That Dating Thing

by Crowne, Mackenzie

  Chapter Twelve

  “On three.”

  Rylee gripped the handle of the sledgehammer with both hands. Above his breathing mask, Brian’s eyes twinkled in excitement as he counted down. Beside her Brian’s foreman, Tony Camponelli, sent her a wink from eyes full of gleeful anticipation.

  Thwack!

  The wall shuddered.

  “Again.”

  Thwack.

  “One more ought to do it.” Brian growled with exertion.

  Thwack.

  The wall toppled with a satisfying crash and billow of dust.

  Rylee lowered the head of the hammer to the floor, fanning the cloud enveloping them. “Oh, yeah. I love smashing things!”

  Tony chuckled.

  Brian surveyed the results of their destruction. “That’s because you have a latent anarchist gene buried beneath your philanthropist’s soul.”

  “That’s me. Rylee Pierce, closet rebel.”

  Brian laughed, propping the sledgehammer against the silent generator several yards away. “Come on, Jamie Dean. Let’s get this crap out of here.”

  The work was dirty and exhausting, and Rylee loved every moment. The foundation and its projects were her babies. If she could, she would’ve had her hand in every detail, but was smart enough to leave the actual building to the experts. Mindless labor she could do. She fulfilled her need to be involved by never missing the first day of construction. Brian claimed he allowed her to participate in the tear-outs because she was free labor. They both knew he couldn’t keep her away, not on day one.

  The real construction would begin Monday morning. With the full crew on hand, the place would resemble a beehive. Today, however, she, Brian, and Tony worked in relative peace but for the rock and roll blaring from an old boom box propped on a makeshift table in a far corner.

  Rylee gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow, maneuvering the unwieldy load of debris toward the bay doors at the back of the building. A sudden shaft of early morning sunlight snagged her attention, streaming through the opening front door. She dropped the rails of the wheelbarrow to the cement floor with a thump when Coop strolled inside, a tray of coffees in one hand, a baker’s box in the other.

  “Is this where I check in for duty?” he asked of no one in particular.

  The breeze off the river left his black hair mussed and weekend stubble darkened his square chin. Dressed in threadbare jeans and a faded, Harvard T-shirt, molded to the powerful chest she’d explored with her mouth just a few hours earlier, the up-and-coming lawyer looked right at home in the midst of power tools and construction debris.

  “Coop.” Rylee shot a quick glance at Brian, rolling her eyes at the knowing smile accompanying his raised eyebrows. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a brief you need to finish?”

  “I’ll get to it later.” He looked around the signs of destruction. “I thought you could use an extra pair of hands.”

  Brian stepped over to the boom box, twisting the dial to lower the volume, while Rylee did her best to hide her dismay.

  This morning’s session of backbreaking manual labor was meant to serve a dual purpose. First, her need to have a hand in the foundation’s latest project, and second, to allow her some time to regroup, analyze her actions and the corresponding emotions of the last few weeks with a clear head.

  Because intelligent thought proved impossible with Coop anywhere in the vicinity, she’d left him before the sun came up, asleep in her bed, a circumstance occurring with alarming frequency since the night of her awkward seduction. Not that she minded. On the contrary. This morning she’d had to force herself to walk away from the big, naked, bruiser tangled in her sheets. And therein lay the problem. Being with Cooper Reed was becoming far too necessary for her peace of mind.

  Worse, her need to be with him wasn’t just for the sex, although, holy cow! She’d never known her body was capable of such sensual greed. Forget slut, she was turning into a nymphomaniac. All Coop had to do was look at her a certain way and the next thing she knew, her panties were down around her ankles. But the quiet conversation, the shared humor and comfortable silences were what worried her. Coop wasn’t just another handsome face. He was a nice guy. The type of guy she would happily cast in the role of forever-man—if not for dear old dad.

  Just the thought of Pete Morris should have been enough to keep her heart in line, but with each passing day, that foolish organ came closer to succumbing to the inevitable. The smart thing to do would be to make up some excuse to walk away, cutting her losses before it was too late.

