“Oh.” He blinked twice, with lashes so long and thick it’d take her four coats of mascara to replicate. “Oh! You’re Ivy’s friend. Mira, right? Great to finally meet you. Guess Ivy’s the one I should poke about hiding her gorgeous friends from me.”
Too little recognition, way too late. “So you’re able to remember my name, but not your promise to pick me up?”
When she made no move to take the towel, he dropped his outstretched hand. Looked down at the growing puddle on the floor. Scrunched his face into a pained grimace. “Shit. No wonder you’re drenched. Sorry about that. I planned to go get you. Ivy reminded me a dozen times. Here, let me help.” Sam squeezed the towel around the ends of her hair. His closeness made Mira super aware of the wide breadth of his shoulders. But an awesome set of pecs didn’t make up for how utterly alone she’d felt, standing on the curb of the second-busiest airport in the world.
No, his weak apology didn’t even approach the realm of good enough. Or maybe she was overly sensitive from exhaustion, and he was a handy place to vent the frustrations of her day. Either way, she needed to hear more. “But?” she prompted, wondering if he’d work up at least a shred of a decent excuse.
Sam put down the towel after a final pat at her neck. “But then my mom called. She was shopping downtown when the storm started. So of course I had to go get her. You know what? Let me set you up with a scone. You’ll feel better after you try one. Just ask Daph.” He ambled into the kitchen, as though the conversation had come to a logical conclusion. Clearly at home, he pulled a plate out of the cupboard and set it on the wide counter. Methodically, he began transferring the scones out of the box.
Mira rushed after him, hitching herself onto a stool on the other side of the counter. She couldn’t believe he was trying to justify his behavior. Pathetic that he used his mother as an excuse instead of just owning up to his mistake. Even if his well-muscled forearms, covered with a fine layer of dark hair, emitted an almost magnetic pull to her own fingers. The need to caress him from wrist to elbow, to fruitlessly attempt to wrap her hands around that thick masculinity, pulsed deep inside her. Instead, she fisted her hands on her hips. “So?”
“God, Sam,” Daphne exclaimed, “you’re thirty-one, not eleven. Don’t hide behind your mother’s apron strings.” She perched on the stool next to Mira’s.
“I’m not hiding. I’m responsible for her. There’s a difference.” The scone in his hand was reduced to crumbs as he curled his fingers tight. Interesting. Clearly she and Daphne had hit a nerve. “You know she’s not well. Her bone scan results only came back last week.” His voice deepened, head swinging side to side. A frown almost pulled his eyebrows into a single slash of dark worry across his forehead.
Guilt oozed through the cracks in Mira’s armor of righteous anger. How could she fault the guy for taking care of his sick mother? A bone scan sounded scary, like the poor woman could have leukemia or cancer. What were a couple of pieces of wet luggage compared to a fatal disease?
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Geez, cut the dramatics. Sam, she’s got mild osteoporosis, not a death sentence. I talk to your mom just about every day too, remember? The doctor actually urged Kathleen to get out and walk more.”
Maybe exhaustion slowed her synapses. Mira had worked a fourteen-hour day, stayed awake all night full of excitement and jitters, rushed through packing, then hopped a plane. Right now her thoughts were moving at about the same speed as a herd of jet-lagged snails. But she could swear Sam had left her to fend for herself at the busiest airport in America just because his mother should eat a few extra slices of cheese a day? Hysterical laughter tickled the back of her throat like champagne bubbles, but she fought it back. There simply had to be more to his story.
Sam set his jaw. “Sure, she should walk more, but only at a gym. A nice, smooth track. She’s worried about slipping in the rain, down stairs, on uneven pavement.”
Hopping off the stool, Daphne blew a raspberry. “She’s worried?” She rounded the counter to poke a finger dead center in his chest. “Or you are?”
Another long, slow sip of her drink only made Mira feel better for a moment. Heat from the rum coiled inside her chest. It gave her something to concentrate on besides the urge to keep arguing with the man in front of her. Well, that and the almost equally strong urge to trail her fingers over the tuft of dark hair peeking out from the collar of his white T-shirt. A chest hair sighting nowadays was rare and lust-inducing.
