Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  “Hey.” I weave through a few desks to reach her. “I see you’ve gotten some recruits.”

  Bethany grins.

  “Hey, Charlie.” I meant to contact her myself, but Bethany obviously beat me to it. When she’s not working for my father in IT, Charlie helps maintain the website for the kids club. As a good friend of Marc’s, of course she’d be here to help out in a pinch.

  “Yeah, I needed someone to hack into June’s computer since no one can reach her for the password,” Bethany says. “Rosemarie has a list of people who’ve volunteered before and I recognized Charlie’s name.”

  “And, um,” I tilt my head in Angela’s direction, “where did you find these other volunteers?”

  Her smile is devilish. “Mr. Crawford was surprisingly forthcoming with certain people’s contact information when I told him I needed help for your charity game.”

  “Uh-huh, I bet he was.” My eyes narrow but before I can question her further on why she would be helping Dad with his schemes, Angela is standing next to me.

  “Hey, Brent,” she coos. She’s wearing a white polo shirt and cream pants with a sharp crease running down each leg. Her hair is pulled back into a harsh French twist, not a hair out of place. “Bethany, I finished with the mailers. Is there anything else I can help with?”

  “How are you with computers?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve got some experience.”

  “Great. Will you help Charlie? I have something to show Brent.”

  Angela nods as Bethany takes my arm and pulls me to the other side of the room.

  “What are you up to?” I ask.

  We sit down next to each other at one of the desks. Her laptop rests on one side and an organizer stuffed with colorful bits of paper sits next to it.

  “Me?” Her eyes are wide and innocent. Unlike Angela, Bethany’s hair is falling around her shoulders in furious waves. Strands fly around her face and down her neck, enticing the eye to follow. She’s wearing her normal, professional office attire, but there’s a coffee stain on her white sleeve.

  “Why is . . .” I glance over at Angela and Charlie. They’re focused on the computer and not paying attention to us. Still. I lower my voice. “Angela Sinclair here?”

  She shrugs. “I needed more bodies. She’s actually been really helpful. Look, Brent, I’m not in on your dad’s whole conspiracy. I didn’t even know you would be here, but I’m glad you came. Charlie hacked into June’s computer and it was worse than we thought. She barely has any sponsors lined up and now we have less than two weeks, but I had an idea.”

  “Shoot.”

  She bites her lip. The twinkle in her eyes makes her look like a devious pixie, the kind who lures unsuspecting men into the fairy world. “I was thinking about making a calendar featuring you and some guys from the team.”

  My brows lift. “Okay.”

  “Topless.”

  I laugh.

  “And holding puppies.”

  “Puppies?”

  “Or kittens. Maybe a bunny for April.”

  “Um. Isn’t that exactly what you didn’t want me to do?”

  “Exactly! Women—and men—will die to have topless pictures of sexy football men holding baby animals. I’m telling you.” Her eyes brighten with excitement. “We can tease it prior to the game and then sell the actual calendars at the event, exclusively. Plus, normally they have sponsor posters on the field and ads in the schedule, but this way we can put adverts in the calendar that people can look at all year long. It might entice some people to buy ad space.”

  I smile at her. “Of course I’m in. It’s a great idea. You need me to recruit some guys from the team?”

  She nods and gives me a relieved smile. “Thank you so much. I know you’ve been super busy and I hate to take up more of your time, but I swear it will be quick. I already have a photographer lined up and she can go to the players on their schedule so it won’t be an inconvenience.”

  “It’s no problem. You’re doing so much to help the kids club. I really appreciate it.”

  She eyes me carefully, her gaze running over my face. “Are you sure? You’ve been working a lot. You look tired.”

  I scratch the back of my head and squint at the floor. “It’s always exhausting when training starts.”

  Even though it hasn’t really ramped up yet. Normally, I would be fine. But the meds and the stress of my health issues . . .

  “Have you heard back from your architect friend yet? You didn’t answer my text.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ve been, ah, busy.”

  She’s totally hiding something. But why?

  She keeps talking. “He messaged me yesterday because he has to do some research. We scheduled a video chat for tomorrow.”

  “Awesome. So why are you avoiding me?”

  She laughs but the sound is forced and awkward.

  “You can’t lie to me.” I tap her on the hand.

  “I can’t lie to anyone.” She leans closer, infiltrating my space, so near I breathe in the scent of wildflowers. “B, please don’t press me on this. I’ve just . . . needed some space.”

  I lean back, struck dumb by her request. I’m not sure if I’m hurt or intrigued. Or both.

  “B” is the nickname we use in our notes to each other. The term of endearment we share eases the sting of her words a little. I wish she would tell me what’s going on with her, but I don’t have the right to press.

  “Okay. Show me what we’re doing here.”

  She gives me a relieved smile and then we spend the next couple of hours working on details, making phone calls, and setting up photo shoots.

  Then we call people who’ve sponsored the event in the past and get leads on more possible donors and people who might want to advertise in her calendar.

  We run into an issue with vendors for food. No way to have decent food catered at this point.

