by Beth Andrews
Looked like he had himself an overnight guest.
He locked the door and shut off the porch light, then crossed to the kitchen and turned off the coffeepot before he got a blanket from the linen closet. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let her stay crumpled up like that, her neck bent at an awkward angle, her legs curled under her. He wiped his tingling palms down the front of his jeans as he studied her, tried to figure out how to make her comfortable with the least amount of touching possible—though any contact seemed inappropriate given her current state.
Deciding to start at the bottom—and pray like hell the rest of her straightened out of her own accord—he wrapped his fingers around her ankles and slowly swung her legs around.
She snored on.
He went to encircle her waist only to yank his hands back when he brushed the silk of her dress. He considered slipping his arms under her, but didn’t want to take the chance of accidentally touching her butt. Not when he’d admired it only a few minutes ago. He could take a hold of her shoulders, but that would bring him close to those amazing breasts, to her open mouth.
In the end, he settled on taking her by the ankles again, this time gently pulling her until she slid onto her back on the cushions. His plan worked great, except her dress had slid up, showing a great deal more of her bare thighs. Keeping his gaze firmly on her face, he unfolded the blanket over her, tucking one end under her chin, the other over her toes.
He straightened. It was easier to look at her with all those curves covered. Easier, much easier to remember how young she was with her face relaxed, her mouth open, one hand curled by her cheek.
Easier to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t want her.
But he couldn’t stop himself from brushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead, then letting his finger trail ever so slightly over her arched eyebrow before he turned off the light and went to his room. Yanking off his sweatshirt, he tossed it aside then fell facedown on his bed, his feet hanging over the edge. He pulled a pillow over his head, but that did little to help him forget about the woman on his couch. The woman he thought about way too often. The one woman he wanted above anyone else.
The one woman he could never have.
* * *
SOME KNUCKLEHEAD WAS singing along to a Mumford and Sons song. Loudly. And badly.
Daphne would have covered her ears but really, lifting her arms at what had to be an ungodly hour was just too much effort. She settled for pressing her face into her pillow. It might not mute the sound, but if she kept it there long enough, maybe she’d suffocate. Either way would end her misery.
The idiot chose that moment to attempt a bit of harmonizing with a particularly high note, causing her back teeth to ache. Talk about freaking torture. Honestly, some people were so rude. Singing this early with no thought or care that other people were trying to sleep.
Jeesh.
She snuggled farther into the mattress, but instead of the softness of her sheets, she encountered smooth, cool leather. Shifting her leg to the right, she bumped something hard. She frowned. That wasn’t right. There should be ample empty space in her king-size bed. Of course Cyrus, her golden retriever, took up a great deal of it but that hadn’t been his large, warm body, either.
Even racking her sleep-laden brain it took her a moment, surely longer than it should have, to figure out she wasn’t at her apartment, wasn’t all cozy and safe in her bedroom. She wasn’t even in a bed.
As she processed that bit of reality, the events of last night unfolded in her mind, frame by frame, like a movie in slow motion. There was dinner with her cousins at her favorite restaurant, good food and lots of laughs, then that fateful trip to The District, where, despite being irritated that they’d tricked her into a night out, she’d danced and drank. And drank. And drank.
Squeezing her eyes shut harder, she remembered being hit on by a cute blond physical therapist, then later, by a darkly handsome electrician. When she’d declined to give either of them her phone number, Nadine had gotten on her case about turning down not one, but two potential soul mates, badgering her as only Nadine could until Daphne had blurted out the truth. That she had no interest in getting to know random strangers or taking part in the whole dating scene. Not when she couldn’t stop thinking about one particular man she already considered a friend.
Oakes.
While she hadn’t exactly been pining for him all these years, the possibility of them as a couple had never fully disappeared. It was always there, in the back of her mind. In her heart. Like a dream of the future for when they were both single and ready to act on the attraction between them.
When the time was finally right.
Last night, with her brain muddied by tequila and her pride stinging with the news of her ex’s upcoming wedding, the timing had seemed perfect.
So, in the infinite wisdom of the inebriated, Daphne had decided the best course of action was to tell Oakes she’d fallen in love with him six years ago and still was in love with him today.
She groaned and pulled her knees closer to her chest, curling into a protective ball. Yes, yes, it was all coming back to her now. How very wise she’d felt about her decision. How comfortable with the plan to win over the man she loved with a heartfelt declaration. She’d ridden that wave of alcohol-induced confidence from the club all the way to Oakes’s house, and had let it carry her up to his porch, pushing her into pounding on his door.
But now she slowly sank with the realization that showing up at his house, stinking drunk, at 3:00 a.m. might not be the best way to convince him that she was not just serious, but, more importantly, sincere.
For some crazy reason people in her life had a hard time believing she could be either.
The song changed but the singing continued, Oakes’s usually pleasant baritone ruining “Little Lion Man” for her for life. A cupboard door opened then shut, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the air.
