by M. Q. Barber
God, that morning. She’d clamped the machine between her feet and twisted the screwdriver in both hands to crack open a box of wonders. “I wanted to see what made the toast jump.”
Matching smiles dissolved into giggles.
Mom had called the shop. Dad had brought home a working toaster. The parental talking-to about not destroying things from the house had been completely undercut by Grandpa Jake.
He’d perched her on his lap after dinner, with the toaster’s remains spread out on the table, and given her her first lesson in repair, tsking at the screwdriver scrapes around the holes. “We leave things prettier than we found them, Kitten. The best parts, the parts that do the hard work, are on the inside where no one else sees them. But you’ll know.”
Mom patted her hand. “You’ve always been my bold baby. Taking chances, adventuring because you needed to know. You grew closer to your father and your grandpa, and I let you go because you loved the work so much.” The breeze carried her sigh toward the sun. “But maybe I should’ve taught you more about the things a father has trouble explaining to a daughter.”
She’d been daddy’s girl—grandpa’s girl—since that day with the toaster. Mom and Erin had their female bonding stuff, and she hadn’t pined for the lack of girl talk all those years. “I never asked. I never needed to.”
Not before Brian.
Raising a speculative eyebrow, Mom flashed her I-know-you’ve-been-in-the-cookie-jar face. “Love is an amazing gift, honey. If you think you’ve found it, don’t let fear stop you. A bruised heart is no different from a skinned knee or a blistered finger. It heals.”
Erin’s hadn’t healed. Her heart had grown callused and bitter. But maybe she hadn’t let the wounds heal. Love might not always end in disaster.
Trying to avoid painful complications hadn’t helped with Brian. Arguing with him hurt. The churning questions in a sleepless night stung. Not seeing him again would slice through her. She took a deep breath. “You’ll put a Band-Aid on and kiss it better?”
“Always.” Mom pushed herself to her feet and waved her in. “Kissing things better is on the first page of the mom contract.”
Kit took the hug on offer, clutching tight. Moms did make everything better, no matter how tall daughters grew.
The sun, strong and bright, rode the horizon. The long night lay behind her. Something new and unknown lay ahead.
“C’mon and help your old mother in the garden.” Mom tugged her down and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “The weeds need a strong, young back to clear them out so the seeds worth nurturing can grow.”
* * * *
As the rhythm settled in his muscles, Brian moved with mindless instinct. The speed bag rebounded against his gloves, the force it delivered as measured as his own.
The office stayed open ’round the clock, seven days a week, and so did the gym. Sunday afternoon didn’t draw much of a crowd. A few guys down the other end worked the weight machines, filling the room with the clanking white noise of unhurried reps. The pair in the ring sparred with laughing taunts broken up by the occasional thud and groan.
He had the bags to himself. On the speed bag, the power and timing of each punch had to be spot-on. Too little, and the rhythm would never come together. Too much, and he’d send it careening in unpredictable arcs and lose their equilibrium.
He hadn’t found Katherine’s balance yet. He moved too slowly for her liking. But she wasn’t tethered. Hooked in. If she went bouncing off in an unexpected direction, he couldn’t clasp her in his hands and steady her for another try.
She might never come back.
His arms ached. Every time she darted away, he tried to hold on tighter. His brilliant strategy landed him nowhere but the gym, working out his frustration. Saturday—Christ. Last night had been a clusterfuck. He’d demanded a date, and he’d gotten what he deserved for pushing her.
He should’ve turned down the blowjob last week. He shouldn’t have turned fooling around into a transaction. The intimacy he wanted with her couldn’t be forced, not in one date, not in a hundred dates. She either felt the connection or she didn’t.
His phone vibrated through the ass pocket on his gym shorts. Text message. Maybe a plea for help from someone upstairs who’d seen him logged in on the intranet roster and needed a second opinion for a time-sensitive project. Data mining would take his mind off Katherine. Better than boxing was doing, anyhow.