“I can’t let anything happen to her. I promised—” He broke off. Crumbled another scone to pieces. The vein at his temple bulged. Stress and guilt were written all over his face. His gorgeous, sexy face.
Mira got the feeling there was more to his concern about his mother. Maybe the doctor had delivered a worse diagnosis, and they were keeping it a secret? Maybe Sam was about to donate a kidney to her? Okay, that was probably an over-the-top idea brought on by exhaustion. But she wanted to dig deeper and find out. Something about the way he’d categorically stated he was responsible for her strummed a chord deep in her psyche. After all, no one in Mira’s family had ever taken a stand like that for her.
“Look, it was lunchtime.” Sam pushed Daphne’s accusatory finger away. “Pouring cats and dogs out there. I couldn’t leave her stranded, could I?”
Another raspberry blurted from Daphne’s lips. “Your mother is wonderfully self-sufficient. A trait you rarely let her exercise. I guarantee she would’ve made it home just fine, rain or no rain.”
“Funny, she said the same thing when I offered to get her. Tried to talk me out of it.” He leaned against the refrigerator, arms folded across his chest.
Wait a minute. His mom hadn’t snapped her fingers in the expectation her baby boy would come rescue her and thereby strand Mira? Even the view of his T-shirt pulled taut across his eye-popping pecs didn’t stall the runaway train of righteous pissiness barreling to the surface. Spurred on by the cold trail of water trickling from her scalp down to the small of her back. Mira stood, gripping her glass. “Do you mean to tell me that your mother didn’t call to ask for your help?”
The right corner of his mouth pulled down. “Of course not. She only called to tell me it was raining so I’d remember to run up and shut the windows in my apartment.”
Unbelievable. The man had all the sense of a drunken turtle. It frayed the very last nerve Mira had left. On the bright side, if she got all the irritation out of her system now, they could start fresh whenever they next met. Hopefully then she could just concentrate on his utterly tempting body. “Which means we’re back to my thesis statement. You’re thoughtless.”
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get you. Stranding you at O’Hare was a crappy thing to do. I get that. But I had a reason.” He smiled down at her with the patience of a venerable priest explaining the mysteries of the catechism to a child. “I worry about my mom all the time. Today, I worried about her slipping down the steps of the El and breaking a hip. If she’d gotten stuck walking in the rain? I can’t imagine how wet and miserable she would have been.”
“Well, in case this visual isn’t enough to clue you in,” Mira gestured at her still-sopping clothes, “let me help you wonder no more.” She gave in to impulse, surged forward, and dumped the icy, wet contents of her glass over his head. Then immediately gasped, shocked by her own over-the-top behavior. How could she rail at Sam for being rude when she acted so childishly? Did temporary, exhaustion-induced insanity account for being a full-on brat? Probably not.
For a second he stood still, blinking away the rivulets of sticky soda. But then Sam twitched. Knees bent, he slapped his hands against his back while his feet shuffled in a weird, contorted dance.
Mira guessed that a couple of the ice cubes must’ve slithered down his collar. She should apologize. But instead, she giggled. As he continued to claw at his back, feet jerking in a small circle between the fridge and the stove
, she rolled into a full-out guffaw. Watching his obvious discomfort went a long way to making up for her wreck of an afternoon. Mira looked over her shoulder to see that Daphne had both hands clamped over her mouth, but laughter still escaped.
“This is stupid,” Sam declared. He grabbed the back of his collar and pulled his shirt over his head. Six ice cubes landed at Mira’s feet. She gulped at seeing the toned expanse of his back. It was a smooth, tan canvas she longed to paint with the tips of her fingers. Impossibly broad shoulders tapered to a narrow vee at his waistband. And when he turned around, her mouth went dry. A mat of dark hair stretched across his chest, down over an honest-to-God six-pack, then disappeared into his shorts in a fine line. Sam’s half-naked body packed the sexual explosiveness of a Molotov cocktail, and Mira was ready to burst into flames.
