Trouble Next Door

by Stefanie London

  “Do you think I’m a robot or something?”

  “Well, it’s just that…” She tilted her head as if trying to figure out exact what she wanted to say. “You don’t seem awfully cut up about losing Sherri.”

  “I’ve entered into an agreement that goes against my personal way of doing business in order to get your help in winning her back. How does that show a lack of feeling?”

  “Oh boy.” She sucked in a breath. “I don’t even know where to start with that.”

  He thought about standing there and arguing with her that a lack of outward emotion didn’t necessarily represent a lack of inward emotion, but he wasn’t willing to get docked points before they’d even started. While he might not need praise, he didn’t want to fail her test, either.

  But what was it about women who refused to believe that he felt something simply because he wasn’t doing a Hallmark-style declaration?

  “How about we start with the date?” He looked at his watch. “We’re already behind schedule.”

  “You got somewhere else to be?” She cocked a brow.

  “No, but I don’t want to miss our reservation.”

  McKenna’s large blue eye sparkled. “In that case, let’s go. Lead the way.”

  Suddenly Beckett’s frustration was replaced by an entirely new sensation—a kind of churning, acidic anxiousness that wasn’t as unpleasant as it sounded. He reached for McKenna’s arm and she readily handed it over, a smile blooming on her lips that told him he’d scored a point.

  He glanced at McKenna’s outfit. Originally he’d planned for them to walk the ten minutes to the restaurant, since it wasn’t raining for once. But her legs were only covered in a set of sheer black stockings and she’d worn a pair of heels that looked more suited to skewering a steak than a romantic stroll.

  Or should that be, skewering a man’s heart?

  Let’s not forget this is nothing but a drill.

  So why didn’t his body’s automatic reactions seem to understand that? He had a sudden need to impress her. To wow her.

  You just want to past the test. Totally normal for an ambitious Type-A person. Totally 100 percent normal.

  Instead of exiting through the front entrance, Beckett steered her toward the elevator that would take them to the underground garage. As they walked, her nearness overwhelmed him. McKenna was just…so much. She smelled like dessert—sugar and peaches and vanilla ice cream—sweetly cloying in the best way possible. And the warmth from her shoulder brushing his arm made his cotton shirt feel as though it was about to burn up and disintegrate right off his body.

  “You look lovely,” he said as they stepped into the elevator. “I like the…fringy things on your eyes.”

  She beamed. “Thanks. They’re faux mink false lashes, actually. I bought them because I saw this girl on YouTube review them. They’re just as soft as the real mink but, you know, without the potential for animal cruelty. I was a vegetarian for a while but…”

  McKenna prattled cheerfully as they dropped down to the basement and walked to the spot where his Mercedes was housed. He’d never met anyone in his whole life who talked as much as she did, but he never felt pressure to talk back. In fact, she seemed quite happy to tell him all about her flirtations with being a vegetarian, then a pescetarian, and that she loved CAM-Ready cosmetics because they were cruelty-free.

  The upbeat tone of her voice soothed rather than irritated him. Perhaps it was because he could stay quiet without facing accusations of being disinterested.

  “So, where are you taking me?” She slid into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt across her middle.

  Beckett swallowed. A moment ago, when she’d been standing, her black leather skirt hadn’t seemed that short. But now, extra inches of her stocking-covered legs had been exposed to his hungry eyes. A chunky silver tab dangled over her thigh, the zipper itself extending all the way up to her waist. He wondered what it would be like to slide the tab up and watch her be exposed.

  He cleared his throat and focused his attention on steering them out to the street. “Tide Pool.”

  “Fancy.” She bobbed her head. “We probably could have walked.”

  “I thought you would be cold.” His gaze dropped to her legs again. “That’s a very short skirt.”

  McKenna bristled. “I’m not sure whether to be annoyed at your judging tone or happy that you were concerned about my comfort.”