He stilled the bag and stepped back. With teeth and elbow grease, he stripped off his gloves. A nice, fat project to work on. Perfect. He slipped the phone from his pocket.
Katherine looked out at him, her photo capturing her mid-laugh from their store picnic. So our night out didn’t go how I thought it would. Maybe you can pick the place next time? Say, Saturday?
Holy fucking—his gloves smacked the floor. A do-over. Yes, thank Christ, yes. He scrambled to compose an answer, fingers flying across the screen. Maybe their talk in the car had touched a nerve in her. Maybe she’d felt the I love you as much as he had. Enter and erase. Too goddamn eager. Too standoffish. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Hey.” One of the guys in the ring bounced his arms on the top rope. “Hey, I know you.”
Not well enough to interrupt the most important minute of his day. “We work for the same company, and we’re in the company gym.” A friendly note, but without sounding desperate. Katherine respected strength and confidence. “That’s not mind-blowing, buddy.”
I’m happy to pick the place. Saturday sounds great.
Send. Too late to call his words back now. Maybe he should’ve admitted last night had been a disappointment to him, too. Or reassured her the whole mess hadn’t been her fault. But he’d wanted so bad to punch that asshat hassling her. Riling her up, calling her names as if he had any right to judge. Fuck, his fingers clenched into a fist thinking on it.
“Hey, man, you wanna go?” Feet dancing, boxer boy swung his arms toward the opponent rolling out under the ropes. “This dude’s pussying out, and I’m good for another beatdown.”
“I’m busy.” Waiting on a reply to—shit, he hadn’t asked a question. Maybe she wouldn’t acknowledge receipt without a question. He tapped one out and hit send in a hurry.
Should I plan to pick you up?
She’d have to hand over her address for that. Dammit. Too much, since she apparently didn’t like guys knowing where to find her. Good reasoning, for dicks like the one from the track. A policy she’d change, someday, for him. When she felt comfortable.
“Your phone giving you a good workout?” The lone boxer paced along the ropes. Six feet, maybe one eighty, brown fade. “Fucking pussy. S’what I thought. You were all chickenshit at softball, too. Walk away, man.”
Fuck, that’s where he knew him from. The mouthy new-hire weasel from the dugout. He still deserved a good whupping, and the ring made it nice and proper.
“I’m talking to my girlfriend here.” One word with a goddamn truckload of meaning. She might not agree on the terminology yet, but the classification rang true in his heart. “I’ll give you a beatdown in a minute.”
“That sweet piece? Thought she wasn’t your girlfriend. You nail her yet?”
He ignored the bravado and bluster from the ring, waiting on his phone to vibrate. The screen refreshed before the shake came.
I’ll meet you at your place, and you can drive from there. Let me know when.
Not a total victory, not a true pick-her-up-at-home date, but her willingness to put herself in his hands for a night sure as fuck wasn’t a loss.
You got it. Let’s say 8.
Early enough for whatever plans he might hash out between now and Saturday. Her agreement came swift. He scooped up his gloves, laid his phone on the bench, and climbed into the ring. “You ready for that beatdown? I’ve got time now.”
More mindless, easy physical exertion would be a fine distraction while he processed his new problem.
The perfect first dat
e.
Something spectacular, amazing, to make Katherine understand her importance to him. Big and flashy, a real knockout with a message impossible for her to miss.
New-hire asshat dove in with a swing hard, swing fast approach. Blind with the frenzy of inexperience, he must’ve figured the more punches he threw, the more likely one would land.
Brian took his time. Watched his footwork. Waited for the opening. When the moment came, he got in close, absorbed the body blows, and launched a low uppercut square to the solar plexus.
The cocky-as-fuck kid dropped to the mat. Gasping, he kicked his legs in a defensive retreat and hugged his chest.
The guy last night would’ve deserved a boot-stomp follow-up. This idiot, though—not worth the time.
