by J. Kenner
"You didn't screw up," she says loyally. "The rat bastard screwed you up. Huge difference."
The rat bastard, of course, is Noah. And starting Monday, I'm going to be working side by side with him.
"What?" Ares is peering at me, his brow furrowed in question.
I shake it off. "Nothing," I lie. But the truth is that the enormity of that fact just hit me. Side by side with Noah.
My insides do a tumble, and I swallow back a nervous laugh. Maybe Celia is right. Maybe I need to turn down the job and get my ass to LA.
Except I can't. I really do need the money. And I really don't want to leave Maia in charge until I'm sure she can handle it.
And, if I'm being really and truly honest, I don't want to leave Austin--or Stark Applied Technology. Not now.
Because maybe I secretly kinda, sorta want to be around him.
And that's true even if leaving would be better for my heart.
In California, Celia releases a long, loud sigh of resignation. "Okay, fine. But when Holt goes gaga over our stuff and wants to meet us in person, you're flying your ass out here."
"Damn right, I am."
"Okay, then. I'm going to go get some breakfast. Have a good weekend," she adds. "But not too good. You owe me new lyrics. We had a pact."
"I know, I know. Go. Let me work."
We'd agreed to get one new song ready every two months. Faster if we could. And I haven't sent her fresh lyrics in over three weeks. What can I say? Prepping for the Stark proposal ate up almost all of my spare time. And now that I have the job, the work is going to devour the rest of it.
I push back from the table. "She's right. I need to park myself in my room and finish up Starfall. What are you up to today?"
"Me and the guys are doing a whole slew of videos that Tanya can post during the tour." Tanya is the drummer's wife, and Seven Percent's social media manager.
Ares stands and starts to clear the table. "Before you disappear into your cave, tell me what's up."
"Up?"
"When Celia mentioned the rat bastard--you flinched."
"I did not." Shit. I probably did. "You're imaging things."
"I don't think so." He scrapes the pancakes into the trash, then drops the dishes into the sink with a clatter.
"It's just that we're going to be working together." That's true, of course, but it's not the whole truth. And I'm not ready to share how much Noah is messing with my head and my heart.
He studies me for a moment, and it's clear he doesn't believe me. But he holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine. You don't want to tell me, I'm not going to pry."
"There's nothing to tell," I say, as the doorbell rings. "Oh, hell. That's probably Mr. Fowler."
My neighbor is the epitome of a crotchety old man, and his biggest pleasure in life is calling me out when I forget to roll my trashcan to the backyard after trash day. Apparently, my oversight not only destroys the beauty and serenity of the neighborhood, but sucks the pleasure from life itself.
"Then he's more off his rocker than usual," Ares says. "I pulled it back on my way in last night."
"You did?" I pause at the door and turn back to him with a smile. "Thanks."
I'm already tugging the door open when I turn back, only to find Noah Carter standing once more on my doorstep.
"Noah!" His name slips from my lips, and I stand frozen like an idiot, my hand still on the knob.
He's dressed casually. Jeans with canvas loafers, paired with an open gray button down over a pale blue T-shirt. He's clean-shaven, and though I imagine he started the day with his hair combed, now it's ruffled. From his fingers, I'm sure, but it suggests a day at sea. And, frankly, it's undeniably sexy.
I give myself a quick mental kick in the ass, because that is not the direction my thoughts need to be going.
He's wearing aviator-style glasses, which means I can't see his eyes. He's probably looking me over, and right then I wish I was wearing anything other than Disney PJs under a fluffy robe covered with embroidered pink ducks.
I frown up at him, hoping my stern glare makes up for my ridiculous outfit.
Probably not my smartest move, though, because the moment he tugs the sunglasses off, I melt a little, caught up in the green fire of his gaze. My heart skips a beat, and the corner of his mouth curves up, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
I take a step back and force myself to rally. "I didn't think I'd see you until Monday." I make the words harsh. Accusatory.
As they should be. After all, I thought I'd made it clear that ours would be a business-only relationship.
