Ian approached them, noting the smart-ass grins on their faces.
“Really?” the punk-ass leader asked, his expression dubious.
“Really.” Ian wrapped his arm around Millie’s waist, gathering her in close, and then stepped into the ringleader’s space, staring him down. “And if you call her Mousey Millie again, you better hope I’m not around to hear it.”
“Dude,” the leader said, hands in the air, “we were just joking. We didn’t mean any harm, did we, Millie?” He reached out to touch her like they were best buds, then thought better of it.
Ian looked down into Millie’s surprised face. “You ready to go, babe?”
She just nodded.
“Good.” He put his arm around her and headed in the direction of his bike.
“Dude must have a thing for the homely,” the leader muttered.
“Shut up, man,” one of the others ground out.
Ian turned, putting Millie behind him, and strode up to the now-quaking dumbasses. “You were saying?”
“Um, nothing, man,” one of the other idiots muttered.
Ian leaned in. “Beat it. I don’t want to see so much as your shadow when we get back. Understand?”
They nodded in unison.
“Now get!” They turned tail and ran.
“Punk ass kids.” Ian strode back to Millie, gathered her close. “They do that often?” He felt her nod against his chest, where the anger simmered. “Next time tell them to go fuck themselves.”
Millie laughed, and his heart swelled at the sound. “And where are you going after dark alone?”
Pushing back, she eyed him with a frown. “Drugstore. I have a headache and I’m out of aspirin. What are you doing here? And why did you tell those boys that we have a date?”
Why was he here? He didn’t know, but now that he was . . . “I live nearby and stopped for dinner at,” he looked around, “the diner over there,” he said, pointing across the street. “You eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Good. Have dinner with me?”
“I– Really?” Her frown turned to confusion, as color flooded her cheeks.
“Sure.”
“O-Okay.”
“See there, now you have a date.”
Millie slid into the booth across from Ian, still totally confused by not only his appearance outside her apartment building, but also his offer of dinner.
She’d never been on a date, if that’s what this was. Most likely it was Ian just being nice, or worse, feeling sorry for her.
The waitress, who always looked like she’d stepped out of an episode of Happy Days, brought menus over. She glanced up at Ian to see that he hadn’t picked up the menu, but rather surveyed the other diners. Millie didn’t need to read the menu either since she ordered takeout from the diner about once a week, but she was thankful to have a reason not to talk until she could get her nerves under control.
All too soon that excuse fled when the waitress returned to take their order.
Millie ordered her usual, the roast turkey and mashed potatoes.
“How’s the meatloaf?” Ian asked.
The waitress leaned over and muttered, “Nothing to write home about. If I were you I’d order the beef stew.”
“Fine. And just water to drink.”
“How long have those idiots been taunting you like that?” Ian asked as soon as the waitress left to put in their orders.
Millie didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s nothing. Can we just talk about something else?”
Ian lifted a brow but changed the subject. “Thought you had a headache?”
“I do.”
“Order a soda, that always helps me if I can’t get my hands on an aspirin.”
Millie nodded.
As Ian flagged down the waitress again, Millie took a moment to appreciate the virility that was Ian. He wore his usual leather jacket, but he’d unzipped it to reveal a black T-shirt. His hair was disheveled from his motorcycle helmet, and curled around his jacket collar. She wondered if it would feel silky to the touch. In sharp contrast, his face bore a couple days’ growth.
As he turned back to her he rubbed his hand across his chin, and the scraping sound sent chills skittering across her skin. His gray eyes gazed into hers, and she remembered each human eyeball weighs about an ounce.
“Millie?”
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because I asked you a question and you didn’t respond.” A half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh.” Heat slid up her neck and into her face. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“Have you lived in Williamsburg long?” His eyes held hers and she swallowed.
“About six years. I moved here from Forest Hills.”
“Forrest Hills?”
“My parents have a house.” The waitress returned with her soda, so she took a sip to relieve her parched throat.
“What do your parents do?”
“They’re literature professors at Barnard College.”
“That’s impressive.” His eyebrows winged up.
“I guess. What about your parents?”
Ian spun his glass of ice water on the table and for a minute she thought he wasn’t going to answer. “My mom died nine years ago, and my dad died when I was five.”
“I’m sorry.” Her heart ached for him.
“It is what it is,” he said, a sad smile ghosting across his features.
“How is your friend?”
He looked up with a start, then said, “She’s hanging in there. She’s home now.”
“That must be a relief. To both of you.”
The waitress slid two plates onto the table. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you. Like an antacid,” she said with a smirk before she left.
The corner of Ian’s mouth lifted in response to her remark, and Millie noticed the dimple in his cheek for the first time. She liked how it softened the hard lines of his face.
As he dug into his beef stew, Millie poked around her brain for something to say. “Did you finish Kant’s critiques?”