“Crouch, kid. Deep breaths. You’ll get your air back.” He ducked under the top rope and gathered his shit, keeping one eye on the kid. Not likely he’d damaged a rib, but he’d hang back another minute to be sure the new hire didn’t panic and pass out. After that, though, he had plans to make. Crucial, rest-of-his-life plans. “You need another lesson, you know where to find me.”
Chapter 6
Using the guest passcode Brian had sent to her phone, Kit slipped into his building at five to eight on Saturday night.
Swanky, inside and out. The prairie tech boom had brought modern glass-and-steel high rises to compete with the water towers and grain silos. At seven stories, the place was one of the tallest in the county after the vacant hotel downtown.
She rode the elevator to the fifth floor. One more way Brian outclassed her. The damn dress she’d borrowed—okay, outright stolen—from the back of Mom’s closet had better be good enough for whatever romantic night on the town he had lined up. The girls had gone nuts, ooo-ing and ahh-ing with way-too-knowing teases about her dressing up for a boy as she hustled out the door.
Tight jeans and a camisole top had always formed the basis for her seductions. Tonight, though—the sleeveless copper-brown dress, tasteful but sexy. The sling-back black heels. The stockings, Jesus. Sheer black and thigh-high, they left a gap of bare skin below her panties. If he meant to make his restaurant booth talk a reality, she’d be ready, aside from the underwear. No telling what Brian would’ve said if she’d actually gone without and he’d discovered them missing.
She rapped hard below the ornate fifty-seven on his door. The silver numerals complemented the hallway’s dove-gray walls, a subdued, high-end hotel look as soothing as brushed metal. She might as well soak up the comfort now. Once he whisked her off to dating hell, experience told her the night would turn into a pointless chore of hidden agendas—the nice-guy subterfuge designed to land her in his bed. Except he refused to fuck her, so his insistence on wooing her made no sense. She made no sense. Together, they made even less sense than that. But she couldn’t stop coming back for more.
The door swept open.
“Welcome to Chez Brian.” He’d shaved off his patchy blond beard. Smooth face frozen in a grin, he eyed her with the concussion-victim blankness he’d shown the moment they’d met. “Christ, you look amazing. I mean, you always do, but—” He shook his head.
If she’d known then he’d been knocked out by her and not the accident, hell. They might’ve been fucking in his backseat before the last rays of sunlight sank under the horizon. She could’ve managed the tire by flashlight. Part of her wanted the missed opportunity back. But the rest of her, the scary and growing part, promised they’d have another chance. Maybe many chances.
As her feet flexed in the tight shoes, he waved her forward. “Entrez-vous, entrez.”
Bowing as he backed up, he flashed a multicolored nightmare of non-seduction. His lucky shorts formed the centerpiece of an otherwise formal outfit.
Holy fuck.
He’d tucked his white dress shirt into the elastic waistband and tied the drawstrings in a neat bow. The rich, deep plum shade of his tie almost made the whole crazy ensemble match. Or would have, if he hadn’t pulled black dress socks up over his calves to match his shiny black dress shoes.
Laughter bent her near in half as she gripped her stomach. Oh God. She struggled to stand up. What a ridiculous man. Bare knees and all.
“We have a short wait for a table this evening.” He kept his poise with what had to be military training, because no fucking way would any normal person hold a straight face so well. “May I offer you a beverage from our extensive drink menu? Would the mademoiselle care for a glass of water before giggles become hiccups?”
The slurring buzz he seemed to think turned him into a credible French maitre d’ intensified the unshakeable laugh attack. Closing her eyes to avoid glimpsing the riot shorts got her nowhere when his teasing assaulted her ears, too. She landed a hand on his shoulder in her blind search for support to stay upright.
He curled his arm around her, his hold sturdy and warm. “You sound happy.” So did he. Accent dropped, he reclaimed pure Brian. “You want to cross the threshold? I can carry the table into the hallway if you want, but it’s probably a fire hazard.”
Deep breaths got her laughter under control and wrapped her in his crisp rainstorm fragrance with its ozone-sharp edge. Trust Brian to concoct a date that circumvented all of her expectations. “So I guess we’re staying in?”
