Completely Smitten (32 page)

“Investigating the dog food bowl in the kitchen, last I checked,” Vari said.

“He’s a puppy. You might not want to leave him alone. They chew, you know.”

Vari grinned. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I had no idea you put such faith in the creatures around you.” She walked past him inside the house.

The foyer was light. A short table, covered with flowers, stood against the wall, a mirror behind it adding size to the room. A staircase curved up the right side of the foyer. A skylight above the landing illuminated the entire area.

The living room, off to the right, had a wall of windows not visible from the street. The place obviously had a lot of light—perfect for a gray Oregon winter.

The furniture was all low, built more to Vari’s specifications than hers. But that made sense. This was his house. What caught her eye, though, was that the furniture was all custom made, leather, and clearly expensive.

Apparently Blackstone paid Vari well.

Vari closed the door behind her. He led her through the hallway and into the kitchen. Munin was eating out of a large dish, his little puppy tail wagging ecstatically. A half empty bowl of water sat beside the dish. There were large puddles around the bowl.

The kitchen smelled of spaghetti sauce, and her stomach rumbled. A sense memory came to her—the spaghetti she’d had in the mountains. It was the best sauce she had ever tasted, and it smelled like this.

“How did you get here so fast?” she asked. “You even managed to put a meal on the stove.”

For a brief moment, he looked guilty. Then he shrugged. “Back roads. I know all the shortcuts.”

Portland was crisscrossed by rivers and limited by mountains. There weren’t many shortcuts in the city. The distances remained constant.

“Someday you’ll have to tell me what the shortcut is.”

He nodded, but she could see that he had no intention of telling her.

She glanced at the stove. Water boiled on top, and the sauce was bubbling in another pot.

“And you managed to put on lunch.”

“Freezers and microwaves,” he said. “Modern miracles.”

It was her turn to grin.

“It’ll be ready a few minutes after I put the pasta in. What would you like to drink?”

“Just some water.” She glanced at the floor. “I’ve been inspired by Munin.”

“He’s nothing if not enthusiastic.” Vari grabbed a glass from a nearby cupboard. He didn’t have to reach very high. Even the kitchen had been built to his specifications. The stove was lower than most, and the cupboards and counters were at his waist level. Only the refrigerator was normal-sized. It had ice and water in the door.

He filled the glass and handed it to her.

“I’ve never been in a house like this one. You had it custom-built?”

“Naw,” he said. “I got it from the leprechaun who did promotions for O’Hallerans. He was only here for the two weeks around St. Patrick’s Day, so he felt that he didn’t get enough use out of the place.”

She chuckled and sank into one of the kitchen chairs.

He shook his head. “Sorry. That just came out.”

“Small wonder,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Was that a slight?”

“The puns are flying thick around here,” she said, and hoped he wouldn’t be offended.

“Fortunately they’re short puns,” he said, and sat down beside her.

“Not to mention redundant.”

He leaned his head back and laughed. It was a hearty sound, one that seemed almost too big for him. The sound startled Munin, who scrambled under the table.

Vari reached down and patted the dog, comforting him.

“Most people hate it when I joke about these things,” he said. “They don’t know whether they should laugh or not.”

“You do,” she said, “so I figured I could.”

“Took me a long time to be able to laugh at myself.” He picked up Munin, who licked his face, and then wriggled to get down. “It’s not a skill I’m going to give up just because it’s no longer politically correct.”

“It’s no longer politically correct to laugh at yourself?”

“Short jokes, personal jokes, jokes about character,” he said. “Somewhere along the way they became as verboten as the truly ugly racist jokes that were popular fifty years ago.”

“You don’t think they’re the same.” She sipped the water. “After all, they’re about how a person looks.”

“Or thinks or acts.” He leaned back in his chair. “If we can’t laugh at ourselves, what’s the point of living?”

“I always think there’s a point in living,” she said.

He gave her a sideways glance. She got a sense that at one time, he might have questioned that.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” she asked.

“No more than some,” he said.