  Unfortunately, with Coop she couldn’t seem to manage smart. She was stuck on stupid.

  “Coffee is always appreciated.” Brian plucked one of the cups from the tray. “So is slave labor. Coop, this is Tony Camponelli, project foreman. Tony, Cooper Reed. He’s a lawyer with the district attorney’s office.” Brian pinned Rylee with a mischievous arch of his brows. “Rylee thinks he’s hot.”

  She gasped and heat flooded her cheeks. The intentional dig earned him a scowl. His answering smile shoved the scowl toward a glare. She had seen that particular smile a thousand times over the years and had come out on the short end of the stick with most of its appearances.

  Coop grinned, setting aside the coffee and donuts to shake Tony’s hand.

  “An extra set of hands will definitely come in handy.” Brian ignored the warning daggers she shot at him through narrowed eyes, and indicated her with a nod of his head. “She may look good, but she’s too puny to be of any real help.”

  “Hey!”

  “We offered to get her a toy wheelbarrow,” Tony added congenially. “One she can actually handle, but she’s stubborn.”

  Double teamed by a couple of grinning baboons.

  Coop eyed her tormentors. “She doesn’t look puny to me.”

  “That’s because you’ve seen her naked.”

  “Brian!”

  “Have you seen her swing a hammer?” he continued, ignoring her horrified outburst. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “You are so dead,” she gritted from between clenched teeth.

  “Who needs skills with a hammer,” Coop’s laughing blue gaze scanned her hips, “when you can fill out a tool belt like that?”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “There is that.” Brian grinned, clearly delighted by Coop’s contribution to the juvenile razzing.

  “Have you seen her walk?” Tony added and whistled through his teeth. “She’s a safety hazard in heels. I’ve banned her from showing up when the crew is around. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s an OSHA plant.”

  “Hel-l-o-o-o.” She waved a hand in front of Tony’s face. “Standing right here. Cataloguing evidence for my sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  “I can give you the name of a good lawyer,” Coop said, deadpan.

  The baboons found his comment hilarious.

  Three-on-one were insurmountable odds. Especially when the three suffered from a clear case of testosterone overload—left over from junior high, no doubt.

  “Morons,” she growled, hefting the handles of the wheelbarrow. It wobbled, almost toppling over before she regained control. Male laughter echoed through the building, following her outside.

  Five hours later, all evidence of the demolished wall was gone, thanks in no small part to her efforts with the frigging wheelbarrow from hell. Brian had finished marking the windows slated for donation and spray paint striped the floor in preparation of the new plumbing layout.

  A layer of dust coated Rylee, including her hair. The guys looked no better. Sweat rings decorated their necklines and armpits. Coop sported a fresh tear in the sleeve of his shirt. They caused a few heads to turn as they shared a beer, and lunch, at the deli around the corner.

  Food, sports, and sex, Brian had declared, were the three pillars of modern male interest. The guys covered the first pillar, demolishing their sandwiches, while arguing over the second, debating which team would come out on top this season, the Yankees
or the Mets.

  “I’m telling you, the bullpen is weak,” Brian argued. “They’ll fold long before October.”

  A diehard Mets fan, Tony snorted. “If they do, it’s because their payroll isn’t the size of the national debt. A salary cap would level the playing field.”

  Rylee sighed at the familiar dispute.

  “You’re just jealous because your boys play like bush leaguers compared to the Bronx Bombers,” Brian drawled.

  “Pussies in pinstripes,” Tony corrected and Brian laughed.

  To settle the argument, they turned to Coop. He disappointed them by sitting back in his chair with a smile. “Don’t look at me. I’m a Red Sox fan.”

  Matching groans met his announcement.

  “The Yankees are hosting Boston next week.” Brian propped his elbows on the table in a clear challenge. “Care to put a little money behind your loyalty?”

  “Brian has a connection with box seats,” Rylee offered.

  “I used to have a connection,” Brian lamented.

  “You broke up with Lucy?”

