Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  Maybe I can throw it as a distraction and then make a run for it.

  I fling open the door, give some kind of strangled karate yell and toss the can at the dark figure hulking around the desk.

  They catch it smoothly in one hand.

  It’s not a ghost or bandit of any kind.

  It’s Brent.

  “Hey.” He sets the mousse down and holds up both hands in a gesture of innocence. “It’s just me. I forgot something. What are you doing here?” He glances at the can he just set down. “And did you just throw hair product at me?”

  I sag against the wall, a soupy mixture of relief and embarrassment. My chest heaves from the adrenaline and my skin prickles in mortification. I sink to the floor, taking deep breaths to calm myself. I hold up a hand. “Just give me a second.”

  I am such an idiot. Of course he came back for those pills. I just saw them and read his name on them. It makes sense he might actually need them. What is wrong with me? The lack of sleep is making me lose my mind.

  “I . . . thought you were a bad guy,” I say finally.

  “I kind of picked up on that.” He moves closer and crouches down in front of me. His blue eyes are dark in the dim light, and his brows are creased. “What are you doing here so late?”

  “I’m just,” I shrug with attempted nonchalance, crossing my arms over my chest, “you know, working really really hard for your dad.”

  A brow lifts.

  I look up at the ceiling for inspiration. “I’m protecting the company assets.”

  The other brow rises to meet it.

  “Cleaning the,” I glance around, “counters?”

  He nods, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement. “It’s possible you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

  I slouch even lower, defeated. “Ugh. I know. It’s so inconvenient. My life would be so much easier if I could spew crap like everyone else.”

  “Besides, no one works in their PJs. Are you sleeping here?” He eyes my pants.

  I’m wearing my Supernatural pants. They have little Sam and Dean faces all over them.

  This is not embarrassing at all.

  I cross my legs. “Why do you ask?”

  He counters with another question. “Is there something wrong with Gwen’s? Is that why you stayed at our apartment the other night?”

  I can see he’s not going to let this go.

  Sigh.

  “If I tell you, you can’t laugh. And you have to promise to believe me.”

  “We’ve already established you’re a crap liar.”

  “I know, but it sounds crazy. Even to me and I’m the one experiencing it.” I rub a finger over a seam in the carpet and glance at the windows. The city lights twinkle back. When I find the courage to bring my gaze back to Brent, he’s watching me. His gaze is open and full of concern. I can’t believe he cares. Although, his eyes also look a little red and hazy. It’s late. He must be tired and now he has to deal with my crap and he’s pretending he gives a shit so he can go home to a supermodel or something.

  Better to just blurt it all out before I lose my nerve. “It started a few weeks ago. I woke up to strange sounds in the middle of the night. Nothing scary, just a weird tapping sound. It would be fine for a night or two and then start up again. Then it got worse. Louder. Banging in the walls. At first, I thought it was just, you know, normal noises for the city. Thin apartment walls, et cetera, but when I mentioned it to one of my neighbors, he never hears anything odd and they live right next door. I emailed Gwen. She never had anything like it when she lived there. I haven’t been sleeping. That’s why I was staying at Marc’s most nights, but only when the noises were bad. But then tonight . . .” I bite my lip.

  “It’s okay. You can tell me.” He puts a hand over mine.

  I stare down at our hands. He’s so warm. His fingers are long and his palm is wide. He has strong hands. Capable. I don’t think I’ve ever had such large hands over mine.

  I swallow. Brent isn’t dangerous. I know his brother. Gwen even dated him for a few months. He’s safe. “When I went to bed, everything was fine. Then I woke up with the light on and the window open. I can’t sleep like that. I prefer solid darkness and I get cold in ninety-degree heat. Someone else had to have opened my window and turned my lights on, but no one was there. I panicked and came here.”

  He doesn’t say anything and I risk a glance at his face. His blue eyes are intent and serious. He’s not laughing, so that’s something. “Maybe there’s a plausible explanation.”

  “There probably is. But I’m not really feeling like I want to find the answers in the dead of night by myself.”

  “Have you tried talking to the super?”

  “Yeah. He thought maybe it was air in the pipes or something. He had it checked out and said the pipes are fine and I must be crazy.”

  “Your super said you were crazy?”

  “He didn’t use those words per se, but he sure looked at me like I belonged in Bellevue.”

  He cracks a smile. “It’s late. Come stay at Marc’s. You can have his bed.” His hand tightens over mine.

  “Bed?” The word is almost a squeak.

  “Yeah. You know. Sleep in a real bed and not on Marc’s couch in a dusty office.”

  “That’s a really nice offer, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  His gaze is innocent, his voice sincere. He wants to help me.

  Can’t be trusted.

  “I’m not going to sleep with you,” I blurt.

  He frowns. “I just said you can sleep in Marc’s bed. I’ll sleep in mine. No hanky-panky.”

  I snort out a laugh and my nerves ease somewhat. “Did you just say hanky-panky?

  He sits back, removing the connection of our hands. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What are you? Eighty?” I laugh, teasing him. I slap my knee. “Okay, I’m not worried about you making the moves now. No real playboy uses the term hanky-panky. Phew, thanks for that.”