"I need your thoughts about something," he says. "It can't wait."
"Oh." I lick my lips. I'm a professional, so I'm hardly going to send him scurrying just because I'm not officially on the clock. Of course, I would have preferred an email. My porch is no place to debate communication methods.
"Go on," I say without moving. I've decided not to invite him in. Not unless the question requires discussion. "What is it?"
He peers at me, his serious expression softened only by the hint of a smile at the corner of his eyes. "When was the last time you played miniature golf?"
11
"Miniature golf?" I repeat, trying to make those words fit into some sort of context. It's no use. I've got nothing.
"When was the last time you played?" he presses. "A year? Two? Do you go every Saturday?"
"Um, college, probably." I push the door open all the way so that I can lean on it as I watch him. He's still on my porch, which doesn't seem to faze him at all. At the same time, Ares passes into view, moving from the breakfast nook toward the bedrooms.
He pauses in front of the door, his dark eyes like question marks. "Everything okay, there?"
"Fine," I say, glancing at Noah, who's looking at Ares, his eyes narrowed in a scowl.
I shift my attention back to Ares. He's wearing boxer shorts and a Keep Austin Weird T-shirt. He's ridiculously good-looking, with his midnight black hair and gray eyes.
I press my lips together, relishing the moment. Because unless I'm way off base, that's jealousy I see in Noah's eyes.
Not that I'm contemplating anything but work between Noah and me, but a girl's got her pride. And, after all, there was last night . . . even if I did walk quickly and firmly away.
Ares realizes it too, and he shifts his gaze from Noah's face to me, his brows rising in amusement. Go, I mouth, and he takes one final look at Noah, then complies with my silent demand.
Noah watches him go, then turns his attention back to me. "So, are you and he--"
I narrow my eyes as I gesture him inside. "Now you ask if I'm involved with someone?" I say as I close the door. "I showed up at your office with a different last name, and yet I don't recall any conversation about a significant other before . . ."
I trail off, because I can feel my cheeks heating, and I don't want him to notice. Instead, I turn my back to him and lead him toward the kitchen. "Coffee?" I ask.
"Before coffee?" he repeats, and I know he's teasing. "You're right. There was no discussion about significant others before coffee," he agrees. "Or before sex, for that matter."
"Sit," I say, pointing at the table, which Ares has wiped down. As houseguests go, I have to give my temporary roomie his props.
"You want honesty?" he asks.
"Always."
"I knew you were divorced. After your interview," he explains. "I looked you up."
"Oh." I think about that, trying to decide if it's creepy or flattering.
I go with the latter, but only because it was Noah doing the looking.
"You still haven't answered the question," he says.
"Yes, I did. College. I haven't played miniature golf since then."
"About him," Noah clarifies, pointing vaguely in the direction of the bedrooms. "The guy with the band."
"Ares," I say. "His name is Ares Sanchez."
"Tyree called you his girlfriend."
"He did?"
<
br /> "Is he?"
"That's not really your business," I say.
"Is he?" Noah repeats, his voice tight, almost as if the answer could hurt him.
For a moment I consider telling Noah that we're involved. It would be a lie, but it would make everything so much easier. I could say we'd had a fight and I was vulnerable, and that's why I slept with Noah. But that everything is back to normal now, and Ares is my guy and Noah is my boss.
It's a solid plan. It would put up a nice clean barrier between us, one that would erase any what ifs, and make it so much easier to focus on work. To sweep the past away so that we didn't have to deal with any lingering emotions at all. Because why bother settling old hurts or rekindling buried desire if there's no endgame?
Yet I can't make myself say the words. I want easy--I do. God knows my past with Noah was hard enough to last a lifetime. I should be jumping all over the chance to shut this down--whatever this is.
But I don't. I can't.
And I'm not sure if it's because I can't bring myself to drag Ares into a lie--or because I don't want to put up those barriers.
"We're not dating," I say, then turn away from him as I pour myself a cup of coffee. "You never answered my question either. Do you want coffee?"