  Beckett stopped himself from correcting her; he wasn’t being judgmental at all. But it was probably better that she thought that rather than know the truth—that the thoughts about what lay underneath her skirt had gotten him all tongue-tied and…horny.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He’d always hated those guys who thought with their dicks instead of their heads. Yet now, in her presence, he was at very real risk of losing his head…the important one.

  “I guess that’s up to you,” he said finally. “I can’t tell you what to think.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her studying him. “I can’t figure you out, Beckett Walsh. Are you so honest that you come across blunt, or are you just an asshole?” She sounded genuinely puzzled.

  Ouch. “I suppose if you’re asking that question then this date isn’t off to a very good start.”

  It wasn’t the first time someone had called him blunt. In business he didn’t mind it so much, but in his personal life he supposed it probably wasn’t the best way to be. There was such a fine line between bluntness and honesty that he wasn’t sure exactly where to step all the time.

  Like most things about dealing with people, it was not as black and white as he would have preferred.

  “I don’t try to be an asshole,” he added.

  She laughed. “How about I start taking notes once we arrive? That’ll give you a fresh start.”

  He palmed the steering wheel, pulling the car slowly into the valet entrance of the Crown Entertainment complex. Within minutes they were at the restaurant, which Sherri had talked about numerous times. It had required some schedule juggling in order to get a reservation. But if McKenna wanted to see what he could do—then he’d give her the best.

  A maître d’ led them through the dimly lit restaurant, which had a modern yet intimate atmosphere. It was certainly a lot fancier than the places he usually preferred to dine, which were more of the ma and pa home-style meal varieties. In fact, when McKenna had first suggested the date he’d thought about taking her to this little place out in Carlton where the family’s matriarch still ran the kitchen—with an iron fist, he’d heard—and they made the best Gorgonzola gnocchi. But it wasn’t “gold star” worthy—at least, Sherri hadn’t been too impressed the one time he’d taken her there.

  “Well, I certainly feel like a princess,” McKenna said as they took their seats. Their coats had been whisked away, and now her skin was playing peek-a-boo with a slinky top that had cut-outs at the shoulders.

  “You haven’t been here before?” he asked.

  “I have.” She nodded, sucking on her lower lip for a moment. “My parents eat out a lot because they both work such long hours, and my dad’s office is just up on Bourke Street.”

  “What do they do?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Dad’s a name partner in his law firm. Mum’s a GP and has a clinic with her business partner in East Melbourne.”

  In other words, McKenna came from money. For some reason, that surprised him. He supposed she might not be filthy rich, but certainly her family would be well off enough that she shouldn’t need to beg and bargain for work. More than that, McKenna struck him as incredibly humble. Not to say that all wealthy people weren’t humble…but it seemed to be a less common quality, in his experience.

  “Both my brothers are doctors, too.” She rolled her eyes. “Guess what that makes me?”

  “The creative one.”

  A grin crept across her face. “Good answer.”

  She flipped open her notebook and scribbled something down. The gol
d details on the pen flashed in the lighting as he tried to read her handwriting. But in the dimness, her flowery, looping cursive was hard to discern.

  “No peeking,” she said, looking up. “I’ll give you a rundown at the end of the night.”

  They flipped through the menu, and Beckett ordered a bottle of wine to be brought to the table. He tried not to think of his monetary issues as he ordered, rather looking at it as an investment in a solution. It was that mode of thinking that had gotten him to take a number of financial risks that had paid off during his career. Though somehow, as he watched McKenna study the menu with her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, he wondered if his wallet was really the thing most at risk.

  “What do your parents do?” she asked without looking up.

  “My mother is a supermarket cashier,” he replied, cringing a little at the white lie. But after hearing what her family did, he didn’t want to say his mother was willfully unemployed. “And my father passed away when I was a baby. He was an engineer.”