“Last week,” he said around a mouthful of food. “It was enlightening.”
“How so?”
As he shared his thoughts on Kant, Millie found herself relaxing and nodding along to his comments. If someone had told her she’d be sitting in a diner across from a tattooed construction worker discussing the finer points of Kant’s categorical imperative, she’d have scoffed at them. If they’d told her she’d be on a date with said tattooed construction worker she’d have questioned their sanity.
“Can I get you two anything else?” the waitress asked as she cleared the table. “We have some apple pie that isn’t half bad.”
Ian looked across at Millie, who shrugged. “Sure. A slice of pie and two forks.” He watched the waitress walk away and leaned over the table to whisper, “Waitress of the year, she’s not.”
Millie giggled. Not a high, sparkling sound, but a rich, mellifluous one. Sexy, like her voice, and it sent heat straight to his groin. He wondered if anyone had ever told her she’d make a great phone sex operator.
He’d felt like a creep stalking her tonight, but he was glad he did. Not only did he run off those jerks, he’d really enjoyed his impromptu dinner with her. Of course over the last few weeks he’d discovered her intelligence, but tonight he got a glimpse of the woman beneath all that brown.
A feeling of affection settled over him. He genuinely liked Millie Stephens. Enjoyed her company.
Maybe he should ask her if she’d like to see the public libraries exhibition on New York architecture he’d been itching to see.
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The pie arrived and he and Millie dove in. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was pretty good. He glanced up at Millie to see if she was enjoying it, and noticed a crumb at the corner of her mouth. Where he’d like to press his lips. Instead, he reached across the table with his napkin and brushed it off. The blush that crept into her cheeks made him ache. A blush of shame, not just embarrassment.
“Thank you.” She gazed down in her embarrassment.
“Millie, look at me.”
She lifted her gaze to his, a frown creasing her forehead.
Taking her hand in his, he rubbed his thumb across it. “Everyone does something from time-to-time that’s embarrassing. A little misstep, some spinach between their teeth. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, I once hit my thumb with a hammer in front of a bunch of seasoned carpenters. They never let me forget it, but I survived.”
Her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “But I always seem to make a fool of myself in front of you.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can return the favor sometime and nail my thumb with the hammer.”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to do that. But maybe you could trip or come to Darcy’s with your shirt on inside out sometime.”
He blinked. Her smile actually dazzled him, all the more because it was so rare. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“All right. I’ll pay the check, then see you home.”
Millie floated home. Even the frigid night air couldn’t dampen the warmth she felt after her dinner with Ian. Her first date. She nearly let out a girly squeal, but checked herself.
Ian walked next to her, close enough for her to feel his heat, but not touching her. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head. Because, truth was, she wasn’t.
They arrived at the door to her building and her stomach quivered. She wondered if he’d kiss her goodnight. Of course not, Silly Millie.
“I had a nice time,” he was saying as she gazed up at his mouth, wondering how it would taste.
“So did I.” Did he catch her staring?
“Don’t let those assholes bother you again.”
“I won’t.”
“Goodnight, Millie.”
“Goodnight, Ian. And thank you for dinner.” She tamped down her disappointment as she watched him saunter down the sidewalk to his motorcycle. The roar of the engine punctuated the night as she turned to let herself in. Sweet dreams, Ian. She hoped for the same.
The next morning, Ian listened to Chopin on his iPod as he sanded the window seat he’d built for the nursery. The bookshelves underneath would hold books from Curious George right up to Catcher in the Rye. Or Pride and Prejudice if Darcy had a girl.
Zoning out on the music, he thought about Millie. He hadn’t seen her today, and he wondered where she was. Probably running errands for Darcy.
All weekend he’d found himself thinking about her. Wondering what she was doing. Wondering if she ever got lonely.
He’d had a nice time with her the previous evening. In fact, he’d had more than a nice time. The evening had been a pleasant break from his worries over Ruby, the RFI, and the England job. Millie had made him forget all of that, if only for a short time.
And he’d enjoyed discussing Kant with her, before moving on to discussions of their favorite books. He’d learned they had many favorites in common. Like Pat Frank’s Alas Babylon and Dickens’ David Copperfield. But he’d also learned she had a soft spot for romance novels, which made sense, given her employment.
There was so much more to Millie than meets the eye, and he of all people should be ashamed for assuming otherwise.
He’d like to get to know her better. If nothing else, they could meet over coffee and discuss books. He stopped sanding. But if he were honest with himself, he would admit he was attracted to her. He felt a kinship to her. She wore her mantle of brown just like he wore his mantle of tough. It protected against the hurt. It cocooned them so that no one could get close. And if no one could get close, no one could hurt you.
Then there was the physical attraction. The overwhelming desire to kiss her goodnight. The zing he’d felt when he’d taken her hand last night. The way her voice turned his mind to baser thoughts. The feel of her body pressed close to him on the bike. And yet she covered it all in a sea of brown.