"No, thanks. I had some at home. I'm cutting down."
I face him, cradling my cup instead of holding it by the handle. It's hot on my palms, and it gives me something to focus on other than how he looks so at home sitting at my table. Like we do this all the time, just spend a weekend morning in the kitchen talking. "Orange juice?" I offer.
He shakes his head but says nothing.
"We're not even roommates," I add, though why I need to clarify that, I have no idea. I'm probably just rambling to fill time. "He's just staying here because Seven Percent doesn't leave until Monday, and he's already leased out his place for the length of the tour."
"Oh." I see the tiniest hint of a smile touch his lips, as if he's fighting hard not to grin. "Well, I hope the tour goes well."
"It will. Their band is rock solid," I add, then bite back a little chuckle.
"What?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. If Ares were in the room, I'd be teasing him about how they need a female lead singer."
"And that's funny because . . ."
"He's asked me to tour with them. It would just be my way of giving him shit." I meet Noah's eyes, then quickly look away. I'd forgotten how easy it is to just talk to him, and I'm not entirely sure why the feeling that we're sliding back into a rhythm makes me nervous.
I point to the Keurig coffee maker behind me, deliberately shifting gears. "You sure you don't want some? I have decaf."
"Yeah, okay. Why not? So why aren't you?" he asks as I start a cup for him.
It takes me a second to realize he means the tour and not the coffee. "Well, for one thing, it would be hard to work for you if I was on a stage in Deep Ellum," I say, referencing a club-filled area in Dallas where I know Seven Percent is playing first.
"I'm not saying you should go--trust me, after interviewing everyone else, I'd be doubly sad if you decided to skip out."
"Doubly?" I ask, putting his coffee on the table and taking the seat across from him.
"I want you here," he says plainly. "And not just because of work."
"Oh." I take a sip of coffee. He's spoken pretty damn clearly, but I'm still not sure how to interpret that. But I'm also not going to ask.
"What I meant was that I'm surprised your business is marketing now. That's all. When we--I just mean that you were always focused on the music."
"Right." His words hurt more than they should, but they've brought back a flood of memories. Because Noah had always been my biggest champion, encouraging me and Celia to take Pink Chameleon as far as it could go.
And then he left, and I crumbled, taking the band with me.
"Kiki?"
I exhale through pursed lips, as if I'm doing some sort of meditative breathing exercises. "You don't know?" Then I shake my head. "No, why would you? I didn't try to follow your life either, after--shit." I push back from the table and stand, furiously blinking away the tears that now sting my eyes.
He's on his feet immediately, then at my side before I can fully prepare myself. "Kiki," he says, then presses his hand tentatively on my shoulder. Even that light a touch is too much for me, though, and I shrug it off. I step away, needing to keep my back to him as I gather myself.
"Do you want me to go?"
I suck in a lungful of air, then another. Finally, I turn around to face him, my wits restored. "No. I'm fine. It just hit me all wrong."
"I didn't mean--"
"I know you didn't."
Slowly, gently, he reaches out and touches my hair, and it's all I can do not to move closer. To let him pull me into his arms and hold me. I want that--but at the same time, I don't. I really don't.
"Please," I whisper. "No."
"I never stopped loving you," he says. "I know I hurt you--and, God, I wish I could take it back--but I never stopped loving you."
"Don't." I look at him through eyes damp with tears. "I don't want to relive the past. I survived it. I got through it. But I sure as hell don't want to go back to it."
I lick my lips and lift my chin so that I can see his eyes. "And even if what you say is true, the girl you never stopped loving isn't me. Just like the guy I once loved isn't you."
I see him flinch, but I don't slow down. "It's been years, Noah. A lot of years. Things change. People change. We've changed. Last night, we had our moment of closure--"
"Moment?" he says, and despite myself, I laugh. He could always do that--lighten a heavy moment so that it was that much easier to bear.
