Going for Broke: Oakland Hills Friends to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Friends with Benefits) (6 page)

B
illie didn’t even recognize
his anger. When had she ever seen him angry? Nobody did. He wasn’t that type of guy.

He didn’t even
have
emotions, according to some people.

He drew in another breath. “I’m fine.” He thrust his bag at her. “I brought gloves.”

“You’re angry,” Billie said wonderingly.

“If you don’t wear the gloves, I’m leaving,” he said. “It’s for your own safety.”

“Oh my God, Ian. I am so, so sorry.” She reached into the bag, pulled out a glove, and shoved her hand into it. “I’ll wear whatever you say.”

Don’t wear anything,
he thought, which only made him angry again. Without meeting her eyes, he strode past her to join the others, who had gathered in the kitchen.

Billie was right on his heels. “Help yourself to the bagels. There’s coffee in the pot and I’ve got every kind of tea you’d ever want, so just ask.”

Lorna poured herself coffee and stuck a whole bagel in her mouth. “What do you want us to do first?” she asked, her voice distorted by the bagel.

Pouncing at the opportunity to clear his head, Ian slapped his hands on both men’s shoulders. “These guys will help me clear the front room. I’ve got a plan.”

And it didn’t involve nipples.

* * *

H
ours later
, Billie found Ian in the living room, removing the last of the curtains with a crowbar. Bright midday sun blasted through the newly exposed panoramic windows like a supernova. Shawn and Marco had gone out for burgers, and Lorna had gone home with asthma. It was a good time for Billie to apologize to Ian again. She carried a glass of ice water with a slice of fresh lemon from the garden. She’d had to hack through the weeds in the side yard to reach the tree, tearing her jeans on an overgrown blackberry bramble, but it was worth it if it helped her clear the air with her old friend.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” she asked. He’d been hauling boxes and trash, and directing Marco and Shawn to do the same, for over four hours. She’d been trying to keep up, but she’d never been very athletic. She was definitely in the comfort-not-speed-or-brute-strength category. Thus the lemon. Slicing small citrus fruits was right up her alley.

“Nothing to forgive.” Ian took the glass, lifted it in salute, then brought it to his lips. As he swallowed, the muscles of his throat flexed, his skin glistened, and Billie realized she hadn’t brought nearly a big enough glass. Exhaling, he rubbed the cold glass against his forehead and moaned orgasmically.

That was a little too much for Billie, who looked down to escape the sight of his pleasure-face, only to notice the way his gray T-shirt was hitched up on his damp abdomen, exposing a trail of dark hair diving under the waistband of his red underwear.

Red? She may have leaned a little closer to make sure. She’d imagined white. Heather gray at the most. “I’ll get you more,” she said, forcing her eyes back up as she reached for the glass.

He held it against his chest. “No. I’m fine.”

“You drained it in two seconds.” She tried to pull it out of his fingers. “It’s the least I can do. Let me make it up to you.”

Because his grip was vice-like—shouldn’t he be tired by now?—the glass stayed where it was. “You don’t have to make anything up to me,” he said.

“I overslept and embarrassed you.” That was the explanation she’d settled on for why he’d seemed so annoyed that morning. God, she knew
she
’d been embarrassed (or was when she woke up enough) to realize that she’d answered the door in a flimsy tank and shorty shorts, headlights flashing, thunder thighs thundering, looking hungover or just laid. Which was totally unfair, since she’d been up past three cleaning and sorting, preparing for their arrival. Sure, she’d had a few drinks, but alcohol was a disinfectant. She needed all the germ fighters she could get.

He fished one of the lemon slices out of the glass and sucked on it for a moment. His oh-so-blue eyes stared at her over his hand. “You didn’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, come on. Shawn and Marco?” she asked, cringing as she remembered. “Their eyes nearly fell out of their heads. What kind of friend answers the door like that?”

He drew the lemon slice away from his lips, regarded it for a moment before sucking it one last time, then dropped it in the glass. His eyes returned to hers. “A girlfriend might.”

She shivered involuntarily. If he were any other guy, she might’ve thought he was flirting. But Ian didn’t do innuendo. He was too literal, too black and white. Just stating the facts. “Ah. Of course. Shawn and Marco probably would think we’re more than friends since you’re helping me with this huge monster project. Didn’t you explain it to them?”

Not answering, Ian tipped the glass back and sipped the last drops of liquid. His black hair fell back from his forehead, showing off the strong line of his jaw. When he turned away, she heard ice crunching between his teeth. Then he walked out of the room.

Feeling suddenly overheated, Billie stepped out of the beam of sunlight and wiped sweat off her forehead, staring at the empty doorway where he’d exited. She took a cooling breath before following him.

He was in the kitchen, pouring himself another glass of water from the pitcher, looking out the window at the lemon tree.

“What am I missing?” she asked. “Please explain. You still seem annoyed with me. If you’re realizing this is too much work, it’s totally OK. I understand. You can go right now and all I have for you is my eternal gratitude.”