Ca-rapity crap crap. Once again she’d acted before thinking things through. If she wasn’t careful, that could become a bad habit.
But she at least had figured out where she was and why her back and shoulders ached, and her left hand was numb. Seemed she’d ended her night by passing out on Oakes’s couch. Great. Mystery solved. And since there was nothing she could do about the events of last night, couldn’t undo them or wish them away, she might as well go back to sleep.
She’d deal with the consequences of her actions later.
Much, much later.
CHAPTER TWO
DAPHNE HAD JUST drifted off again when the scent of coffee grew stronger, as if the pot had grown legs and walked over to tempt her out of sleep. She was having a rather heated internal debate on whether or not she should lift her head to investigate this turn of events when someone nudged her shoulder. She didn’t move and that someone did it again.
“Poke me one more time,” she warned Oakes, eyes still squeezed shut, her face hidden in her folded arms, “and I will kill you. Slowly. And with great relish.”
An idle threat, really, and one that didn’t have much of a punch due to her being unwilling to lift her head from where it rested, quite comfortably, thank you very much. It didn’t help that her tongue wasn’t currently working—her words came out as a cross between a slur and a groan.
Plus, why kill him before he’d had the chance to see how awesome, adorable and amazing she was? He was the man she loved, after all.
At least, she was pretty sure he was.
She opened her eyes and peeked under her arm at him. Her heart sighed, one long, happy sigh. He wore the same faded jeans as last night and an Astros T-shirt, the soft material hugging his broad shoulders. He had a body on him, a surprisingly hard and muscular one, despite the fact that he sat on his rear for a living. His jaw was sharp, his nose straight and she knew that when he smiled
, he had even, white teeth and a charm about him that went right to her gut. Dark hair and green eyes completed what was, all in all, one very pretty picture.
But she hadn’t fallen for him because of his good looks. Or, at least, not only because of them. Yes, he was handsome—all the Bartasavich brothers were gorgeous, including her own brother, Zach. No, what set Oakes apart was his kindness. His warmth and generosity.
Her brain still foggy, her mouth feeling as if it had been filled with cotton, Daphne lifted her head. Realized she’d drooled in her sleep. Wonderful. She wiped the side of her mouth, making the move as casual as possible. How the heck was she going to convince him she was his soul mate after drooling on his sofa?
“You are alive,” he said, the right side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “I’d wondered.”
“Alive and well,” she assured him, though her voice sounded rusty. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and tossed back the blanket, which she assumed he’d covered her with last night, before swinging her legs around, her bare feet connecting with the cool wood floor.
His gaze dropped and his mouth tightened before he jerked up his eyes to stare at a spot somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling. She followed his gaze but there was nothing to see except white ceiling so she glanced down. Oops. Her dress had shifted and twisted and ridden up during her sleep. She hadn’t flashed him everything God had given her, but it was pretty darn close.
Lifting her hips, she tugged down the material, making sure all was covered and right with the world. When she looked back at Oakes, her breath caught at the intensity in his gaze. The interest.
The attraction.
He blinked and it was gone, just...poof, and his expression smoothed out as if it had never been. She could relate. For years she’d gone back and forth over whether to embrace her feelings for him or pretend they didn’t exist. But she knew, whatever choices they made didn’t matter. They could fight the inevitable, could pretend there was nothing between them, but if they were meant to be—and her instincts were telling her they were—then they’d end up together. Eventually.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt for her to give fate a bit of a nudge.
He held out his hand. Now, she was completely capable of standing on her own—she’d been doing so since she was a baby, after all—but she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to touch Oakes, to test him, just a bit. Placing her hand in his, she let him tug her to her feet, making sure her breasts subtly brushed the hard planes of his chest as she did so.
He would have backed up, she knew, but he was trapped between her body and the coffee table, her fingers still curled around his. She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand and slowly lifted her head, her hair brushing his chin. He went completely still except for the working of his throat as he swallowed.
“Thank you,” she said, sounding like a breathy sex kitten.
Hey, if that’s what it took to get him to stop pretending he wasn’t attracted to her, she could go that route, complete with pointy ears, whiskers and tight catsuit.
Meow.
Their eyes met. Anticipation filled her, grew to an almost painful point, when his gaze dropped to linger on her mouth. He leaned forward. Her heart hammered. Her lips parted. Oh, God, this was it. The moment she’d been waiting for. He was going to kiss her. Well, that would certainly put an end to the whole I-see-you-only-as-a-platonic-nonsexual-friend act he pulled whenever they were together.
It wasn’t quite the romantic scenario she’d fantasized about when she was seventeen and in the throes of a huge, heartbreaking crush on him. And maybe having him get this close to her when she undoubtedly had morning breath wasn’t such a great idea, but if the man was finally going to kiss her after she’d waited six long years, she sure wasn’t about to deny him simply because they weren’t on a moonlit beach and she needed a mint.
She let her eyes drift shut.