Sam wiped his eyes with his shirt, then made a quick pass across his hair. “Are we even now? Or do I need to keep my guard up every time you’ve got a drink in your hand?”
Her mouth didn’t remember how to form words. As if all those sexy pecs weren’t enough to drive her crazy, she’d swear a faint scent of cinnamon and sugar surrounded him. The aroma pooled the moisture back in her mouth. She wanted nothing more than to lick a path through the fine pattern of chest hair across and see if he tasted as good as he smelled. Mira stopped herself about a second—and a single inch—away from sniffing him. She attributed her overreaction to exhaustion, and took a big step back. Then another. The farther away she got from his overwhelming manliness, the better her neurons seemed to function. When she turned away from Sam to put her empty glass in the sink, the power of speech miraculously returned.
“Are we even? Not by a long shot. But do you need to worry about me seeking further retribution?” Mira paused to give him a minute to wonder just how far she might go. She had the upper hand now, and wasn’t willing to relinquish it that quickly. Even though most of her anger had whooshed away with her laughter. “I guess time will tell.”
Metal screeched against the wood floors as Daphne pushed her stool back. “On that well-deservedly ominous note, I’m kicking you out, Sam. You’ve caused enough trouble here for one day. Thank your mother for the scones. I’ll take them over to Ivy’s new place tomorrow.” Putting a hand in the small of his back, she shoved him toward the front door.
“Quit the manhandling. You want to grope me, do it when we don’t have an audience.” He planted his feet and tugged his shirt back on.
“Fat chance, Lyons.” Daphne snickered. “The only things I want to squeeze around you are your amazing doughnuts. A good apple fritter’s a lot harder to find than a nice set of abs.”
“Don’t I at least get a beer for my trouble? I did rush those scones over the minute they came out of the oven.” A quick up and down once-over of Mira, then Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe get to know the new roomie?”
Was he oblivious? When someone poured a drink over your head, in what possible way did that indicate they were in the mood to chat? Apparently his brains and personality didn’t quite measure up to his off-the-charts-gorgeous body. It’d make it easier to ignore the low-grade lust she’d been infected with since the moment she laid eyes on the tall, dark and yummy Mr. Lyons. Because the longer she stared at him, and was tempted by him, the more Mira knew that both lust and love were complications she didn’t have time for in her new life.
Daphne shoved him once more. “You drove six blocks. It doesn’t qualify you for a medal of honor. Now scram.”
“Alright, I can take a hint.” He paused halfway out the door. “Welcome to Chicago, Mira. Sorry for the bad start, but I bet you’ll like it here.”
Daphne slammed the door behind him. “I’m sorry about that.”
“No, I’m sorry. I made a mess of your kitchen.” Mira grabbed an arm’s length of paper towels off the counter and wiped up the puddled remains of her drink. “Honestly, I don’t usually toss drinks on people. I keep my temper under a pretty tight lid.” Because she’d learned long ago that her volatile temper shouldn’t be let loose. Today being a perfect example of the bad things that could happen if she let her emotions have free rein. Mira lived by reason and practicality. Far safer to let her logical brain do the driving, and make her heart a mute, backseat passenger.
Daphne crouched next to her and picked up the half-melted ice cubes. “Sam’s a sweetie, but he sometimes gets this single-minded focus that shuts him off from everything else. Today you were its unintended victim.” She took the wet towels and tossed them into the sink. “You’re off to kind of a crappy start here, aren’t you?”
Yep. It’d be way too easy to look at today as a harbinger, turn tail and run right back home. But Mira didn’t take the easy way out. For the past ten years, she’d avoided the easy path offered to her and struck out in the opposite direction. Why stop now? She shook her head and forced a smile. “A long, hot shower should be all it takes to turn the day around.”
“Right this way.” Daphne grabbed two of Mira’s bags and led her down the hallway.