He didn’t turn around, forcing her to study the back of his head. His thick, dark hair was long enough to curl slightly behind his ears.

“That’s all you have for me?” he asked.

“Is there something else you want?” She moved closer. “I’m happy to apologize again.”

His shoulders visibly tensed. “Please, no more apologies.”

Billie saw that he obviously felt ill-used, but why? She’d tried to talk him out of doing as much as he had. “I offered to pay Shawn and Marco, but they refused. Is that it? Do you think I’m taking advantage of them?”

“I’ve already struck a deal with Shawn and Marco. You don’t have to do a thing.”

Frustrated that he wouldn’t let her make it up to him, whatever it was, Billie put her hands on his back and began massaging his tight shoulders. He was a good six inches taller, and she had to move closer and go up on her tiptoes to get a good angle. Under her fingers, he felt powerful but tense, as if coiled to spring.

“Please, Ian,” she said softly.

Without warning, he spun around to face her. Not expecting the move, her arms remained raised, her hands now on his chest. Sucking in a breath in surprise, she began to step back. But he grabbed her wrists and pulled her closer. Their bodies came together, her soft thighs against his hard ones, her belly brushing the fly of his jeans.

“Please?” His eyes searched her face. He looked more unhappy than before. Furious, even. “‘Please’ what?”

Short of breath, heart pounding, she tried to shrug, but he held her too tightly. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

S
haking his head
, he loosened his grip on her wrists and glanced down, his anger seeming to fade. But he didn’t release her. Rising and falling heavily with his breath, his chest moved under her forearms. They’d never been so close to one another. He wasn’t the hugging type.

Not that this was a hug, exactly. She wasn’t sure what it was. He’d seemed so angry. Was this what he did when he couldn’t punch somebody? Just grab them?

She should’ve pulled away, apologized again, this time for massaging his back without permission. Slice a few lemons. Laugh it off. And then she’d tell him thank you for his time and talk to Jane about hiring a stranger to help them out.

But she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to, even though she
wanted
to want to. Of course she wanted to. But being close to Ian Cooper felt good, as good as being close to any man could feel—which was pretty damn great. He was tall and well built, and even his sweat smelled tasty.

When she realized he was staring at her mouth, her knees weakened, pushing him closer to her. When he began to lower his head, her lips parted involuntarily. She told herself it was only because she needed some air.

Slowly, so slowly, he moved closer. Mesmerized, she watched the flick of his tongue over his lips. Her own thoughts were scattered, unsteady, elusive.

And then he drew back, frowning, and let out his breath. Like a bubble bursting, the strange, nervous tension broke and disappeared. He patted the sides of her arms where he’d been holding her, roughly, like a quarterback with his defensive lineman, and rolled his eyes.

“I must be losing my mind,” he said. “God, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

She did feel as if she’d been run over by a horse trailer, but she didn’t think that’s what he meant. “What’s the matter with you?”

Her question came out more hostile than she’d intended, but he’d upset her.

“I—I—” He looked away, his scowl deepening. “I didn’t realize how upset I was about—about—business. Last night. Lost a lot of money. Didn’t expect it.”

This was about
work
? She’d known him for a long time. He’d never seemed to let his business bother him before. It was always a game, always fun, or at least intellectually fulfilling. “Haven’t you lost money before?”

He cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes. “Not this much.”

Given his wealth and the years managing his legendary fund, she couldn’t imagine how much that might be. She didn’t even want to know.

All right, yes. Yes she did.

“How much?” she asked.

Turning away, he gripped the kitchen counter and hung his head. After a moment, he said, “A lot.”

“Like, millions?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Then he sobered. He gave a quick nod.

So all of his behavior today had nothing to do with her?

Could she believe that?

“Why’d you seem so angry at
me
?” And that other thing, she added silently.

“I—I—” He stood up straight and looked her in the eye. “It was wrong of me. I apologize. I suppose I think of you like… family. My mother always said I took everything out on her whenever I got home from school.”

Now he was comparing her to his mother?

Whatever sexy feelings had been coursing through her veins a few minutes ago were now as desiccated as the hallway carpeting. Had Ian Cooper reached out to her for a hate fuck?

And had she almost agreed to it?

Billie went over to the counter and sought comfort from the cream cheese. Lifting the knife, which felt a little dangerous at the moment, she slathered a fist-sized glob of white heaven on a chunk of poppy seed bagel and shoved it in her mouth.

Would she never learn? She loved guys. She loved handsome guys. She loved having sex with handsome guys. It had gotten her into trouble in high school, in college, in her adult life—always.
Girls just wanna have fun
. God help her.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, giving her another robust thwack before striding out of the kitchen.

As she was rubbing the bruise on her arm—perhaps it was only emotional, but it stung all the same—she heard Marco and Shawn return to the house, and the exchange of bags of hamburgers among the men. When Shawn stuck his head in and asked her if she wanted a cheeseburger, she shook her head, pointing at her full mouth and waving her bagel.

