by Kara Lennox
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." She had her hair pulled back, and her skin glowed with a thin sheen of perspiration from her workout. Her cheeks were a healthy pink, her eyes bright and fiercely blue this morning, and every muscle looked firm and well-toned.
Unfortunately, he recalled exactly how that skin and those firm muscles had felt pressed against him.
He casually dropped his towel into his lap. "Are you waiting for the machine?"
"I was waiting for you to finish so we could talk."
He'd been afraid of that.
"Okay."
"Thanks for breakfast yesterday."
"No problem," he murmured. God, she would have to bring that up.
"I also wanted to apologize for leaving in the middle of the night," she said in a rush. "It wasn't very polite. I did it for you, though."
"For me?"
"I thought you'd prefer it that way. We both know that anything … long-term between us is completely unworkable."
"Agreed," he said quickly. This conversation made him feel distinctly like he was getting dumped, and he wanted to make sure it didn't end up that way.
"I thought leaving you a cheery note would save us from awkward goodbyes. We wouldn't have to mumble things about getting together again or calling or whatever."
Her explanation made perfect sense.
"I never meant to snub you or blow you off, though." She smiled slightly. "What we did might have been foolish, but I enjoyed our night together."
He wished she wouldn't look at him like that. He'd been about to master the hormones surging through his body—until she'd looked at him with remembered passion, her blue eyes dreamy, her tongue darting out unconsciously to moisten her lips. He would have to leave his towel in his lap the rest of his life.
"Me, too," he said simply. He guessed this wasn't the time to tell her how disappointed—no, crushed—he'd been to wake up alone yesterday.
"But when you brought over the French toast—"
"I made too much, and I didn't want it to go to waste, okay? Don't read anything into it."
"I won't," she said softly, sounding a bit hurt, making him regret his harshness. "I was just going to say I enjoyed it. I'm not a big breakfast eater normally, but I wolfed down every piece of that toast."
"Good."
"But it also made me realize I should have stayed and shared breakfast with you, like a proper, civilized overnight guest. Just because we aren't madly in love and planning to spend the rest of our lives together doesn't mean we can't enjoy each other's company once in a while."
Was she saying what he thought she was saying? For a few marvelous seconds, he thought she was suggesting they could make love on a regular basis. But she quickly disabused him of that notion.
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," she blurted out rather desperately, her face turning even pinker. "Our … time together was great, and I won't forget it, but I don't think it's something we should repeat. I just meant that I don't want us to be uncomfortable with each other. I want us to be friends. I like you, we work together every day, I adore your grandparents, and for us to be anything less … or more … than friends is just completely unbearable. My life plans don't involve happily-ever-after, at least not in a domestic sense. And you aren't some starry-eyed kid with dreams of marrying the TV star."
He gave her a pointed stare. "You really are hung up on this age thing, aren't you."
"I wasn't referring to your age! I was referring to emotional maturity."
He realized he was nitpicking, trying to find fault with her argument when he knew damn well it was a perfectly good argument.
He sighed. "Is there something I'm supposed to say here? You seem to have all the answers."
"You don't have to say anything. Unless you disagree with me."
Did he? Of course not. What she'd said made sense. They should be friends, no more, no less. But he couldn't quite get the words out to agree with her. He just wasn't very good at personal conversations. He was a guy, after all.
"Good," she said briskly. "I'm glad we got this settled. I couldn't sleep last night, worrying if I'd offended you."
"Consider me non-offended."
"Then I think I'll soak in the hot tub for a while. Want to join me?"
"Ah, no," he said quickly. The last thing he needed was to be confined to an intimate hot tub with Phoebe in a swimsuit, her skin slick and wet.
"Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow."
She got up and walked away without the slightest notion that she was leaving behind a wreck of a man. The woman tied him up in more knots than one of his grandmother's macramé plant hangers.
What did he want from her? Just what the hell did he want?