  “What about food trucks?” Bethany suggests.

  “That’s a good idea. My friend Scarlett is starting up a dessert truck. The extra publicity would be great.”

  She makes a note in her planner. “Do you have her number?”

  “I can get it.”

  She nods and drops her pen. “My brain is fried.”

  “Maybe we can get some food and head home.”

  “Sounds good.” She glances over to where Charlie and Angela are still working and then does a double take.

  I follow her gaze. Angela and Charlie are in the midst of a fairly intense, close conversation, completely unaware of everyone around them.

  Then Angela laughs and puts a hand on Charlie’s shoulder and the smile they share is . . . well, it’s . . .

  Are they—? Wait. No. Are they flirting?

  I whip my eyes back to Bethany and find her watching me. She’s smiling.

  “Someone’s hitting it off,” she murmurs.

  I glance back over at them. I swear they’re exchanging numbers, smiling and blushing at each other like high school kids.

  A grin spreads over my face.

  This might be the best news I’ve heard all week.

  Chapter Twelve

  It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out, it’s the pebble in your shoe.

  –Muhammad Ali

  Bethany

  “I did some digging around and got the plans for your building.”

  “That’s amazing.” My gaze slides to Brent.

  He came over after training, hair still wet, dressed simply in athletic shorts and a white T-shirt. One muscular arm is draped on the back of the couch while he leans back, as gorgeous as ever.

  The strain of his biceps against the cotton of his shirt draws my gaze. He’s so delicious. I want to bite him. But I manage to restrain myself.

  His face is a bit drawn, though. Is he still tired? We went to bed early last night. Maybe training is wiping him out.

  I focus on the video on my phone.

&n
bsp; “I’ll email you a copy,” Sam says. “I’m still not convinced it isn’t air in the pipes. Maybe your super lied because they didn’t want to deal with it, but anyway, I found something interesting. It appears there might be a dumbwaiter behind where your closet is.”

  “A dumb-a-whatta now?”

  “Dumbwaiter. They’re these old mini elevators for shifting objects up and down flights. Like food, laundry, that kind of stuff. They were pretty common in pre-war era apartments. But having space in your walls should be helping to block noises from outside, not creating additional sounds, unless there’s something living in there. Maybe some rats have gotten into the hollow spots. If I’m reading your floor plan right, it’s behind where the closet is now, and since you said that’s where the banging is coming from, I would start there.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me two. I also have an intern doing some research on the history of your building. Maybe these kinds of things have been reported before Gwen lived there. I’ll let you know if anything interesting comes up. So, speaking of owing me, uh, is Brent around, by chance?”

  I make a concerted effort not to glance over to where Brent’s sitting. “No, he’s got more important things to do than hang around with me. He’s very busy and important.”

  Sam frowns. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. You know, there’s no reason at all I would maybe want to meet only the best tight end of the last two seasons or anything.”

  “You like him that much, huh?”

  “Bethany.” The phone moves closer so he can give me his intense look but I just end up getting a close-up shot of his nostril. “He’s like the best thing that’s happened to football in at least a decade. He’s a six-four wall of man muscle. He has the best passing distance in the league and awesome hair. I would leave Gemma for him.”

  “Would you really?” I clear my throat. “You know, that’s really funny because he’s actually sitting right here.” I turn the phone to put Brent’s face in the screen.

  I can no longer see Sam’s expression clearly, which is unfortunate.

  It must be good because Brent grins and tries to smother a chuckle. “Hey man, thanks for all your help. I really appreciate the support, too. It’s always nice to meet a real fan.”

  There’s silence on the other end and I can’t help but crack up. I’m laughing so hard, I almost drop the phone.

  “Bethany!” Sam barks.

  “Yep?” I ask through giggles.

  “Turn. The phone. Around.”

  I adjust the phone to face me and immediately burst into laughter again.

  Sam’s gone white. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you did that to me,” he whispers.

  Brent bites his lips, trying to hold in his laughter.

  “You said you wanted to meet him.”

  “That’s it. I’m going full-throttle pranks on your ass. You’ll never be safe in this town again.”

  I laugh. “Bye, Sam, thanks for your help. I’ll get Brent to send you a jersey.”

  “If you make that happen, I might forgive you, but I doubt it. I hope your ass gets haunted for the rest of your life. Don’t ever ask me for help again, you horrible human. You will pay for your crimes against humanity.”

  I’m still laughing when he ends the call.

  Brent releases a crack of laughter. “That was great. Give me his address and I’ll send him one of our promo packages with a signed jersey and a few cards or something.”

  “That would be amazing. Although he’s still going to find a way to get back at me. Sam’s a real prankster.”

  “It’s worth it for the laugh alone. You have no idea how much I needed that.”

  “Let’s go see if we can find the dumb dumbwaiter.”

  We head to the hallway together and open up the closet door. I yank on the cord to illuminate the small space. We pull out the clothes hanging up and toss them onto the dresser out in the hallway.