  “I’ll have you know I get all the hanky—I mean women I want.”

  Sheesh, someone’s sensitive. He must get the fragile ego from his father. Why is it that the most beautiful people are always the most insecure?

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you do, Casanova.” I pat him on the shoulder. “I’m not doubting it, I’m just saying I don’t want to be one of the many.”

  “Well you don’t have to worry about it.” He stands and grabs his pills from Marc’s desk with a hard snap. “Ready to go?”

  I tamp down the simmer of disappointment. Why would I expect anything different from a guy like him? He’s just another hot guy whose giant ego can’t take a tiny joke.

  Chapter Six

  Toxic masculinity ruins the party again.

  –Karen Kilgariff

  My Favorite Murder episode 44

  Brent

  Within minutes we’re driving back to the apartment and I’m mentally berating myself.

  Why did I snap at her for the hanky-panky comment? Granted, there’s been zero hanky-panky in my recent past, so I’m a little touchy about the issue, but I normally don’t let those things get to me. Having a potentially lethal heart condition is a lot more serious than sex.

  What is it about her that gets under my skin?

  And why did I invite her to stay with me? What was I thinking?

  I was thinking Marc told me to check on her. She’s an obligation.

  Then again, maybe it’s because she’s a distraction. A very attractive one. Even with her funky pajamas and makeup-free face, she glows with vitality and moves with an innate sensuality that draws me like a fish to a lure.

  These thoughts aren’t helping.

  It’s just one night. She’ll be gone in the morning.

  “What kind of car is this?” She’s stroking the armrest and eyeballing the interior like she wants to make out with it.

  I yank my gaze back to the ro
ad because her roaming hands are giving me dirty thoughts. Thoughts that will lead nowhere. Maybe since I can’t actually have sex, I’m becoming overly focused on it.

  Also still feeling a little emasculated about our last conversation.

  She was just teasing me. It shouldn’t bother me. It wouldn’t bother me if I weren’t dealing with manhood issues already. And probably even less if I hadn’t just spent the night with my father.

  “It’s a Porsche Panamera.”

  “It’s so pretty. Can I drive it?”

  “The only other person who’s driven Carla is Marc.”

  “Carla? You call your car Carla?”

  “Shhh, she’ll hear you.” I pat the dash.

  “Yeah and she’s gonna be pissed you gave her such a lame-ass name.”

  “What would you call her?”

  “Pepe le Hot Stuff,” she says without hesitation.

  I laugh and a bit of the tension in my body releases at her words. Anyone who wants to call my car Pepe le Hot Stuff cannot be taken completely seriously.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the building in Greenwich Village because of the late hour. I hand my keys off to the parking attendant and then wave to the doorman as we pass through the lobby. Bethany keeps pace behind me at an angle, her body turned and hunched behind mine. She’s clearly trying to hide but only succeeding in drawing more attention to herself.

  “What are you doing?”

  We reach the elevator and she shuffles to keep herself from view of the front desk. “They’ll see me.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not. But aren’t you some kind of celebrity? You don’t want the paparazzi catching you with some nobody who can’t even put on real clothes.” She tugs on the hip of her sleep pants.

  The elevator opens and we step inside. I press the key for the tenth floor. “I don’t really care what the gossip rags say. I’ve been through worse.”

  She scoffs as we move up. “Everyone says that, but it’s a lie. I’m sure there’s something you wouldn’t want everyone knowing.”

  I almost choke on my own tongue.

  Once we’re in the apartment, I toss my keycard on the table in the spacious entryway and hold the door open for her.

  She walks past me, kicking her shoes off onto the tiled floor and leaving them by the door like she’s been here a hundred times. Which, I guess, she has.

  “I guess I don’t have to show you around.” My gaze runs over the open floor plan, the white walls with original prints from expensive artists, the luxury furniture. Is this all an elaborate ruse for her to stay here instead of her shitty apartment in Morningside Heights? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has taken advantage of my wealth.

  Maybe not. I did invite her here, after all. She would still be at the office if I hadn’t happened to stop by.

  She turns to face me, wringing her hands. “This is weird, isn’t it?” She bites her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry. I’ve basically taken over and ruined your night. It’s late. I’ll just use the facilities and get out of the way.”

  “It’s fine, really. I’m glad I’m able to help. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  She nods and disappears with her bag down the hall.

  All my thoughts about her being a gold digger fly away. Her distress at taking advantage was too genuine. If she really wanted something from me, she’d be a lot more brazen and a lot less eager to flee.

  I change into sleep pants in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I breathe in the faint scent of Bethany that still lingers on the sheets. Wildflowers and mint. The fact I slept better the other night than I have in months has to be a fluke. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s because I was back in my own bed after being away for so long. That has to be it.

  Curious about how my houseguest is faring, I find her in the guest bathroom, digging through drawers, toothbrush in hand.

  “Can I help you find something?” I ask from the doorway.

  “Oh, hey.” Her eyes flick over me and then immediately fly to my face. “I was just looking for toothpaste.” Her cheeks flush pink.

  I’m not wearing a shirt.

  May have been an intentional choice. And it was worth it. She’s totally checking me out.