“Looking on the bright side, I lucked out in the roommate department, and this apartment is terrific.” Mira stepped into her new bedroom and grinned. Without being told, she knew it used to be Ivy’s room. It bore her über-girly stamp from curtains to carpet. Either that, or a Disney princess came to life and decorated it. The walls were covered with wide pink-and-white stripes. The curlicued white ironwork headboard barely showed from behind a mound of pink throw pillows. A pink dust ruffle peeked out beneath the white comforter. White curtains were tied back with floppy pink bows, and the throw rugs by the bed and in front of the dresser were cotton-candy pink as well.
“Are you sure this is okay? I mean, I think it looks like a package of bubble gum exploded in here. I know it probably isn’t what you’re used to...” Daphne trailed off.
“Used to? I just spent six weeks sharing a cabin in the woods with a dozen teenage girls who never stopped talking. Our camp is great, but it’s far from fancy. Having a room all to myself again—especially one without bunk beds—is sheer bliss.” The indulgence of absolute quiet once she turned out the light made her want to dive into bed right away.
“But you’re only a camp counselor in the summer. The rest of the time, well,” leaning in, Daphne switched to a loud whisper, “I heard you’re rich. Crazy rich. Mansions in three states rich. My place has to feel like you’re living in a matchbox in comparison.”
Mira cocked her head to the side. “Ivy told you I’m rich?”
“No. Well, not in so many words. I pieced it together from stories over the years. All your world traveling, the ski lodge in Aspen, the beach house in Key West, the house in Connecticut—”
“Let me stop you right there. Those all belong to my parents. As does all the money.” Mira dug into her purse and pulled out the crumpled dampness of her last camp paycheck. “See this? Aside from the eleven dollars currently in my wallet, this whopping $475 is all I’ve got to my name until Ivy puts me on her payroll. My last apartment was a tiny studio. I’ve got drive and determination, but I sure don’t have any money.”
“Oh. Wow.” Daphne crinkled her nose. “You’re really taking a chance opening this store with Ivy, aren’t you? If it fails, you’re screwed.”
Mira rubbed her temples at the spot where she knew her stress headache would manifest any second. It happened with disturbing regularity whenever she thought about the maybe-bold-maybe-stupid leap she’d just made by going into business with Ivy. “You have no idea.”
* * *
Sam pressed his ear to the back door of Lyons Bakery. He knew it was ridiculous for a grown man to try to sneak into his own damn apartment. But he just didn’t want to rehash the scene at Daphne’s place. Hell, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. This morning he’d visited his father’s grave. That always sucked. The grief of losing him was still raw after only two years. Talking to a headstone
didn’t get any easier, no matter how often he went.
The visits were always the same. He took a handful of sunflowers—the least girly flower he could think of—and trimmed the grass around the vase sunk into the earth. Squatted on his haunches to trace the words Beloved Father. Then launched into a monologue that never failed to leave him feeling slightly stupid. But his father hadn’t left any room for interpretation in his single deathbed request to his son. Kathleen Lyons was now, and forever, Sam’s responsibility. You couldn’t say no to a man’s dying wish. You couldn’t do anything but accept it and treat it as law. As the number one priority.
So he made biweekly visits to the cemetery, and delivered updates on his mom to a freaking headstone. They left him wrung out every time. From trying in some way, although fruitlessly, to make a connection with his father. And from the heavy weight that covered him from being responsible for his mom. Atlas had it easy, just carrying the world on his shoulders. Sam would trade jobs with him in an instant.
Hearing nothing, Sam eased the door open. Slid in sideways and ended up face-to-face with his mother. Crap.
In the middle of hanging her brown apron on the hook, Kathleen froze. “What happened to you, honey? You’re sopping wet. Didn’t it stop raining before you left?”
“Yeah.” This was the problem with living above the bakery. No damn privacy. If Sam wanted to bring two hookers in zebra-striped lingerie home for a nooner, he should be able to. Even though all Sam really wanted right now was to collapse in front of C-SPAN with a beer. Other guys relaxed over Xbox, or in front of mindless horror flicks. As a political news junkie, nothing made Sam happier than a couple of hours of talking heads going at each other. A man’s apartment was supposed to be his castle. Unless said man lived above the family business where his mom still held the reins.
A Fine Romance Page 2