  Apparently that’s where Beckett got his too-quick, too-logical brain from, according to his mother. She didn’t always mean it as a compliment, but Beckett took it as one anyway. It made him feel like his father had left something behind for him.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” McKenna looked up, her brow crinkled. “That must have been tough on you and your sister.”

  “Well, he’s my father. Not hers.”

  Kayla’s father was a whole other kettle of fish—a paternal Houdini who always cared more for himself than he did for his daughter or the mother of his child. He’d drift in and out as he pleased, wreaking havoc on Kayla’s hopes for a happy family every damn time.

  Beckett’s hands clenched under the table. “And he’s not worth talking about.”

  “Duly noted.” She bobbed her head. “I won’t be nosy.”

  It wasn’t that he wanted to torpedo the conversation, but his family was a touchy subject at the moment. Especially with the added stress of his mother and her job situation…not to mention Kayla’s assessment about him enabling her weighing on him like a bag of bricks.

  Who was he kidding? His family was a touchy subject all the time. Beckett’s need for privacy seemed to bug a lot of people, but McKenna wasn’t giving him a hard time. Thankfully.

  “You still with me?” she asked, cocking her head. “You’ve got that glazed-over, cogs turning kind of look.”

  “I’m still here.”

  He wasn’t sure what else to say. But the soft-eyed look she gave him relieved any pressure in his chest. She wasn’t going to pry. Wasn’t going to poke and prod until it felt like he’d need to storm off to get the space he needed.

  “I was thinking we could get some oysters to start,” he said. “I know this is a test date, but I figured an aphrodisiac couldn’t hurt.”

  He flipped the cover closed on his menu and reached for his wine. For a guy who’d grown up loving tests, he felt way out of his depth.

  Chapter Seven

  An aphrodisiac couldn’t hurt?

  Lord. McKenna would bet her right shoe—which was a Jimmy Choo, and therefore something that would have to be pried out of her cold, dead hands—that an aphrodisiac would bloody well hurt right now.

  The last thing she needed was to be any more infatuated with this complicated, sexy man. The man who called her eyelashes “fringy things” and was concerned about her walking in the cold and who talked about his family like they were the most precious things in the world. All in the fewest words possible.

  Not to mention he’d worn a charcoal suit to dinner with an open-collared white shirt and had clearly done something to his wavy blond hair. Hot. As. Freaking. Hell.

  And the man wanted to make her eat something that was going to chemically charge her brain into thinking even more about sex? Risky. But what could she say? If she said no without explanation he might wonder why…might suspect that she had a thing for him, which would make it awkward. Or she could claim a shellfish allergy? Oysters came in shells…but were they classed as shellfish for allergy purposes? Also risky.

  And, if she claimed to be grossed out by what was essentially snot from the sea…well, that would make her look unworldly. At least, that’s what her father had said the one time she’d turned her nose up at them.

  “Oysters sound great,” she said. Did her voice sound a little squeakier than usual?

  Get it together, Prescott. Operation Self-Love is full steam ahead.

  At this rate, between Beckett and the oysters, Mr. Whopper was going to get lucky tonight. Operation Self-Love, indeed.

  The waiter arrived to take their order, and Beckett motioned for McKenna to go first. When the waiter asked her if she wanted the oysters au natural—their specialty—she agreed. Why not? If she was going to jump in with two feet, then she might as well jump off the highest cliff.

  Wait? That wasn’t a good thing, was it?

  “So…” She toyed with the fancy cutlery, grappling for something to help her focus. “Tell me more about Sherri.”

  Getting him talking about the girl of his dreams should stop her crazy abstinence-induced lust. Nothing like hearing about the woman who’d snagged a guy like Beckett to make her lady parts shut the hell up.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked. His expression was guarded, and his light eyes were like Fort Knox.

  “Anything.” She shrugged. “How did you meet?”

  “At a bar.” He reached for his wine.

  God. It was like pulling teeth. “Why were you at the bar?”