Only to have them pop open when he gave her hand a friendly squeeze and slid free of her grasp. “No problem,” he said, his voice gruff.
Then, as if to make sure her humiliation was complete, as if to drive home the fact that he found her harmless and cute, like a child, he patted her head.
The man literally patted her on the top of her head.
She didn’t know whether to cry or punch him in the throat.
She settled on nipping the coffee cup from his hand as he raised it for a drink. Took a cautious sip before he’d even had time to blink or lower his arm back to his side.
“Ah, the nectar of the gods. And the only good thing about waking up in the morning.”
“Please,” he said, his tone all sorts of dry. “Help yourself.”
Feeling a bit better, she sent him a cheeky grin and drank again, deeper this time now that she knew it wasn’t blistering hot. Served him right after he’d gotten her hopes up only to cruelly dash them.
She gulped down some more, praying the caffeine kicked in quickly. The coffee could use a hefty dose of both cream and sugar but beggars couldn’t be choosers—and she was well used to playing the part of beggar. “I don’t suppose you’re hiding a bagel on your person?”
“Excuse me?” he asked, his expression bemused.
“A bagel,” she repeated slowly. Maybe he needed the coffee as much as she did. She handed the mug back to him. “Or a muffin? At this point I’d even take a scone.” When he just stared at her as if she’d lost her ever-loving mind, she wrinkled her nose. “No, huh? Too bad. I’m starving.”
“How about we start you off with some dry toast? See how that goes.”
She made a face. “How about you slather some peanut butter on that toast and we’ll have a deal.” She eyed the coffee cup he still hadn’t bothered drinking from. “If you’re not going to finish that...”
He handed it back to her.
She wished it was that easy to get everything she wanted from him.
She headed toward his kitchen, crossed to the large fridge and opened it. Grabbed the half-and-half and poured a hefty amount into the cup.
“Sugar?” she asked. She’d been to his house before, of course. Plenty of times, the most recent being over the Fourth of July weekend when he’d thrown an impromptu barbecue and had told her to feel free to drop by.
They were friends, but not the kind who knew how the other organized his—or her—kitchen. More like the kind that texted every few weeks to check in with each other, met up for coffee or lunch once a month and invited each other to casual get-togethers.
That was all about to change. It was past time they discovered if they were meant to be more.
He joined her, reaching for the sugar bowl in an upper cabinet, his shirt riding up slightly to show the ridges of his stomach. She’d touched him, she remembered, her fingers tingling with the memory. Last night she’d slapped his chest, then had kept her hand there, had felt the smoothness of his skin, the coarse hair dusting his chest.
The first time she’d touched him in anything other than a friendly, hey-we’re-buddies-and-sort-of-but-not-really-related sort of way in years. Since her high school graduation.
Progress. At long, long last.
She added sugar to her coffee then gulped it down gratefully. “That’s better,” she murmured as Oakes poured himself a fresh cup. “Now, what about that toast?”
“I ordered from Pitter Patterson’s Bakery,” he said, mentioning the name of one of her favorite breakfast restaurants. “I thought you might want something in your stomach other than wine.”
“You,” she said, setting her cup down, “are a prince among men. Thank you. But there’s no wine in my stomach. I don’t drink it.”
“You don’t?”
Was that what the women he usually dated drank? Probably. He went for the socialite types or the well-educated, high-powered corporate woman. Tall, thin and blonde, thou
gh that one VP he’d dated two years ago had been a petite brunette, the kind who worked out regularly and was going back to school for her third degree.
Daphne shook off the feelings of inadequacy. She was just as good as anyone. Better than most, certainly, at least when it came to being good enough for Oakes. Now all she needed to figure out was if she was right for him. And if, as her instincts told her, he was right for her, too.
“Nope,” she said. “Wine gives me a headache.” Plus, she never knew what to order, what color went with her dinner or the whole sniff-sip-swish routine that went with drinking it. “The credit for last night’s buzz belongs solely to tequila.”
“Tequila?” he repeated, staring at her as if she’d admitted to downing an entire bottle of the stuff in one sitting.
“The other nectar of the gods,” she assured him. “Anyway, I think I’ll take a moment to freshen up before we eat. Be right back.”
She grabbed her purse from the coffee table then padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom. Flipped on the light, turned, and jumped at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, horrified, her hand going to her crazy, frizzy hair. It stuck out straight in spots, was plastered to her head in others.
“Seriously?” she asked God through gritted teeth, her gaze on the ceiling as though she could see through it to heaven. “You let him see me like this? Whose side are you on?”
No wonder the man hadn’t wanted to kiss her.
Pulling a small brush from her bag, she attacked her hair, pulling the bristles through snarls that fought back valiantly. Too bad no amount of brushing could get the thick, naturally wavy strands to behave. Her makeup was long gone, except, of course, for the dark smudges of black eyeliner on her temples, the mascara caked on her lashes and rimming her lower lids. Sleep marks marred her cheek like a road map. She rubbed at them but that only made her face red.