While the men ate in the other room, she stood there and polished off the rest of the cream cheese, wondering how much money Ian would have to lose before he got angry enough to actually have sex with her.

Economic downturn
had never sounded so hot.

And then, disgusted with herself, she went back to work.

* * *

T
he following Friday night
, Ian closed his laptop, took off his earphones, and stared at the ceiling, his heated massage chair on the highest setting. It wasn’t enough to unwind the tension wracking his body. The thought of returning to Billie’s house in the morning was tying him in knots. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. His hamstrings were stiff from running too many miles that morning—and every morning that week—in his efforts to clear his head. And if he didn’t eat something—he’d worked through lunch and dinner without a break—he was going to pass out.

This wasn’t like him. Easygoing Ian, that’s what his mother called him. If losing millions wasn’t enough to upset him—and it hadn’t, in spite of what he’d said—then seeing Billie Garcia in her pajamas shouldn’t spark a nervous breakdown.

Lorna’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “I thought you were different.”

He spun around. She stood in the open doorway. “I don’t remember hearing you knock,” he said.

“I didn’t.” She came in and stood next to his recliner, holding a pizza box. The savory aroma made his stomach growl. “Do you realize what time it is?”

“Time for me to get a new admin, apparently.” After he freed her from the pizza.

“Nah, you love me.” Balancing the box on her opposite hip, Lorna reached down and lifted the controls to the recliner. “Damn, full throttle. You’re a mess.”

“It’s been a stressful week.”

She scowled. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not supposed to get stressed out. That’s not your thing.”

“Well, I apologize for disappointing you,” he said.

She threw the controls down. “You’ll find an even better investor. You don’t need that guy.”

He stared at her, not comprehending.

“Isn’t this about Oldroyd?” she asked.

“Isn’t
what
about Oldroyd?” He got to his feet and gave her an imperious, warning stare. As he’d told Billie, he had lost big money, but he’d barely given it another thought.

Lorna waved at the chair, but uncertainty had crept into her eyes. “This with the chair and the music. You’re freaking out.”

“I sit in this chair every day.”

“And read spreadsheets and websites and reports and email and watch the markets. Not stare at the ceiling, rocking out to dead guys.” She held the box out to him. “Here. I got it for myself but changed my mind.”

Trying not to smile at the way she hated to admit to any kindness, he took the box. “If I were forced to listen to
your
music, I’d rather die myself.” He carried the pizza over to his desk and eagerly pulled out a slice.

“If not Oldroyd, then what?”

He took a huge bite. “Nothing.”

“Gross. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Smiling, he took another. “You asked,” he said, his voice distorted by the cheese, sausage, chewy crust, and chunks of fresh tomato. This was why he kept her around.

“What, you don’t know how to time your chewing with speaking?” she asked. “I’ve met your mother. I’m sure she taught you better than that.”

Her concern was nice. And the pizza was already raising his blood sugar, and he felt his tension easing a little.

When his mouth was empty, he said, “Thank you. I was hungry.”

“You should go home. If you keep this up, you’ll die of a heart attack before you’re forty.”

He turned away to hide his shock. Grabbing a bottle of water, he lifted it to his lips and reminded himself she didn’t know what she’d said; she was just being Lorna.

His own father had suffered two heart attacks when Ian was in high school, and a third when Ian was a rising star at a huge firm in San Francisco. Only the third one, which had kept him in the ICU for weeks, had gotten through to his stubborn father about the importance of slowing down. McIntyre Construction wasn’t going to fall apart without him, but his family just might.

The day his dad had come home from the hospital, Ian had put in his notice at the firm.

Recovering his composure, he reached for another slice of pizza. “If you’re worried about my heart health, you probably shouldn’t be bringing me my own extra-large pizzas.”

“It wasn’t all for you, but fine. Your gross table manners have totally ruined my appetite.”

Mouth full again, he asked, “What do I owe you?” and reached for his wallet.

“Thirty-five,” she said. “You can round it up to forty to thank me for my troubles.”

With a laugh, he gave her fifty. “Thanks, Lorna.”

“Whatever.” She walked out. A few moments later, he heard the front door of the office slam shut.

He wasn’t the only idiot still in the office on a Friday night, so he set the pizza down on the conference table, told his team to eat up and go home, and went out into the cold night.

His office was in a business park in Emeryville, crowded next to Oakland and Berkeley on the shore of the bay, across from San Francisco. Lorna had begged him to move the office to a building with a view, but he didn’t see the point if they were going to have shades over the windows, staring at screens all day.

And when he emerged from the office at the end of the day, it was usually dark anyway, like tonight. He walked two blocks, past a biotech firm, an Indian burrito joint, another tech company in a renovated Victorian, and then to his loft in a converted cannery.

But he didn’t go inside.

He wouldn’t be able to sleep, so why not get started working on the house tonight?