  Brent steps in first, his bulky frame taking up a significant portion of the space. He raps on the walls with a knuckle, both of us listening for an echo.

  It isn’t until he reaches the very back of the closet that I hear it—a hollow knock.

  “I bet this is it,” he says.

  “It’s all drywall. There’s no way to get back there without breaking through the wall.” I glance around, looking into the corners. “Maybe there’s a latch like one of those old movies.” I slip further into the closet, bringing me right next to Brent.

  He inhales sharply when my hip grazes his.

  Swallowing, I attempt to focus on the task at hand, but I am supremely aware of him. I mean, he’s huge. And the closet is teeny tiny. His cologne tickles my nose, his masculine scent threading into my head and wrapping its tendrils around my suddenly heated insides. I inhale slowly.

  “It is here?” I ask, resting a hand next to his.

  His breathing hitches when our fingers brush.

  I glance up to meet his eyes and find him watching me.

  His vivid blue eyes are heated and focused on my lips.

  My own breathing falters. He’s taking up my vision, sucking the air out of the small space. It feels like he’s everywhere, making it all too easy to imagine him all around me because, well, he is. What would it be like to have him over me? Under me? All that strength and power. The thought makes my stomach heat and thighs clench.

  And then his phone chirps in his pocket.

  His eyes shut and he swallows hard. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he mutters. In one smooth movement he steps away.

  “Hello? Yeah, that’s me. . .”

  That’s all I catch of his conversation because the front door opens and shuts gently.

  I frown. He had to leave the apartment entirely? I shake my head. It’s none of my business.

  The tiny closet feels like a huge empty space. I continue feeling around for a crack in the plaster, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the strange moment with Brent.

  “Hey.”

  I jump at the sound of his voice behind me.

  “I’ve got to take off. I’ll see you later, back at the apartment?”

  “Yeah, of course. I’m going to talk to the super about the dumbwaiters. Maybe they can figure out where it leads. If there’s an access point somewhere or something.”

  “Right. Let me know.”

  With a small wave and an even smaller smile, he’s gone.

  Weird.

  It’s probably because I was practically all over him in the closet and we’re just friends and he’s completely revolted by me.

  Although I can’t help but wonder . . . what was that call about?

  ~*~

  Two hours later I’m dealing with my own annoying phone calls.

  Mom.

  She’s called me about ten times, rapid-fire.

  This is what she does when she’s been drinking. Worse than a telemarketer. And it’s always about something inane, like she needs the number for the movie theater or have I been to the dentist this year.

  I can’t deal with her right now. A twinge of guilt flickers through me, but if it were a real emergency, she would leave a message.

  I didn’t answer my phone because I was on the other line with the super. He knows nothing about dumbwaiters but promises to look into it and let me know.

  I’m not holding my breath.

  Brent is MIA the entire rest of the day and I use the time to call Freya. She’s always good for a distraction.

  “Hey, sexy girlfriend!” she yells as she answers the phone.

  I laugh. “I’m not feeling terribly sexy at the moment.”

  “Oh, no. Did you get mugged in Central Park? Did someone on the subway get handsy? Did you scream that Chicago pizza is better in a crowded room and get shanked by a local?”

  I laugh. “No
t quite. Didn’t Ted tell you?”

  “Tell me what? That you’re not banging the tight end for the New York Sharks? Nope. He totally didn’t tell me that.”

  I huff. “Banging isn’t happening.”

  “Ah ha, that’s why you don’t feel sexy. Doesn’t he know about your magical vag?”

  “Clearly not. Maybe you should tell him.”

  She laughs. “Maybe Gwen already has. Remember when she came over and we were harassing you about being a super slut?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Maybe we should have told her it’s a term of endearment and doesn’t necessarily mean you have multiple STDs and a blown-out vagina.”

  “Dude. You should not speak those words again, ever.”

  “So seriously though, tell me everything.”

  I explain all that’s happened since the last time we talked, about how Brent has been helping me figure out the apartment stuff and what Sam told me.

  “Your life is so much more exciting than mine.”

  “I doubt that. How’s Dean?”

  “Dreamy as usual.”

  There’s a knock at the door. “Hold on,” I tell Freya.

  It’s Natalie.

  “It’s my neighbor’s girlfriend. I’ll call you back.”

  We hang up and I open the door.

  “Hey, Natalie.”

  She’s wearing a pale blouse embroidered with brightly colored robins. Where do they find these bird clothes?

  “Martha made you a casserole,” she says by way of greeting.

  “That’s . . . so nice.”

  Natalie laughs. “It’s okay, I made sure she didn’t do anything crazy. Her dementia is pretty bad, so I’ve been helping Steven watch her before we eat her cooking.”

  I take the dish from her. “Thank you.”

  “It’s tater tot casserole.”

  “I love tater tots.” Did I tell Steven about my love for the tots before? I can’t remember half the things that spew out of my mouth. “Did you want to come in?” I step back to invite her, but she shakes her head.

  “Thanks, but I better get back. Steven’s at work and I offered to hang out with Martha until he gets off.”