Going for Broke: Oakland Hills Friends to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Friends with Benefits) (7 page)

I
an told
himself he could get started on the bathroom floor. He also told himself he had to confirm that the debris box had been emptied and the new storage unit delivered, although there was nothing he could do about it on a Friday night after business hours if they hadn’t been.

He had to see her.

For hours after The Incident, as he’d named it, he’d worked his ass off with Shawn and Marco, and barely spared Billie a word or a glance until he’d left with the other guys at the end of the day, and even then he’d only grunted a farewell.

They hadn’t spoken since. Avoiding her like this was only making things worse. And lying about the reason for his bad temper had made him angry with himself, although he didn’t know what excuse would’ve been better. Losing a fortune was a catastrophe that would credibly infuriate most men. But he wasn’t most men, and he was a little disappointed that she’d believed him so readily. Maybe she didn’t know him at all.

Maybe she should.

He parked his truck in front of the house next door and stared at the lights glowing from Billie’s windows. The shades were drawn, but he saw flickering shadows that suggested she was moving around inside the front room.

He had to clarify the situation, that’s all. They were old friends, he’d behaved badly last week but was fine now, she could trust him to act normally from now on. As soon as the clutter was out of the house, he’d tackle something simple but satisfying, like bathroom fixtures, or painting. Maybe install new lighting everywhere. He was itching to dive in and get busy.

And getting itchier by the moment.

He glanced at the dash. Almost ten o’clock. Too late to show up unannounced.

Too bad. After checking his reflection in the rearview mirror—he wouldn’t want to show up with tomato sauce on his face for anyone, it didn’t mean anything—he grabbed his backpack and went up to her front door. There he paused, realizing his heart was thudding against his ribs. He’d forgotten to confirm the debris box had been emptied.

As the door swung open, he suddenly remembered that not only should he avoid unnecessary alone time with Billie, he didn’t want to see Jane, either. He should’ve called—

“Hey, everything all right?” Billie wore a brown, fluffy robe that made her look like an Ewok. The fleece covered every inch of skin below her chin, and even her feet were cocooned in padded sheepskin boots.

“Did the furnace break?” he asked. “You look like you’re about to go dogsledding.”

Eyebrow rising, she stepped aside and ushered him in. “I didn’t have time to put on an evening gown. I know you don’t like me answering the door in my pajamas.” She closed the door and dead bolted it. “I was just going to bed so I’d be raring to go in the morning when you got here.”

He’d done it again, insulting her on her own doorstep. Since when couldn’t he control the words coming out of his own mouth? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical. You look cute.”

Jesus. He’d done it again. The filter between his thoughts and his words was broken.

She did look cute, and not like an imaginary forest-dwelling alien. Pink-cheeked, tousle-haired, curvy, feminine.

“What the hell’s the matter with you lately?” she asked, scowling. “I don’t buy the losing-a-fortune thing. I just don’t. I wasn’t going to say anything, but here you are and it’s late and, no, the furnace isn’t broken, I just learned my lesson from answering the door half-naked last week.” Tightening the belt on her robe, she turned and padded into the front room, which was nearly empty except for a wooden kitchen chair and a single large box, on top of which rested a teacup and saucer.

“You’ve done a lot of work,” he said, avoiding her question. Once again, he had to recover from a bad start.

She made a skeptical snort. “Not like you guys. And this room wasn’t too bad. Grammy always kept it relatively clean for company.”

He sniffed the air. “And it smells better. How’d you manage that?”

“I used chemicals known to the state of California to cause cancer and other horrible things.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “That warning’s on everything.”

“No, it’s true. I’ve already started growing an eleventh toe. Pedicures are going to be a bitch from now on.”

He grinned. “Where’d the couch go? And weren’t there a few recliners or something?”

“I sold them on Craigslist,” she said. “For a buck each.”

“Wow. Great.”

“Don’t mock, big guy,” she said. “I’m very proud of myself.”

“I wasn’t kidding. You scored. I thought we’d have to trash them.”

“So did I, but then I realized they had slipcovers on them, and plastic underneath the slipcovers—like the wrappers they come in when they’re new—and after I’d peeled that all off, they were in pretty good shape.”

“Not enough to tempt you to keep them, though.”