“But more than most.”

“You could say that.” He sighed, then bowed his head. “Look, Ariel, I’m not—”

Munin barked. The sound was small and deep, rather like a six-year-old boy with a bass voice and no way to project it.

Vari shook his head, clearly startled. “You’re starting in already, aren’t you, buddy?”

He was speaking to the dog, although Ariel wasn’t sure why. “What do you mean?”

“Pets protect you,” he said.

“What was he protecting you from?” she asked.

“Making an ass of myself.” He stood and walked to the refrigerator. He opened it and took out a package of fresh pasta, dumping it into the boiling water. “Lunch in two minutes.”

She frowned at Munin, wishing the dog hadn’t barked. Until that point, Munin had seemed very well behaved. Now he was licking the spilled water off the tiled floor, just like any dog would do.

Vari moved around his kitchen with the grace of a dancer. He got out a colander and put it in the sink, then grabbed dishes from a cupboard and set the table.

“You don’t have to worry about making an ass of yourself with me,” she said. “I’ve been ass-like enough for both of us.”

He paused and looked over at her. Those blue eyes of his made her breath catch. She could see all the way through them. And she had been wrong about beauty and personality. He had both. His beauty was just hidden, something that only a person who really looked for it would see.

“I never thought you were an ass,” he said. “Just a bit obsessed.”

“Stalkeresque behavior?” she said. “Not ass-like at all, huh?”

His cheeks colored. “I was trying to piss you off so you wouldn’t ask more questions about Darius.”

“I didn’t get mad,” she said. “Just embarrassed.”

Munin had stretched out on the tile, his head between his paws, his long ears flopped over them like rags. His eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy.

Vari stepped over him on his way to the stove. The puppy didn’t even wake up. Like all puppies, he slept suddenly and hard.

Vari stirred the sauce, then stirred the pasta, shutting off the burner. The muscles in his back rippled as he moved. Even his body, compact as it was, was beautiful.

She had just been trained not to look at men like him too closely. It was all over the culture. Never look at someone who is different—you might draw attention to them. You might embarrass them. You might become like them yourself.

He picked up the pot of boiling water and carried it around the dog, careful not to trip. Then he poured the contents into the colander.

Maybe the problems had always been hers. Her parents had died and her aunt had seen her as an obligation, so Ariel had remained distant from everyone else, afraid that they’d see her as one as well.

But she wasn’t anyone’s obligation. She was her own person. And she could remain like that even if she spent time with someone.

For the first time since the mountains, she had found someone she wanted to spend time with. And she wouldn’t mind touching him, either, to see what the look in his blue eyes would be as her hand caressed his skin, her fingers massaged those muscles in his back, moving down—

She shook herself out of that thought.

He turned and apparently saw the movement, because he smiled. “Penny for them,” he said. “Or has inflation hit that too?”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she took a deep breath. If sports had taught her anything, it was this: The only person who really failed was the person who never tried.

“Could I ask you a question?” she asked.

“How many?” he asked, still in a playful mood. Obviously, he hadn’t caught her shift. “Because that counts as one.”

“As many as it takes.”

This time, he must have caught the change in her tone because he frowned. His eyes shut down and all the beauty that had been in his face vanished.

“Ask,” he said.

She swallowed. Munin raised his head and watched her. Apparently he hadn’t been as deeply asleep as she thought.

“Does Quixotic frown on relationships between employees?”

His face shut down even more. “Why? Is there someone there who interests you?”

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded, then turned back toward the food. “When you ask about Quixotic, do you mean is there a company policy?”

“Yes,” she said.

“We’ve never needed one. We’re a small operation.” His words were clipped.

“But would it create problems?”

“With me or with Alex?”

“What’s happened in the past?” she asked.

“It’s never come up.” His words were curt.

“You’ve never had employees who’ve gotten involved with each other?”

“It’s not that kind of place.” His reaction was puzzling her. He had no idea what she was talking about. He obviously thought she was interested in someone else.

