izzy,” he said, calming his features in a convincing imitation of a man with every right to continue an argument Isabelle had just declared closed. He smiled the same oily smile Kim had seen when he first came upon the two of them in the kitchen and realized the lady had a problem. “This is embarrassing, but to be honest, I hid it.”
“Isabelle,” she said.
“What?”
“My name is Isabelle. What do you mean you hid it?”
Kim squeezed her before he realized his arm was still loosely around her waist, before he remembered she wasn’t his to be proud of. She didn’t object. Then again, she was a little preoccupied.
“It’s important,” Steven said. “Please, Izzy—Isabelle—it’s an heirloom.”
Her shoulders slumped. Steven smiled at the sign of her surrender. “I wanted it to be safe,” he said in a voice like a repentant television evangelist.
“That’s it?” Kim said, pissed to see this proud lady conquered. “If you get this treasure of the ages, you’ll leave?”
Steven glared at him. “I’m talking to Isabelle, do you mind?”
“Where is it?” asked Isabelle.
“I do,” said Kim at the same time.
From the doorway, Charlie said, “Seems to me anything you left here two months ago can’t be that important, Steven. Seems to me it belongs to Isabelle now.”
Kim blinked in surprise at Charlie’s words. This Steven guy was two-month-old news and he still got under her skin? Clearly, Isabelle Caine hadn’t mastered the art of moving on.
While Steven divided his lowbrow stare between Charlie and Kim, two more people appeared.
“Problem, Steve?” asked the man, another hulk Steven’s size.
Steven stood up straighter. “No problem, buddy. Isabelle is just walking me out to my car.”
Isabelle scowled. “Fine. If that’s what it takes, let’s do it.”
Steven gestured toward a wooden door at the back of the kitchen, beyond a shadowed laundry nook. “I parked in your driveway, Izzy.”
“Isabelle,” Kim chorused with Charlie. Isabelle smiled. That was something, at least.
Kim watched from the back door. Maybe it was her house that inspired him. When he’d finished with the plumbing and sought the lady of the house, he’d seen about every room in it. It had great historical details—hardwood floors, and nice built-in shelving with elaborate glass doors. Plus, the excellent black-and-white tile work in the bathroom. She favored bold, simple shapes for furniture and art, with lots of intense colors that appealed to him. The house was an antique version of what he’d done in his own downtown loft. Rather, paid a decorator to do, much to Damon’s dismay.
Hers felt homier. Maybe it was all the old hats. They were everywhere. Isabelle seemed to collect them. Dresses, too, to judge by the flapper-esque thing on display in the bedroom. Orange. His favorite color. Kim had never known someone who collected old clothing. It intrigued him. Isabelle Caine intrigued him.
And so he hovered at the back door and watched as the woman who tasted of oregano, dressed like a queen and threw large men out of her house seemed to shrink the longer she was in her ex’s presence. Five more minutes of it and she might disappear altogether.
Kim decided to give her four. Then he’d go out after her.
* * * * *
“Just give me a chance to get in there, Isabelle,” Steven said. “Ten minutes, tops, and I’ll be out of your hair for good, if that’s what you want.”
Isabelle’s stomach churned. It was what she wanted, but damn if she’d give him access to her house to make it happen.
“Charlie had a point,” she said. “By now, the thing is rightfully mine.”
They stood in her driveway beside Steven’s old Cadillac. He’d parked behind her van, same as old times. The motion-activated security light she’d persuaded him to mount to the roof of her freestanding garage provided the only light, same as old times. This was not old times. She didn’t want him in her house, not ever again.
“It’s an heirloom, baby,” he said. “Please?”
“No one here named ‘Baby’.”
“What do you want me to say, Isabelle? It’s sentimental and valuable.”
Crap. How did he always know the magic words? Was she such an easy mark? Bastard.
A rectangle of warm light was visible at the back door of her house, silhouetting someone waiting in the doorway. It might be Charlie. Or it might be the plumber. A girl could dream.
Steven reached for her. She stepped back and his fingers brushed her satin sleeve. “Please?” he repeated.
“I’ll get it for you, Steven. Tell me where.”
He said nothing.
It was late March, still too early for noisy insects, but music and laughter and conversation spilled from her house—the hum of happy people who weren’t out to tear up her home in the name of sentiment.
“I mean it,” she said. “If you want it, tell me where it is.”
“You know your medicine cabinet?”
“That had better be a rhetorical question.”
He laughed. She didn’t. She had to hand it to him—he was making it easy f
or her to stay mad. “Steven, I have a houseful of guests.”
“And a ‘real man’?” He tried the wistful look again. No doubt he was about to tell her again how much he missed her.
“And a ‘real man’.”
“Can he do this for you?” Steven had his arms around her, kissing her before she guessed what he intended. He tasted like licorice. Or was it embalming fluid? He was definitely a dud compared with the kiss she’d had in the kitchen. She stomped on his foot and slapped his face.
“Go away, Steven.”
He actually looked mad. At her. As if this was her fault, any of it. For the first time tonight, Isabelle noticed how big he was—a bulldozer with a nice haircut. If he wanted trouble, he could cause it.
“You heard the lady.”
She swung around as Kim Martin arrived in a hurry. Apparently, his was the silhouette she’d seen in the doorway. He certainly was thorough about playing his role, not that she minded at the moment.
Still steaming, Steven got in his car, leaving her alone with Kim in the driveway. Apparently even bulldozers backed off in the face of reinforcements.
It created quite the awkward moment.
What could she say to the man who had come to fix her toilet, witnessed the revival tour of her romantic humiliation and kissed her as if she was the last Coke in the desert?
Not a thing came to mind.
“Sorry about that,” Kim said, which would have been the perfect thing for Isabelle to say. Too late now.
“Me too. What was I thinking? The man has the mental capacity of a jelly-dipped guppy.”
He laughed. It was a good laugh, soft and forgiving. It made her think about how his kiss had made her feel. Understood. An equal. At home.
She shook herself. Sexy men were going to be the death of her, especially ones so good at saying things she wanted to hear.
“I didn’t realize when I called you were a full-service plumber.”
“Whatever it takes to flush the clog.” He was smiling, but it wasn’t the same flirty smile he’d given her earlier. If anything, he looked uncomfortable.