  “Was that her name?” Brian wondered aloud. He grinned at Rylee’s disbelieving snort. “Last I heard, she was engaged.” His sigh stretched out, long and wistful. “I sure am going to miss…those seats.”

  Rylee clubbed him on the shoulder. A puff of construction dust floated around his head.

  “Damn.” He fanned at the cloud. “Tear-outs are filthy work, but we made good progress today.”

  Tony nodded. “I’m glad you decided on the Cain warehouse, Rylee.” Rylee’s stomach plummeted and Brian stiffened at her side. Tony went on, oblivious to their distress. “I know you had your eye on the building over on Third. We would have made it work. But this one? This one has style.”

  Tony jumped, presumably from the toe of Brian’s boot connecting with his shin beneath the table. Rylee would have kicked him herself, but for fear she’d hit Coop instead.

  The beetling of Coop’s brows said he’d noted the implication of Tony’s comment. Brian came up with a deflection before she could.

  “So, Coop. I hear they’ve extradited a guy from Chicago. Word is he’s the Queen’s arsonist.”

  “I heard that too.” Coop’s eyes remained on Rylee, who made a production of wiping down the cap on the catsup bottle with a paper napkin.

  “Come on, Coop,” Brian pressed. “What’s the use of knowing someone inside the D.A.’s office if he won’t share details on the biggest story in town?”

  Coop finally turned away and Rylee breathed a silent sigh of relief. He’d get back to questioning her on Tony’s slip up sooner or later, but at least she’d have some time to come up with a viable explanation for why she would be deciding on foundation sites.

  “I wouldn’t have much of a career in the D.A.’s office,” Coop told Brian, “if I made a habit of sharing the details of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Well, I’m glad they caught him.” Tony shot Rylee an apologetic smile, obviously having realized his mistake. “People were spooked, not knowing where he would hit next.”

  Disaster averted, at least for the time being, the meal passed in relative peace. As expected, Coop reintroduced the topic on the ride home. Slipping his BMW into the next lane and zipping past a cab picking up a fare, he shot her a quick glance.

  “What did he mean?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who I mean.” He kept his focus on the heavy traffic. “You had your eye on a building over on Third, but you chose the Cain warehouse? I thought Silvia ran the foundation.”

  “Silvia does run the foundation,” she said, glad she didn’t have to lie. The rest, well, she walked a fine line and didn’t like it. “I went to look at the Cain warehouse with Brian because Silvia was unavailable. Elliott came home from the hospital that morning. The day I met you.”

  “What about the building on Third?” He met her gaze. “Did you look at that the same day?”

  His suspicion sliced at her and the death knell on their dating thing echoed like a funeral dirge in her head. She wanted to cry.

  “No. I’d seen it a couple of weeks earlier.” She sighed. “Look, Coop, Brian is my friend. We do lots of things together. Like the tear-out today.”

  The subtle accusation in his blue eyes scraped at her conscience like claws. She pivoted her head to stare out at the passing scenery.

  “I like him,” he said several moments later.

  Rylee looked back to study his profile.

  “Brian,” he elaborated. “I like your friend, Rylee.”

  Tears stung the back of her eyes and she attempted to blink them away. “I like him too.”

  His eyes darted in her direction, brows drawn together in a frown. He reached over to cup her chin, lifting her face.

  “Hey,” he crooned. “What’s this?”

  “Just tired, I guess.”

  “Aw, baby.” He released her chin and rubbed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I’ll bet you’re tired. I’m beat myself. Go ahead and close your eyes for a bit. I’ll take care of you.”

  For reasons of her own, she took his advice. She slid her eyes shut against his evident concern. Her head dropped back against the supple leather of the headrest, and at that moment, she could honestly say she hated Peter Morris.

  Chapter Thirteen

  To Coop’s way of thinking, there was no better way to greet the day than with an energetic romp in bed with a beautiful woman. Of course, a woman wriggling into a pair of faded jeans wasn’t bad either. When the woman doing the wriggling happened to be Rylee Pierce, the exercise was downright erotic.