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, if you’re here to tell me you won’t be coming tomorrow, I understand. It’s too much. You’ve done more than—”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He went into the darkened room and picked up her teacup. It was smaller than her usual mug, fragile and old-fashioned. The gold rim had chipped, and he considered warning her about cutting her lip. Or he could buy her a new set, something from England maybe. He’d like to see her face when she opened the shipping box.

He rotated the cup in his hands, dragging his fingertip over the chipped porcelain.

What was he doing here?

Trying to ignore the blood rushing in his ears, he lifted the saucer as well and began walking to the kitchen. “I wanted to make sure the new debris box was ready for me and the guys.”

She followed him. “The truck dropped it off yesterday.”

“And the storage unit. We filled it up last weekend. It would be better to sort it out as we go, but you’ll probably need your family to go over it with you.”

“Jane doesn’t want anything. She’s not sentimental, and neither is my dad. But Aunt Trixie is excited about combing through everything. She wants us to put everything other than garbage in those storage pods. I kept a few boxes I knew were valuable—photos, letters, that sort of thing—in the house so they didn’t get lost.”

They entered the kitchen, which was looking much better. The old countertops were peeling at the edges, but the crocks and ancient appliances and books and papers and cat-food containers were gone.

He turned on the water and began washing the cup by hand, rubbing his thumb over the rim where her lips had been.

Now, finally, he knew why he’d come. Lacking self-awareness had its advantages. If he were the type of guy who was in touch with his feelings, he would’ve known that dropping by tonight was too dangerous. He would’ve known that being alone with her in a house in the dark just might make him forget all those awkward family events with her sister. Just like Lorna warning him about heart attacks had made him remember his father, and how important it was to seize the day.

Gently, he placed the cup on a clean white-and-blue check towel spread out next to the sink. “You’ve really been busy. Did you do all this after work?” He spoke carefully, casually.

“I took another day off.”

“Bet your boss loved that,” he said.

She made a face. “He did not.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault.”

They stared at each other.

“I came by to explain what happened last weekend,” he heard himself say.

“It wasn’t a money thing, was it?”

“No.”

She looked down at her hands. They were small and soft-looking. Her fingernails were all different colors. “It’s something to do with me?”

“Yes.”

One of her neighbors was playing very loud music. Or maybe it was that guy next door making kebabs out of her grandmother’s cat. The screeching sound blended with the rattle of the old refrigerator.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move. The robe should’ve been enough to help him shove aside sex thoughts, but it was having the opposite effect. The thought of unwrapping all that fuzzy fabric, revealing the sweet, naked skin beneath—

“I wish you’d tell me,” she said. “We’re friends, right?”

If he’d had any air in his lungs, he would’ve laughed. “Are we?”

She flinched as if he’d struck her.

Or grabbed her and pulled her close.

“I thought we were,” she said softly.

“Maybe I want more than that.” The words came to him through his ears, seconds after they were spoken, and he realized that he had been the one to say them, the one to send them out into the air between them, the one to own them.

Mouth falling open, she stared.

Those lips, those perfect little white teeth.

He stepped forward and slid his hand behind her neck, feeling the warm skin, the silky hair, the thrum of her pulse. “I’ve always wanted more than that. You must’ve guessed.”

She gave a short, quick shake of her head that knocked a curl onto her forehead. Her eyes never left his. “Uh-uh,” she breathed, her lips not moving.

Her neck was so warm, so soft. He wanted to stroke her cheek with his thumb but was afraid it would break the spell. Whatever was keeping her motionless, and therefore, he hoped, tempted, he didn’t want to screw it up.

Was she tempted, or was he just fooling himself?

He needed to find out. Lying to himself again—
it’s only research, like when you study a company’s financials
—he stepped closer. Then he lifted his other hand and brushed the hair away from her temple, lowering his head a few inches, close enough to smell the lilac perfume she always wore. He gave her a split second to complain, to knee him in the nuts, to break away, but she was frozen and passive, waiting for him to do whatever it was he was going to do.

He was going to kiss her. Just like the afternoon years earlier when he’d quit his job, he was going to abandon his usual method of careful deliberation. In one hot, blazing second, he had decided to follow his instincts.

Sliding his fingers through her curls, he closed the distance between them.

T
his was really happening
.

Billie felt his mouth come down on hers, felt his hands tangle in her hair, felt her pulse jump and fly through her veins like a sparrow—but she did nothing.

