Color Me Crazy (3 page)

“This is not a girl’s shirt. This is
my
Sex Pistols shirt.”

“Well, the cap sleeves look cute on you.” She smiled sweetly.

What the hell were cap sleeves? Unable to resist, he glanced at his shoulders. The sleeves did look a bit funny.

“Told you so, Juli,” Addie said, with the singsong smugness she’d used throughout their childhood.
Perfect timing with the fucking nickname.
Because cap sleeves were not quite emasculating enough.

“Juli. Good grief, that’s it,” Cleo said. “Sorry. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember your name. I just knew it was something effeminate.”

“It’s Julian Wheaton, and there’s nothing effeminate about me,” he growled, standing taller and trying to look…well…as manly as possible in a girl’s shirt.

The redhead glanced at his sleeves and cleared her throat. The corner of Addie’s mouth curled up, causing a dimple to appear out of nowhere.

This situation was annoying as hell and hadn’t gone at all according to his plan, which had been to whip off his sunglasses and cook Lava Locks with a smoldering stare, even though nobody wearing a stained T-shirt and some sort of horrible men’s trunks deserved one. In no part of his plan was he supposed to be wearing women’s clothing while suffering the scrutiny of an unimpressed, pint-size bundle of bravado.

He lifted his eyes toward hers and did what he did best: a perfected sexy glance, followed by a boyish gaze through the lashes. Her full bottom lip jutted out in annoyance, which pleased him immensely. He looked lower, in order to make the obligatory pause at the breasts. Okay, more than a pause. White T-shirt. No bra. Very nice.

He was gratified by a furious blush.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I, um, probably owe you an apology for this or that, you know,” she said, glancing in the general direction of his right nipple. “I mean, nothing actually
ripped out
, did it?”

She looked pale, and her eyes had turned into green saucers.

“Nice place,” he said, ignoring her inquiry. It was, in fact, a horrid little flat.

“I hate it,” Cleo mumbled.

“Well, maybe after you’ve been here awhile you can doll it up,” he suggested.

“Can we continue this pleasant exchange over lunch?” Addie asked. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m not,” Cleo said, plopping down on a chair. “And I have tons of laundry to do today. He doesn’t want to hear the continuing saga of my pathetic life, anyway.”

She was right. He didn’t. “Okay, let’s go, then,” he said, turning toward the door. “Come on, Addie.”

Was it his imagination, or did the green-eyed monster look disappointed? He headed for the door with a smile.

“Wait,” she called. “How about the Cove?”

He stopped and turned. The Cove held the unusual distinction of serving as both a restaurant and a Laundromat. In fact, it also had a car wash. The red eyebrows were back up, inviting and hopeful.

“Well,” he said, looking pointedly at her breasts as she stood there wearing her own dirty laundry, “since Addie’s hungry, and you’re obviously out of bras, the Cove is a perfect suggestion.”

He was rewarded by another flaming blush.

Chapter Two

Julian struggled down a flight of stairs, burdened by two huge garbage bags of dirty clothes. “I’ll toss the other two bags over the balcony,” the little laundrophobe called down, leaving a trail of tangerine bubbles in the air.

“There’s more?” How could one person collect that much laundry? Laundry wasn’t hard. Whites on Monday, colors on Wednesday, towels on Friday. Routines made the world go around.

“I hate doing laundry,” she said. A huge black bag fell from above his head and landed with a padded thud in the parking lot below. Shit. Did she have any clothes left at all? That explained the outfit she’d changed into. Sporting some sort of crocheted hippie halter dress—still no bra—and a pair of worn cowboy boots, the woman was wearing the dregs of her closet.

He paused on the steps as she caught up. He had to admit the ugly green dress clung snugly in all the right places. As he appreciated that fact, he lost his grip on one of the bags. Leaning over to get a better hold on it, he looked up to see Cleo’s purse headed straight for his face. He just had time to think,
oh, crap
, before the bag smacked right into his mouth and nose. Pain exploded across his face and spread throughout the rest of his head in a scarlet shock wave. He lost his balance—had he been hit by a purse or a ton of bricks?

He was spared the indignity of a complete backward somersault, instead suffering the cartoonish bouncing on his ass down five steps before landing with his head smashed into the iron railing. For good measure, the bag of laundry landed on his midsection, bursting open and ejecting its contents. Something lavender and silky floated down dreamily before landing on top of his head. Cleo scrambled down the stairs, throwing herself onto him with a look of complete horror.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I am?” he wheezed. The air had been knocked out of him. He reached behind his head, expecting to feel something warm and sticky, but his hair was completely dry.