He did not want to be involved with her, physically or emotionally. That much was certain. If anything could deflect him from his crusade to make 'Heads Up' the number-one-rated daytime talk show in the country, Phoebe Lane
could, and he absolutely couldn't risk it. Too many people were depending on his single-minded leadership.
Then, why couldn't he just look her in the eye and say, Phoebe, you are completely right. We had a good time, but that's over and done with, and from now on you are nothing to me but my employee and my temporary neighbor.
Maybe it was because every time he looked her in the eye, he couldn't help seeing the rest of her. And the rest of her did crazy things to him. That wasn't going to change, whether he took her to bed a hundred times, or pledged a hundred times to treat her as just another coworker.
* * *
Phoebe felt her muscles relaxing one by one as she soaked in the hot, bubbly water in the hot tub. The worst was over now. She'd rehearsed her speech to Wyatt over and over so it would sound natural, and thank God she was a good actress. Once or twice she'd choked, forgotten her lines, but all in all she'd managed to assume a light tone. She'd done what she needed to do—put things right with Wyatt so they could continue working and living in close proximity without Friday night standing between them.
He'd wasted no time agreeing with her, she'd noticed. Though it might bruise her ego a bit, that was the result she'd been hoping for, right? Maybe now that they'd cleared the air, they could be more comfortable around each other. Maybe by making love one time, they'd dissipated the tension that had plagued them since day one.
And maybe California was going to drop into the ocean, making Mesa Blue beachfront property.
She heard the door to the wet area open. She tensed, thinking for one illogical moment that it might be Wyatt, that he'd changed his mind about joining her in the hot tub. She'd have died if he'd joined her. She would have had to sit on her hands.
Thankfully, it was Frannie who flapped into the wet area in her cat swimsuit. She smiled when she spotted Phoebe.
"Oh, I'm glad someone's in here," Frannie said, kicking off her thongs. "Every joint in my body is sore, and I know I need to soak, but I hate sitting in here alone."
"Me, too," Phoebe said, pleased to see anybody other than Wyatt. "Slide on in. Why are you so sore? You don't have arthritis, do you?"
"No, no, I'm just out of shape." Frannie eased herself into the steamy water, wincing at first, then smiling as she settled onto the seat and closed her eyes. "I went bowling with Bill last night. I haven't bowled in years, and I think I overdid it."
"Sounds like things are going okay for you and Bill."
Frannie grinned. "Great, as a matter of fact. That Jane Jasmine is so smart. Now, I'm a great bowler. I used to bowl three times a week. The old Frannie probably would have hidden that fact from Bill. I would have pretended not to know how to bowl so he could play the big strong man and show me how to do it, and then I would have let him win."
"But you didn't do that?"
"Heck, no. I told Bill I was going to give him a run for his money, pulled out my custom-made, monogrammed pink bowling ball, and beat the pants off him."
Phoebe gasped. "You're kidding!"
"Jane's book says t
o never hide or underplay your talents. So I didn't. And you know what?"
"What?" Inwardly, Phoebe cringed. Wasn't that exactly what she was doing with Wyatt, with practically the whole world? She was smart, she was on the dean's list, making almost straight A's in a tough field at a good university—and she was afraid to tell anybody.
"Bill loved it. He was so excited when I got two strikes in a row, he was crowing like a rooster. And when the last game was over and I'd won, he gave me a big hug and a kiss—and we went to dinner afterwards with some friends of his, and he bragged on me all through dinner."
"Well, of course. Men these days want to be with competent, capable, smart women." Unless the woman is Phoebe Lane
, in which case they don't care.
"I know that's what 2001 Ways to Wed says, but I didn't really believe it until I saw it for myself. From now on, I'm going to get out there and strut my stuff. No more false modesty. And you know what? I look great in a bathing suit."
Phoebe laughed. She was truly happy for Frannie and Bill, two of the nicest people she'd ever met. She only wished she could capture a fraction of Frannie's current self-confidence.
What would happen if she marched up to Wyatt and said, I'll tell you why I spend so much time at the university, and it's not so I can chase premed students. I'm more than halfway to a degree in biochemistry, I'm planning to graduate summa cum laude, and then I'm going to get a loan and start my own all-natural cosmetics company.