Munin was sitting up, looking at her with vast disappointment. She had no idea that a dog’s face could be so expressive.

“What kind of place is that?”

“A place where people get involved with other people.”

“Oh.” She spoke quietly. “You think it would disrupt things, then?”

“Probably.”

She nodded, glad to have his honest assessment before she told him how she felt. She didn’t want to create problems for him at work.

“What if I quit?” she said.

He whirled. Spaghetti flicked off the tongs he held in his left hand and landed next to the dog. Munin seemed to debate a moment between the food on the floor and continuing to let Ariel know about his displeasure.

The food won.

“We don’t want you to quit.” Vari looked ferocious. “The other guy will have to quit.”

Ariel suppressed the urge to smile. “I don’t think he can quit. He’s a fixture at Quixotic.”

“No one’s a fixture there.” He brandished the tongs as if they were a club.

Munin had devoured the spaghetti and was watching Vari again. This time, the dog seemed worried.

“Not even you?” Ariel asked.

“Me?” He shook his head. “I don’t count. Alex and I are a team. We have been forever.”

She took a deep breath. When it came to himself, he was so dense. “And if I got in the middle of that team?”

Vari snorted. “Fat chance. Alex is a happily married man. In fact, not many people are more happily married than he is. He wouldn’t even give you a second glance, not that you’re not deserving of one—you are—but he wouldn’t because he doesn’t, not anymore—”

“I wasn’t talking about Alex,” she said.

Vari brought the tongs down. Then he sat down and peered at her as if she had lost her mind. “You’re talking about me?”

“What’s so hard to believe about that?”

“You’re interested in me?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“For God’s sake, why?” Then he shook his head. “I know why. Cupid. Dammit.”

“Cupid?” Her smile grew. “You believe in Cupid?”

“No, I don’t believe in him. I know hi—um, I think he might have gotten his arrows crossed.”

She reached for Vari’s hand. It was as strong as she had imagined it would be. “Is it that hard to believe that I would be attracted to you?”

“Yes.” He tried to pull away, but she held on to his fingers.

Slowly he raised his eyes to hers, and she saw pain in them. Deep, old pain. And with it, something else she recognized. He was too vulnerable. He couldn’t take more hurt.

“Ariel,” he said, “I don’t know if you’re trying to get back at me for the whole Darius thing, but this isn’t something you should play with.”

“I’m not playing.” She scooted her chair closer. His eyes were beautiful, but so were his lips. Thin and fine, perfectly formed. If his nose didn’t look like it had been broken dozens of times and his cheekbones weren’t in the same condition, his face would be conventionally attractive. As it was, he was very attractive—to her.

“Ariel,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

She let go of his fingers. He flexed them. Then she slid her hands around his face and pulled him close, her lips touching his.

The kiss was electric. He tasted fine and familiar, and as his mouth opened beneath hers, she could sense his longing. Hers matched it. She wanted nothing more than to keep kissing him for a very long time. This was where she was supposed to be. This was the man she was supposed to be with. This—

“No.” He said it against her mouth and then pulled away. The pain in his eyes was deep. He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Ariel.”

This was the second time in six months that a man had apologized to her after kissing her. And around a spaghetti dinner too.

What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t anyone interested in her?

“I’m not sorry,” she said.

He shook his head and pushed away from her. “It won’t work.”

“Why not? I asked about Quixotic.”

“There’s so much you don’t know about me. I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, standing and walking away from her. “I’m not supposed to be the one who falls in love with you.”

Munin whimpered.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“I’m not the right person for you, Ariel.”

She clasped her hands together, twisting them. “I think I’m supposed to be the one who decides that. Who’s right for me and who’s not. That’s my decision.”

“Usually, yeah, but sometimes circumstances—”

“You’re talking about Dar, aren’t you?” she asked.

Munin whimpered again.

“In a way.” Vari bowed his head.

“Dar doesn’t matter to me,” she said. “You were right. It was an infatuation. A reaction to the accident. Nothing more than that.”