“No, your nose.”

“Ah. Your twenty-ton butt-ugly purse. What the bloody hell do you have in that thing?”

“Rolls of quarters.” Her nose wrinkled as if he were a bit of distasteful road kill. “Dang, I don’t do blood very well. I need to sit down.”

She plopped on her ass and began fanning herself with her hands.

“I’m all right, thanks,” Julian said. “Mild to moderate concussion and a broken face is all.”

Shit. She looked pale and shaky. He sat up, dropping items of clothing here and there on the landing.

“Do this,” he said, gingerly pushing on the back of her head to get it between her knees. He grabbed an article of lingerie and held it to his bloody nose.

Another black bag emerged from above. Addie peered over the top and spotted the catastrophe on the landing.

“Oh my God,” she cried, dropping the bag and bounding down the stairs. “Cleo, are you okay?”

“Don’t mind me,” Julian said. “I’m just bleeding.”

“Still?” Cleo’s voice sounded muffled, having forced its way through her arms, which were snugly wrapped around her knees.

“Whatever happened?” Addie asked. “Did the two of you fall down the stairs?”

“Just the one of us. She pushed me, actually.”

“I did not,” Cleo said. She lifted her head and eyed him through the wild mess of auburn chaos. “Not intentionally, anyway. And are you seriously sniffing my underwear?” She grimaced in revulsion.

“What?” He yanked the item away from his face. “No, I was just—”

“
Bleeding?
You were just bleeding on my underwear?”

That was exactly what he’d been doing. He hoisted himself up by the railing and offered a hand. “We’re not aborting this mission,” he insisted. He held what he now realized were a pair of pink panties with the tips of his fingers. “I’m still hungry, and your laundry is dirtier than ever.”

Cleo’s brows drew together as she accepted his hand. He yanked a little too hard, and she barreled right into his chest, setting him off balance. For a brief, horrible moment, he teetered on the edge of the step. Cleo gasped—her face a comical distortion of disbelief—and grabbed for him. Luckily, she missed, and Julian caught himself by the railing. When his heart rate returned to normal, he hoisted up the bag as if nothing had happened.

“Whew!” Cleo said. “That was close. You’re a bit accident-prone, aren’t you?”

Surely she wasn’t serious. Was she? Julian extended his hand toward the stairs. “Ladies first.”

Addie patted his cheek. “What a gentleman.”

“Just afraid to turn my back,” he said. “Cleo seems determined to kill me.”

...

Cleo and Addie walked with Julian toward an ugly old brown car—one of those half-car, half-pickup contraptions. Even in a girl’s shirt, Julian was all man. The silly T-shirt showed off more of his arms than what he’d worn last night, and she loved every inch.
Stop being a sucker for tattoos. Tattoos start with
T
, just like trouble.
At least her repellent was working. The attraction didn’t seem to be a two-way street.

Julian casually tossed the bags into the hideous vehicle’s open bed. “We’ll take my car,” he said. “All the bags will fit in the back.”

She was confused. “Unless you rented that from Clunkers ’R’ Us, I assume it’s yours?”

“Clunker? Are you kidding me? This is a classic El Camino. It’s been refurbished to perfection, I’ll have you know. And yes, it’s mine. Why else would I be driving it?”

Someone was sensitive about his car. “How did you get it here?”

“I drove it. I’d have pushed it, but it’s just so hot, you see.”

“You’re not visiting from England?”

“Why would you think that? I have a loft downtown. Not too far from Addie’s place.” He hesitated, then realization dawned on his face. “I guess she hasn’t talked about me much.”

No, she hadn’t. Of course, Cleo didn’t talk about her brother, either. He was the family’s golden boy, and she’d grown up floundering in his overachieving shadow.

Julian opened the passenger side door. “I embarrass Addie,” he stage-whispered.

“You do not,” Addie said. “You just never came up. It’s not like I know how many siblings Cleo has.”

Cleo gulped down a guilty knot. “I have a brother, too,” she admitted. “He’s perfect in every way, an orthopedic surgeon in Portland.”
And I’m an unemployed thirty-year-old with a hangover.