"Fine," I correct. "We had a few amazingly blissful hours of closure, but that's all it was. Shutting the door on the past. Because the truth is, we don't really know each other anymore."
"Do you think I don't realize that? I don't want to go back, Kiki. These last years have included some of the worst moments of my life. I have no interest in reliving any of that. What I want is to go forward. What I want is a second chance."
"I already told you I'm not sleeping with my boss." I say the words more firmly than I need to, as much a reminder to myself as to him.
"Then I guess it's a good thing that I'm suggesting we start fresh as friends." He flashes a quick, mischievous grin. "And I'm not even suggesting friends with benefits. Unless, of course, that appeals to you."
I try to scowl, but I can't help laughing. "Friends?"
He spreads his hands and grins. "I came here with nothing on my mind but miniature golf. Come on," he says. "Let's go. Or we could sit here and poke over our past in minute detail. Personally, if we're going to catch up, I'd rather do it while trying to knock a small ball into a tiny cup."
I press my fingers to my lips to hold back a snort of laughter. "Couldn't have said it better myself," I manage. I glance down at my less than attractive pajamas, and for the first time, I wonder about the state of my hair. And my face, for that matter. I fell asleep in my makeup last night, so I probably look like a raccoon after a bar fight.
Then again, I guess that says something for Noah. After all, he didn't back off in shock when I first opened the door.
"I'm going to go change," I say. "Help yourself to another coffee."
I head back to my bedroom, pausing to tap on Ares' door, then poke my head in when he grunts permission. "Hey, I'm going to go out with Noah."
"Are you?" His brows rise with interest. And, I think, amusement.
"It's not like that. We're going to be working together. It's smart. Get past any lingering awkwardness before we're stuck in close quarters working through marketing plans."
"Mmm-hmm."
I roll my eyes. "Just relaying the info in case you're looking for me later."
"Have fun," he says, with such a tease in his voice that I can't resist lifting my middle finger in response.
He laughs. "I think you're
aiming that suggestion at the wrong man."
Since I clearly can't win, I just shut the door and head to my room to change. But I'm smiling, and I know it's because of Noah and the day that's spread out in front of us.
I also know I have to be careful; this man has the power to hurt my heart. I know that. But knowledge doesn't control feelings, and even though part of me wishes I could deny it, the truth is that being around him makes me feel happy.
And all I can do is hope to hell that he doesn't hurt me again.
12
"I'm three under par," I say as I gently tap my ball with a putter and try to send it straight between the legs of a giant Tyrannosaurus Rex. "You were right. I'm seriously kicking your ass."
I smile sweetly at Noah, who hasn't managed to sink any ball within the prescribed number of strokes.
He leans on the end of his putter. "Hey, no ego here." He meets my eyes. "My talents lie in different areas."
Heat floods my cheeks, and I look away, ostensibly following the direction of my ball. "That's good," I say, lightly. "Because you won't be making a career of miniature golf."
Not that Austin's iconic Peter Pan Mini Golf center is typical miniature golf. With the statues of Peter himself, Tinkerbell, giant whales, and whatnot, its focus is more on whimsy than skill.
When Noah had first pulled into the parking lot on Barton Springs Road, he'd smiled proudly at me. "Every article I've read since I moved to Austin says this is a can't-miss place. Have you been?"
He'd so obviously done his homework that I hated to burst his bubble, but every Austinite knows about this place. And even though I was already twelve when our mother left Cam and me with Grams and hit the road, I still consider myself an Austinite. Mostly because I have no interest in remembering those early years in Waco at all.
"I had my thirteenth birthday party here," I'd told him. "And my friends and I came at least once a month in college."
"Damn," he says. "And I wanted to be different."
Now, as we're well into the course, I grin at him with genuine pleasure. "This was a really great idea," I say. "I've been spending so much time inside, I'd forgotten how nice a day out in the world can be."
"What's kept you trapped?" he asks as I retrieve my ball, and we move on to the next hole.
"Planning for your consult, for one. But mostly writing music. The girls and I are breathing life back into Pink Chameleon."