Inside, she was melting, burning, exploding. But outside—how could she respond to a dream? There had been moments, of course there had, when she’d allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like to strip off his T-shirt and cargo shorts and lick his pecs and taste the sweat beading on his throat…

I mean, who wouldn’t?
she thought, swaying on her weak knees as she concentrated on the feel of every millimeter of his lips—oh, and tongue, there was tongue—

But she couldn’t do this. They couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He was.

No, no, it had gone far enough. They had to stop right now.

Right. Now.

Now.

Yeah, right.

He felt so good. She was so weak. Physically and morally. He was just too, too…

Perfect. It was as if a witch had cursed him with tall-dark-and-handsome potion. And then zapped him with the most powerful strong-and-silent-type spell known to magic.

Just a smidgen, she parted her lips. His appreciative growl made her open wider. She leaned into him.

Oh God, she shouldn’t be doing this. This wasn’t a potion, this wasn’t a spell, this was lust. And her own stupid weakness.

One of his hands had slipped down her back and was moving slowly but determinedly to her ass. Oh, hello, there it was. His palm cupped her butt cheek, his fingers spreading wide and then squeezing.

Tilting her head, she sucked his tongue into her mouth, feeling herself get wet, reveling in the pressure of his hard-on and imagining it entering her right here against the counter, bam, bam, bam—

Holy shit on a stick, what was she doing? This was Ian. Ian Cooper.

Jane’s boyfriend. Long ago and forever more, at least as far as she was concerned.

With more strength than it had taken her to free her Hyundai from a snowdrift in Tahoe last winter, Billie flattened her hands on his chest—his warm, broad, tantalizing chest—and shoved.

“What are you doing?” She pointed at him as she staggered backward.

“You know what I was doing.” He was breathing heavily, his eyes as dark as her best denim jeans.

“We’re friends!”

“I’m not convinced. And from the way you were just going at it, you’re not either.”

“Going at it?” She felt herself flush to the roots of her hair, the last part of her to reach combustion levels. “I’m a healthy female organism who’s quick to respond sexually to stimulus.”

A smile twisted his mouth. “Excuse me?”

Oh God. She’d just quoted that geeky male feminist studies grad student she’d dated a few years ago. She stood up taller. Better press on as best she could. “You heard me.”

“You said I stimulate you. That’s good.”

With a bracing inhalation of Ian-free air, she straightened her shoulders. “I’m saying it’s nothing personal, and we’re not going to do it again.” She tied another knot on her robe. “
You
’re not going to do it again.”

“I think I just might,” he said.

A shiver danced down her spine. “Even though I don’t want you to? Are you crazy?”

He still had that damn smile on his face. “But you
do
want me to.”

The tough, independent side of her wanted to pour the salad dressing on the counter over his head until he stopped smirking at her.

Part of what he said was true. But only part. With a few feet between them, and the urge to grab the Newman’s Own Honey Mustard strong in her mind, she was able to shake off the lust and remember her vows, both to herself and to her sister.

“I don’t, actually,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, Ian, but I don’t.”

His smile finally fell. Eyes narrowing, he stared at her for a long moment. “You’re afraid of Jane.”

His exact words surprised her. Afraid, yes. But… “
Of
?” she repeated.

“Of what she’ll say. Of being judged.” He moved away and leaned back against the counter, resting one ankle over the other. “Just like in high school.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She’s your big sister. You’ve always wanted her to be proud of you. You’re still hoping she will be.”

Her eyes darted to the honey mustard salad dressing, imagining how much better he’d look with it splashed all over his face. “That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“I’m just quoting you.”

“I never said that.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh yes, you certainly did. I have an excellent memory. You were wearing a green sweater at the time. And those big dangly frog earrings she gave you.”

She hadn’t worn those earrings since high school. A vague memory teased the basement of her mind. “They were newts,” was all she could think to say at first. And then, “Jane gave them to me for my eighth grade graduation. She told me there was a lot of pressure to grow up too fast and she wanted me to remember how to be a kid, how to have fun. Jane has always been awesome.”

“I agree,” he said.

“Then—”
Then why’d you break her heart?
she’d almost asked. “You don’t act like you think she’s awesome.”