  “I was there after an investor dropped out of a project.” He let out a small, sharp laugh. “Drowning my sorrows.”

  “And in walked the girl of your dreams,” McKenna added.

  A little flurry of jealousy zipped up her throat—she remembered exactly what Sherri looked like. Blond. Polished. Classy. Not an errant sequin or speck of glitter to be found. Why did guys always want someone like that? Someone who was the opposite of McKenna?

  Beckett raised a brow. “I don’t know if she walked in at that exact moment.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean literally that second.”

  “I’m a literal guy.” A smile quirked on his lips as the oysters arrived at their table.

  “You don’t say.” She shook her head. “I think I’ve met instruction manuals who were less literal than you.”

  “And how did you meet them?” he teased. “In a bar?”

  “Very funny.” She picked up the tiny fork that accompanied their first course and pointed it at him. “You shouldn’t be mocking your date judge.”

  “You’re a judge now?” His eyes flicked over her in a way that was somehow both deeply assessing and pleasurable. “I thought you were here to help me.”

  “We’re here to help each other,” she corrected, eyeing the oysters like they were some kind of foreign species.

  Dammit. Why had she agreed to eat these slimy things?

  “Something wrong with the food?” Beckett asked.

  “They’re just kind of…ugly.” She cocked her head. “I’ve made zombies that were better looking than those things.”

  And of course, by zombies, she was referring to the special effects kind she’d mastered during her makeup certificate. Not the real kind. That would pose a whole new set of problems.

  Beckett chuckled, the sound warming her on in the inside like a good Scotch down the back of her throat. “Speaking of which,” he said, reaching for an oyster. “Kayla mentioned she’s free next week and would love to meet you. I think she’s going to email you her details tomorrow.”

  McKenna breathed a tiny sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

  Now all she had to do was wow Beckett’s sister. No biggie. Most brides wanted the same thing—for you to spend an hour doing their makeup so it looked like they were wearing nothing at all.

  She understood the reasoning, but it was so not her style. Give her rhinestone-studded false eyelashes any day of
the week. When McKenna eventually found the right man, she was going to wear the biggest false lashes anyone had ever seen. If she didn’t send a breeze through the church every time she blinked then they wouldn’t be big enough.

  “They’re not going to bite,” Beckett said, nodding to the oysters.

  Right. Snotty fish time. “I’m mentally preparing myself.” She reached for a shell and held it over the plate toward Beckett. “Cheers.”

  He clinked his oyster shell against hers with an amused smile. Then he reached for the little fork. Without trying to give away that she had absolutely no idea how to eat an oyster, she pretended to inspect it. That’s what people did with wine, right? See. Sniff. Swirl? Dammit, she should have paid more attention at those shitty upper-crust events her mother and father had dragged her to when she was younger.

  She picked up the little fork and watched as he used his to loosen the oyster from the shell. Right, so the little buggers were attached. Then he lifted the shell to his mouth and let the oyster slide in. He chewed a little and swallowed, the muscles in his throat working in a way that had her mouth running dry.

  How did he make this look so freaking sexy?

  When his eyes caught hers, making her feel shivery all over, she quickly brought the fork to her oyster. She gave the oyster a wiggle, but it didn’t seem to come loose. Beckett’s gaze was on her, she could feel the weight of it. Like all those times her parents’ rich, snobby friends had watched her fumble with which damn fork was the salad fork…as if salad was so important it needed its own special damn fork.

  Stupid freaking salad.

  She jabbed the oyster and let out a gasp as the fork glanced off the shell and landed in the soft squishy park of her other hand—the one holding the shell—between the thumb and forefinger. For a moment there was nothing, then pain snapped and red started to ooze out of her skin.

  “Oh my God.” Her breathing came in rapid gasps as she pulled the fork back. The cut didn’t look big at all, but a thin rivulet of blood ran down her palm. A pulsing sting echoed through her body, embarrassment mixing with the pain.