As she stepped into the main room, his hand fell from her back. The missing warmth left a cold spot behind.
“Staying in, yeah.” He rubbed his hair from the back of his neck up. “I thought it’d be more comfortable with just us. No awkward small talk about restaurant menus and whether the waiter’s still in high school.”
Takeout containers and empty plates stood stacked beside a bag from Mancini’s, the fancy bistro down on Fifth. His kitchen hardly merited the name—more a nook than anything. But the rest of the living-dining room sprawled to a wall of tinted windows, beside which he’d set a table for two. Beyond the glass, a fat bend in the river separated them from the downtown lighting up as dusk stretched in the valleys where sunset’s slender fingers couldn’t reach.
She gravitated toward the view. Home had never looked so serene. “It’s beautiful.”
“I tried to get the sun to cooperate, but the eastern exposure wasn’t so accommodating.” As the door thudded into the frame, Brian’s voice grew louder. “My neighbor across the hall refused to switch apartments for the night. Would’ve upset her cat, she said.”
“Can’t have that.” The table boasted a cloth with embroidered scroll edging thrown over the top, far fancier than the quick-serve places she hit up most often. A man’s dinner jacket hung across the back of one chair. She rubbed the stiff shoulder between her fingers. Fresh from the dry cleaners, neatly pressed. “At first glance, this restaurant seems pretty high quality. But I have to tell you…”
She waited for him to get closer.
The hint of panic in his eyes exited his mouth. “Tell me what?”
Leaning sideways, she whispered, “I don’t think your host is French. I think he’s faking the accent.”
With a jerk, he shook loose a handful of chuckles. “That scoundrel! I’ll fire him right away and serve dinner myself. Does that work for you?”
“Sure does.” The wall above the couch boasted a surfboard as colorful as his shorts. Maybe he’d share more stories about his adventures on the lake. Brian’s late-season surfing had to be at least half as crazy as Grandpa Jake’s annual insistence on ice fishing from Christmas through the spring thaw. But they’d dined on a chest freezer full of walleye, crappie, and bluegill every year until this one. “What are we having?”
Brian clapped his hands together and hustled into the kitchen nook. “Well. You have your choice of main dishes.” The plastic lids unsnapped with two pops. “We have steak and pasta—” He managed a decent drum roll on the counter. “Or pasta and steak.”
With his legs hidden behind the low cupboards, he impersonated a proper date. One who might have dress pants on below his collared shirt and s
ubdued tie. But those guys, the ones who wouldn’t grin the way Brian did as he scooped pasta between two forks and dropped it on plates without pretending in the least that he’d made the meal himself? Those guys bored her. Brian sometimes pissed her off, scared her, surprised her, impressed her, and touched raw nerves, but he sure as fuck didn’t bore her.
“I’ll take the pasta and steak, please.” The furniture lacked the flair of his shorts and board. Maybe the neutral ivories and grays of the couch and chairs had come with the apartment. “I’m feeling that more than the steak and pasta.”
“Excellent choice. Coming right up. And I wasn’t kidding about the drinks—I’ve got four kinds of beer in the fridge, plus hard cider and water.”
“Beer’s good.” The coffee table held an odd assortment of clutter. Framed photos. A yearbook pinned open beneath a shot of what had to be a younger Brian with his arm around his friend Rob’s throat, the two of them in dark blue uniforms. A stuffed tiger missing an ear.
Brian ahem-ed. Spinning a fork in one hand, he waved toward her with the other. “Thanks for taking tonight seriously, Katherine. I know you weren’t sure about—” Squaring his shoulders, he dropped his arms to his sides. “About all of this.”
How a man who stood so solid and unyielding carried his heart in his eyes remained a mystery. Fuck. This Brian, sweet and vulnerable and ready-to-serve, somehow coexisted with the Brian who’d finger-fuck her into oblivion in the back room. With the one who’d allow her to pin him down and tease him to explosive heights, but not until after he demanded a date in exchange. A smart man, a canny one, and a joker besides.