He would laugh. The whole thing still sounded ridiculous, even though she'd carried this dream around for years. She wished she didn't care what he thought, but she did.
Damn it, she did.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Elise laid out three photos of wedding dresses on the table. She sat with Phoebe and Daisy at The Prickly Pear for one of their semi-regular dinners, and she was in the throes of decision-making.
"I'm counting on you all to steer me right," Elise said. "Phoebe, you're the fashion expert here, and Daisy, you know all about color and texture. So which dress is right?"
Phoebe studied the three dresses. They were all beautiful. One was a fussy Victorian style with lots of flounces and ruffles, a real princess dress. One was a modern dress with a dramatic, off-the-shoulder cut, made out of a slick fabric without a hint of lace. The third was somewhere in between, traditional but not old-fashioned, satin trimmed in lace with a short train and a sort of retro-sixties empire waist.
Seeing the dresses put an odd ache into Phoebe's heart. Apart from her teenage fantasies of wanting to marry a movie star, Phoebe had never thought much about getting married. She'd always just assumed she wouldn't, because she'd never found a man she could relate to on anything but a physical level.
Except Wyatt, her devious brain reminded her. True, she and Wyatt were friends of sorts. They'd gotten along fairly well this week, not quite as tense around one another, though their mutual awareness was never far from the surface. But they'd talked, and laughed, and Wyatt had even taken to asking Phoebe's opinion about ideas he had for the show. She supposed he considered her young and "plugged-in" enough that she could recognize cutting-edge when she saw it.
George came by to deliver their drink orders. He stopped to peer over Phoebe's shoulder at the dress pictures, then pointed at the modern one. "That's my favorite."
Phoebe rolled her eyes. "That's the model with the biggest breasts, George. She could be wearing a burlap sack and you'd pick her, as long as the sack had a plunging neckline."
"I still like that one best," George insisted, setting an iced tea in front of Phoebe and diet colas for the other two women.
As soon as he'd left, Elise plucked the picture of the modern dress off the table and wrinkled it up. "That takes care of that choice. What about the other two?"
"The Victorian is pretty," Daisy said, "but I'm afraid you'd just be lost in all those ruffles."
Phoebe nodded her agreement.
"What about the other?"
Phoebe studied the third dress. "I like it. But you have such a cute, slender waist, and this dress would hide it."
Glumly, Elise picked up the two photos and wrinkled them up, also. "This is all Jane Jasmine's fault. If I hadn't read her darn book, I never would have found James, and I wouldn't have to be planning a froufrou wedding."
Phoebe knew better than to believe Elise. She was having the time of her life, planning a big party where for once she got to be the center of attention, instead of one of a herd of sisters.
"My heart's breaking," Daisy said dryly.
"Oh, speaking of Jane Jasmine," Phoebe said, "guess who's going to be a guest next week on 'Heads Up.'" Phoebe took a sip of her drink and enjoyed the looks of surprise on her friends' faces.
"Jane Jasmine?" they said together.
"In the flesh. Apparently Wyatt's director read 2001 Ways to Wed and was really impressed. She made Wyatt read it, and even he was impressed. He said she shows 'remarkable insight into the male psyche.'" Phoebe didn't add that Wyatt had also found the book on her bookshelf. She hadn't even revealed to her friends that Wyatt had been in her apartment, except to fix the burst hose. Normally the three women told each other everything, but Phoebe couldn't bear to share her and Wyatt's more intimate moments with anybody. It was still too painful.
"Yeah, well, Jane hasn't done much for me," Daisy groused. She'd been unusually glum ever since Elise's engagement party, Phoebe had noticed, and she was not as open to meeting new men as she'd been. Of course, given how some of her blind dates and fix-ups had turned out, Phoebe couldn't blame Daisy.