  My chest puffs slightly.

  It’s been a while since I’ve felt attractive enough to enjoy attention. My job is basically to work out every day and be in tip-top shape but . . . after Bella dumped me and then Gwen rejected me for Marc, my ego has been bruised.

  I catch her checking me out again when I hand her the toothpaste tube, forcibly swallowing the grin threatening at my lips.

  Her cheeks are still tinted pink. She uses the tube, hands it back without meeting my eyes and then starts brushing with vigor.

  Bethany is different from most of the women I’ve known. Not only is she a terrible liar, everything she thinks is immediately reflected on her face. It’s kind of fascinating. She clearly likes what she sees and yet she’s trying to hide it. Why? Because she thinks I’m some kind of man-slut?

  She spits, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “How are you tan in March?”

  “I did some traveling after the season ended.” I shrug and lean against the doorframe. “Needed to get away for a bit.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Turks and Caicos.”

  “Oh, right. Turks and Caicos.”

  She doesn’t exactly roll her eyes and say poor little rich boy, but I swear it’s what she’s thinking when she turns her face and keeps brushing.

  When she’s done, I hand her a small towel so she can wipe her mouth. “So when did all this stuff with the apartment start? You said a few weeks ago, but you moved in a couple months ago, right?”

  “Yeah, I moved in after Christmas. Things didn’t start getting weird until last month.”

  “Was there anything else happening to explain the noises? Construction? Change in ownership? New neighbors?”

  “No. But I don’t really know my neighbors anyway, except Steven and Martha, so I wouldn’t know if any were new or old or whatever. And I’ve asked Steven if he ever hears anything. He’s a heavy sleeper and Martha has hearing aids, so they were no help. ”

  “Hm.” I speak before thinking. “What time do you get home tomorrow night?”

  “Probably around seven. Depending on how long Mr. Crawford wants to torture me. Why?”

  “How about I pick up dinner and meet you there at seven thirty? I bet between the two of us, we can figure this thing out.”

  “Dinner?” She’s frowning.

  Why is she frowning?

  You should absolutely leave her alone. You are no good for anyone right now.

  But I want to help.

  And it’s more than generosity of spirit prompting my actions. The past few months have been a lonely stretch of bleak days, one after the other. Bethany is like a spark in the darkness. It’s the only explanation for why my tongue keeps misbehaving. “What, you don’t like food?”

  “I love food. It’s just that . . . dinner sounds really date-y to me.”

  A surprised chuckle escapes me. “This isn’t a date. I’m helping you.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Do you have anyone else?”

  She frowns. “Not really. But why do you care?”

  What a great question.

  Why do I care?

  I shrug. “Marc told me to look out for you. You need help. And I’m here. I promise it won’t be date-y. We can just be friends.” I give her my best, most charming smile, the kind that makes the fans cheer and the press snap photos like they’re at a royal wedding.

  She gasps. Her eyes widen and she covers them with her hands. “Oh, no. If we’re going to be friends, you can’t do that.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  Her fingers are still hiding her eyes. “Smile with your face! Those dimples are lethal. What’s ne
xt? Are you going to cuddle some puppies?”

  I laugh and tug her hands from her eyes. “Hey. I kind of have to use my face to smile, you know.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s kind of shitty of you.”

  Now I can’t stop smiling. I’m still holding one of the hands I pried away. “I could use a friend right now, to be honest.”

  I think I’ve laughed more since I met Bethany than I have in the last year.

  “You’re right.” She bites her bottom lip. “I could use a friend, too. I don’t know anyone here. The only parts of the city I’ve seen are on the subway route between Park Avenue and Morningside Heights.”

  I gasp in feigned shock. “You’ve been here for months and you haven’t seen the city?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “That needs to be rectified immediately. So, see, we would both benefit.”

  After a slight hesitation, she nods and sticks out her hand. “Friends.”

  We shake on it and I ignore the way her slim fingers slip over mine, warm and solid, a shot of lust going straight down my stomach . . . and settling like a clogged drain.

  “Friends.”

  ~*~

  When I walk past Marc’s room the next morning, it’s empty, the bed neatly made.

  The kitchen and living room are quiet, but there’s a clean cup left next to the coffee maker with a note.

  Dear friend,

  Thanks for the toothpaste and letting me ride in Pepe. You’re swell.

  B

  I make my coffee with a smile.

  Sleep wasn’t great last night. It’s not just being in my bed that made the difference.

  After I shower, there are a couple hours until I have to meet with my agent, Roger, and then get my tasks sorted for the day.

  I pick up my old football and pace the living room, half watching a sports network on TV.

  The leather is soft and worn beneath my fingers. I toss the ball in the air and catch it. I feel . . . better. Lighter. Maybe the meds are kicking in.

  I drink my coffee and prep a few meals for the week. I have to get back on my diet for the season. The irony of the action isn’t lost on me, but if I defer from my habits too much, I might crack. Technically, I’m not required to return to work until mid-July, but there are minicamps coming up and I agreed to help with training. It’s good for morale, getting to know the new players and reconnecting with the returning veterans. Nothing brings men together like sweating and bench pressing and tossing around the old pigskin.