“It didn’t work out between us, but I admired her.” He shrugged. “I always will. Which was what I was saying right before you said that about wanting her to be proud of you.”

The memory came back in a rush. She’d been seventeen, a couple of years after the breakup, and he was home from college for Christmas. Curious to see him again, she’d jumped at the chance to go to his house with her mom.

While their mothers had wrapped presents and gossiped in the kitchen, Billie and Ian had played air hockey in the Coopers’ rec room, having a great time, although she’d felt a little guilty about having so much fun with her sister’s ex.

But only a little. It had been a difficult time to live in Jane’s shadow. Billie had just failed physics for the first time, and algebra for the third, and was learning to accept she wouldn’t be going on to Berkeley or Davis or Sonoma State like her best friends.

Unlike Billie, Jane had always been perfect. Not only had she been top of the class, but she’d never gotten a B, let alone an F. Her winning streak continued uninterrupted to this day.

Except with men. She still had trouble with that. Billie thought it had everything to do with the man who’d just kissed her.

“Well?” he asked now. “Is it coming back to you?”

The kettle whistled. She walked over to it, shooting him a glance over her shoulder. “Maybe a little.”

That day at his house long ago, she’d thought maybe he could understand. Maybe he’d broken up with Jane because all her perfection had been annoying to him, too. Maybe he’d even been jealous, she’d thought. And so, in a moment of weakness, she’d knocked the puck to him across the table and shared her insecurities with him.

“I wasn’t bullshitting you,” he said now. “She really was proud of you.”

She’d gobbled up every word he’d shared over the air hockey table. He’d listed her qualities—her people skills, her sense of humor, her generosity, her fluency in Spanish, which she’d learned to talk to her grandfather—that Jane had told him she’d admired in her. He’d gone on and on, telling her how much her big sister wished she could be a little more like
her
.

Jane was like that, often seeing the best in people and then emulating them so she could improve herself.

Unlike Billie. If Billie ever improved herself, it was an accident. She never set out to accomplish something for the sake of being amazing. Her vision didn’t extend that far into the future. What she did, she did because she felt like it. She wasn’t much better now than she’d been as a teenager.

“I was such a fuckup,” Billie said, getting out a mug.

“You were not,” he said. “You just weren’t a good student. There’s a difference.”

It wasn’t fair of him to get nice right at the moment she most needed to pour salad dressing on his head.

“Thanks,” she said softly, keeping her back to him. She got out a second mug, this one for him.

He walked over and stood directly behind her, so close he brushed the bottom hem of her robe. “I wish I’d known earlier.”

“Known what?”

“That you’re attracted to me.”

Her heart skipped. Hoping he couldn’t see her hands shaking, she poured the boiling water into her mug. “I’m not. I told you. You caught me off guard. It’s late, I’m tired, I responded.”

“You forgot to put a tea bag in your mug,” he said.

“You’re too full of yourself,” she replied, maneuvering out from behind him, her mug of hot water clutched in her fist. She saluted him with it. “I happen to love hot water. It’s the ultimate decaf.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Sure I am. You show up here late at night and make your moves and confuse me. That makes me nervous.”

His smile returned, and with it a twinkle in his dark blue eyes. “Well, better late than never.” His gaze fell to her robe, sliding over it from head to toe as if it were a transparent negligee, before he nodded and walked out of the room. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

She lifted her mug to her lips and inhaled the steam. Her heart was still pounding in her chest. She should insist he not come again, that the repairs were her problem and that she didn’t want him around.

But then she heard the door slam.

Too late. He was gone.

Closing her eyes, she sipped the water, still too hot to drink but not as hot as Ian’s lips had been.

She couldn’t let this go any further. Jane might have a boyfriend, but the dude was the third guy she’d dated since high school who wasn’t even likable. It was as if Jane were intentionally choosing men she’d never love or marry. As if she were still pining for her high school sweetheart, the only man she’d ever loved.

And who could ever top Ian Cooper?

Top… bottom… sordid images spun through her addled brain.

Billie hadn’t been joking about being a female organism quick to respond to sexual stimulus. That’s all this was about. Those broad shoulders, the high cheekbones, the dark hair curling just so around his ears, and those stunning ocean-blue eyes.

Jane wasn’t the only one to make bad romantic choices. Billie’s own track record was terrible, and her downfall always began with a kiss.

This time would be different.

It would be.