"Hey, I've got an idea," Phoebe said. "We're bringing some other people onto the show with Jane—women who have actually found husbands using her book, and women who want to get married but haven't found Mr. Right. Daisy, I bet I could get you on—"
"No way!" Daisy exploded. "You want me to share with the whole country the fact that I can't catch a man?"
"It's a great idea!" Elise chimed in. "You'd probably get hundreds of men mailing in their marriage proposals. You could pick and choose among them."
Daisy shuddered. "No, it's not even open for discussion."
Phoebe and Elise looked at each other and shrugged.
* * *
When the three women returned from dinner, the doorman stopped Phoebe and took her aside. "There's someone here to see you. She wanted me to let her in your apartment, but of course I didn't, not without your say-so."
"Thanks, Griffin." That was one of the things she loved about Mesa Blue—the security. As a TV actress, she'd had her share of weird letters and obsessive fans, though no one had bothered her in a while.
After waving goodbye to Daisy and Elise, she peered into the lobby's sitting area, at first not seeing anyone. Then a figure popped out from behind a column, and Phoebe almost fainted. "Mama!"
"Addy!" Olga Phelps rushed forward, enveloping a dazed Phoebe in a bear hug. After only a moment's hesitation, Phoebe returned the hug. She hadn't been home to visit since last summer, and she hadn't realized how much she missed her mother until this moment.
"Mama, what are you doing here? You look great!"
"I've lost a little weight, got a new haircut. My stylist says it makes me look ten years younger."
Phoebe sighed. Her mother was always looking for a magic youth potion. She did look great for her age, Phoebe had to admit. She was fifty, but no one would guess it.
"Come on," Phoebe said, hoisting one of Olga's bulging flowered suitcases. "Let's go up and get you settled in. How long can you stay? I'm afraid I won't be home very much…" She kept peppering her mother with questions as they headed for the elevator.
Olga informed her she would be staying through Tuesday, which meant five days. Phoebe could handle it, she decided. Her new job, with its shorter, more regular hours, had helped her to get control of her schedule. And she had no major tests or projects due for at least a week.
"Why didn't you let me know you we
re coming?" Phoebe scolded as they entered her apartment and switched on a light
"It was a spur-of-the-moment decision." Olga looked around the apartment eagerly. "Oh, I like what you've done. But white furniture? Doesn't it get dirty?"
"I'm hardly home enough to get anything dirty."
"You just need one more thing to complete the decor." Olga put her suitcase on the sofa, opened it and pulled something out that was wrapped in newspaper.
When she unwrapped it, Phoebe smiled with pleasure. "A wreath."
And not just any wreath. It was made of movie film, artfully twisted and shaped so that it appeared to be a living thing. And all over the wreath were little symbols relevant to Phoebe's acting career—a tiny television; a copy of Phoebe's publicity photo shrunk down to less than an inch and put in a gold frame; Barbie-size ballet slippers; a minuscule Oscar statuette. There was even an itty-bitty movie slate with the words "Skin Deep" hand-painted in incredibly small letters.
"An early birthday present," Olga said.
Phoebe found a hammer and nails and proceeded to hang the wreath on her door right then and there. Her gaze strayed now and then toward Wyatt's door, hoping he wouldn't choose now to come home. The idea of Olga meeting Wyatt was kind of scary.
It took a few moments to figure out why. Wyatt was actually closer to Olga's age than he was to Phoebe's. And sometimes Olga went for younger men.
Holy cow, could she actually be jealous of her own mother?
"So, what made you decide to visit me so suddenly?" Phoebe asked a few minutes later as she and Olga shared coffee on the balcony.
"Well." Olga patted her hair and arched her eyebrows imperiously. "You, my dear, are not the only one who has show business connections. Since you wouldn't use your influence to get me on 'Heads Up,' I got my own self on."
Phoebe thought maybe she hadn't heard right. "You're going to be on 'Heads Up'?" she repeated. "In the audience, you mean?"
"No, as a guest!"
Had Olga gone delusional? "Doing what?"
"Well, when I was watching the show the other day, they announced they were looking for a certain kind of person to be on the show."