“Well,” Julian said, “Addie’s brother is far from perfect, and he’s been nothing but trouble.” He held the passenger door open and extended a hand toward the leather bench seat.

“Stop being so pathetic,” Addie snapped.

“I wasn’t bragging about my brother when I said he was perfect,” Cleo said. “And I’m the sibling who’s been nothing but trouble in our family.”

Julian gave her a sympathetic nod. “Hurry up, hop in. Addie’s too gangly to sit in the middle. Hope you don’t mind straddling a stick.” He winked.

She climbed in, and Addie followed. Julian slammed the door, a little too hard.
Great
, Cleo thought, as she awkwardly attempted to get one leg over the long-handled shifter in a dress.
This is going to be fun.

Julian came around and slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s only second and fourth that’ll give you any trouble,” he said, with an intentional glance at the stick between her knees.

He turned the key and brought the old car roaring to life. “Oh, and reverse, of course. But I’ll do my best to remain a gentleman during the shifting.” The mischievous smile he produced was cute but not convincing.

With hardly a glance in the rearview mirror, he threw the car into reverse, and they shot out of the parking space. Cleo’s stomach flip-flopped, and she put a hand on her tummy to settle it.

“You okay?” Julian asked, raising an eyebrow.

A cleansing breath in through the mouth, out through the nose. She could do this. “Yeah. But do you think we could take it easy? I don’t like roller coasters even when I’m not hungover.”

Julian made a little sound in his throat that wasn’t quite a snort. Then he shifted smoothly into first, and Cleo’s stomach didn’t protest in the slightest. Another equally smooth shift into second landed the stick back between her legs—she stared straight ahead—and they pulled out onto the highway that ran in front of her apartment complex. Julian skipped third and went directly to fourth, forcing her to open her knees even farther—hard to ignore, so she pushed herself as far against the back of the seat as she could, and the car rumbled down the road.

Brake lights ahead. “Fucking hell,” Julian said. “Road works.”

Coming to a stop in the unending line of cars, trucks, and SUVs, Julian reached down and flipped on the old-fashioned radio, spinning the dial to find a station. Then they sat there, waiting for their turn to inch up. Even though Julian appeared practiced at driving a stick, they lurched along, with him riding the clutch, and Cleo’s stomach began to complain with rolling waves of nausea.

All the while, Julian’s leg rubbed against hers, his arm repeatedly bumped her breast, and the corner of his mouth curled up each time he shifted. He was either clumsy or her repellent was wearing off. She scooted over until she was thigh to thigh with Addie, but Julian immediately filled the space, radiating heat. He smelled good, like soap. She took in a deep breath through her nose—she was a sucker for a guy who smelled good—but her stomach still threatened mutiny. She’d broken out into a light sweat.

“Does this thing have air-conditioning?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Julian answered. He pushed a button and held his hand in front of a vent. “But not today. Sorry, love.”

“Are you feeling worse?” Addie asked.

Cleo shut her eyes and nodded. She was afraid to open her mouth and speak.

“Oh, dear. Julian, do you have some water in here?”

“Nope, no water. But there’s an empty bag beneath your feet if she’s going to toss.”

“She’s not going to do that.”

“Actually,” Cleo said, sinking lower into the seat in a wave of misery. “I might.”

“Shit, Addie, grab the fucking bag!” Julian shifted into second, inadvertently slamming his elbow into Cleo’s diaphragm.

Oomph.
Cleo crumpled over.

“Sorry,” Julian said. “Holy fuck, Addie, what are you doing?”

“I can’t find the bag,” she said. “But here, use this—”

Before Addie could thrust the dirty towel she’d located on the floorboard in front of Cleo’s face, Cleo threw up the morning’s cup of coffee all over Julian’s arm.

“Fuck,” he yelled. He took his hand off the gearshift as his foot slid off the clutch, stalling the car. Impatient honks came from the line behind them while Cleo did her best to finish emptying the contents of her stomach into the towel. When she was done, Addie dabbed at her face with the other side of it.

“Get my arm, would you, Addie? Jesus.”

Addie used the dry corner to wipe off Julian’s arm while he restarted the car. He edged across several lanes to take the nearest exit, and Cleo rested her head against his shoulder, not caring at all about the frustrated sigh he let out in response. Her head pounded and her stomach still gurgled, but mostly, she could barely look at Julian. She hadn’t exactly been trying to turn him on—quite the opposite—but throwing up on him was a bit extreme.