He wondered what in Millie’s life had so damaged her, and if there was any hope of getting behind the mantle of brown to the real woman beneath.
Millie jumped at the thud from above, followed by a muffled curse. A few seconds later she heard Ian’s booted feet clamoring down the stairs.
She stepped out of the kitchen to find him holding a towel around his hand, blood running down his wrist.
“Ian! What happened?”
“I sliced my hand on a piece of metal flashing. I’ve got a first-aid kit in my truck.”
“Here, we’ve got a first-aid kit in the cabinet.” Ian followed her into the kitchen. She reached up, opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator, and took down the small box. “Let me see it.”
Pulling his hand over the sink, she unwrapped the towel. Opening his palm, she saw a two-inch cut running from his pinky to his thumb. “It doesn’t appear to be deep. I don’t think it needs stitches.”
Turning on the tap, she held his palm under the running water. “Let it run for a minute.” She dug around in the box, took out a large Band-Aid, antibiotic ointment, some antiseptic, and a piece of gauze.
Gently patting his hand dry, she lifted the antiseptic. “This may sting a bit.” She doused the cut liberally.
Ian sucked in a breath. “Shit.”
“I’m sorry.” Lifting his hand to her mouth, she blew gently on the cut.
Chapter 13
Son-of-a-bitch. His gaze shot to Millie’s lips as her breath reached the palm of his hand. He expected the blood from the cut to simply dry up given all the blood in his body had headed to parts farther south.
He stood in Darcy’s kitchen, his hand bleeding like a stuck pig and stinging like a mother, and his thoughts had suddenly shifted to Millie’s mouth. And how he’d like to put that mouth to better use.
“Better?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re hand? Has the stinging eased?”
“Yeah.” But something else had flared. He stared into her warm brown eyes, darker with her pupils dilated, and had an overwhelming urge to kiss her.
“Good.” A blush tinged her cheeks as she turned her attention to the Band-Aid and the ointment. She slathered ointment on the cut, then carefully placed the bandage over it, the light touch of her delicate hands setting off a fantasy of what those hands would feel like dancing along his bare chest, sliding down to a part of him that desperately needed her attention. And he didn’t mean his hand.
Damn. “Millie?”
Her wide-eyed gaze lifted to his.
Thinking better about what he’d planned to say, he said instead, “Thank you.”
A soft smile touched her lips and she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re welcome.”
Then he got the hell out of Dodge.
That afternoon, a crazy idea insinuated itself into Millie’s brain and wouldn’t let go. An idea that would allow her to check off Number Two on her list, while helping Ian out, based on the idiom, I’ll scratch your back if you’ll scratch mine.
She could have sworn there was something between them in the kitchen earlier when she’d bandaged his cut. She’d sure felt it. And she thought he had too.
From everything she’d read, his dilated pupils and shallow breath indicated arousal. And then there was the slight bulge beneath his fly.
Question was whether she had the guts to actually make the offer, and to see it through. She took out
her ever-present Get a Life List and stared at it. Stepping over to her desk she picked up a pencil and added: ‘Be assertive.’ After considering it, she erased ‘assertive’ and changed it to ‘bold.’ Satisfied, she’d wait until the opportunity presented itself.
A couple of hours later, the opportunity presented itself, much sooner than she had expected. First, Laura came by to see Darcy, so the two of them were in the kitchen, occupied. Then Ian came downstairs, jacket in his good hand, looking as if he was heading out. Making the offer at the end of the day, she’d not only give him time to think about it, she could perhaps postpone the inevitable rejection.
Be bold. Then she added, Be positive.
Taking a deep calming breath, Millie closed her eyes, then set her jaw and called his name. “Ian? Can I talk to you?”
He entered the office, pulling on his jacket, his brow creased, no doubt in confusion over her request. “Sure.”
Antony and Cleopatra! What was she thinking? Her hand drifted to her stomach to calm the swarm of butterflies that had taken up residence there.
“Um, how’s your hand?”
He glanced down. “Fine. Thanks.”
She nodded. “Good,” she said then stood there like a mute.
“Well, I have to get going,” Ian said, zipping up his jacket.
“How is the RFI coming?”
Ian’s brow shot up. “How do you know about the RFI?”
“I, uh, overhead you and your friend talking about it the other day.”
“Jesus. Is there anything you don’t hear?”
She shrugged. “Occupational hazard when you work in someone else’s home.”
“Right. It’s done.” His answer didn’t sound convincing.
“Oh.” Mother of invention! Now what? “Well, if you’re selected for the RFP. I could help, if . . .” She ran out of breath. His eyes were on her face, and she couldn’t bear it. Closing her own, she took a deep breath, “I’d like to make you an offer. I’ll help you with the RFP . . . if you’ll have sex with me.”
Dreams of Her Own Page 10