  Coop lay on his back. Head cradled in his hands, he enjoyed the view. The woman had the finest ass he had ever seen. As exciting as the shimmy show was, however, he thought it a shame to cover those luscious curves.

  Then again, he couldn’t talk her out of her jeans if she were already naked, and getting her naked was an undeniable pleasure. His smartass dog whisperer appreciated the buildup to sex as much as the act itself. He’d never known a woman to take so much pleasure in baiting him until he was mad with lust, then reveling in the results with an appetite that came close to surpassing his own.

  Their dating thing had stretched to a month. Expecting his interest to wane once he got her into bed, the opposite had happened. The more he had of her, the more he craved.

  He’d yet to learn her secrets, and after the tear out at the Cain warehouse last Saturday, he was more determined than ever to discover what caused the sadness in her beautiful eyes. Her explanation when he asked about Tony’s comment made sense, but somehow her words didn’t ring true. When pressed, she looked almost beaten, as if the effort of explaining fatigued her—a fatigue having nothing to do with the manual labor of the morning.

  When they finally wandered down the hall to her bedroom that evening, he expected her to plead exhaustion. She didn’t, coming into his arms with sweet abandon and a hungry greed for his touch that made him feel like a king. Physically nothing had changed. She still responded to his every touch with an enthusiasm that never failed to make him go hard. But emotionally she’d begun to withdraw and it pissed him off.

  The results of Tim’s investigation were due back soon, but what he really wanted was for Rylee to confide in him, tell him what panicked her and made her sad. As the most open, generous and giving woman he’d ever met, he couldn’t imagine what she could possibly have in her past that she felt she needed to hide. More importantly, he couldn’t fix what he didn’t understand, and if they were to have any kind of future, he needed to do just that.

  Thinking of Rylee’s past in the context of how her secrets would affect his future was a clear indication he was in trouble. Big trouble. He’d told her he wasn’t interested in a relationship, but now…

  She selected a sleeveless silk blouse from the closet and he rolled to prop himself up on one elbow.

  “Come back to bed, Rylee. It’s early yet.”

  Her shoulders stiffened and sh
e slipped into the blouse. “I have an appointment.”

  “Would you like some company?”

  Her head snapped up and he caught the flicker of anxiety she attempted to conceal by spinning around. She made a production of buttoning the blouse while stepping into her heels. “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I don’t have to be at the courthouse until one.”

  He waited. She didn’t answer, moving to scoop up a pair of earrings from the dresser.

  “Rylee?”

  “Uh, you’d probably be bored.”

  “If you’re not coming back to bed, I’m coming with you.” He tossed back the sheet, and rose, naked, to pad to the bathroom of her spacious bedroom suite. “Give me five minutes.”

  He didn’t want to cause her stress, but she would never learn to trust him if he continued to let her push him away. And he couldn’t allow her to keep changing the subject whenever he wandered too close to her fears. The time had come to start pushing back.

  She’d managed an impossible feat, slipping past his barriers and drifting into his heart like a fine fragrance on a gentle wind. He’d fallen in love with her, but instead of scaring the hell out of him, he found he liked the idea.

  His political goals required him to take a wife at some point, but until Rylee, the possibility had left him cold. The institution of marriage had always been a farce in his opinion, and commitment hadn’t fared much better. His parents certainly hadn’t respected their marriage vows, brushing aside the piece of paper that bound them together without a thought for what their actions would mean to a little boy. As for commitment, his mother hadn’t been committed to her son, and although Elliott tried, women and his military career had been his main concern.

  Maturity softened the edges of his cynicism somewhat, and witnessing Tim and Lilly Watson’s dedication smoothed those edges even more. But Rylee, with her open smile and giving spirit, destroyed his life-long beliefs. Now all he had to do was find a way to make their temporary arrangement permanent.

  He meant to marry her.

  Instinct urged him to pin her down. To proclaim his feelings, get her to proclaim hers and seal the deal. Experience made him hesitate. Though she clearly enjoyed their time together, she was still skittish. Until he discovered the source of her fear, he would bide his time.