“Wow, would you look at this menu. I’m starved.”
“Yeah, yeah. Ignore me if you like. I could totally use a full-body spa scrub. And I’m thinking deep tissue for the massage. No girly hands, Swedish-style for me this time. I want—”
“How is this always about me, Ava? You’re the one who came up with the stupid pact,” she whisper-hissed. “What about you, huh? Have you got a date lined up yet?”
She always did, so Maggie didn’t even know why she was asking. And they were always pretty awesome-sounding candidates, too. Quality date material with conversation skills, genuine interest, and per Ava’s personal pact requirements, a hotness rating of at least eight. The cop, Five-O, had actually been closer to a nine, but apparently he’d answered a text during dinner and that had been the end of that. But still, on the whole, Ava got good dates. Something Maggie hadn’t cared much about…at least until she’d gone out with Tyler and had a good one of her own.
Now the idea of muscling through another two hours of subpar and off-fit seemed downright depressing.
“As a matter of fact I do,” Ava answered.
“Fine.” At least the heat was off her for a few minutes. Reaching for a couple of the table’s duck-fat fries, which were disappearing at an alarming rate, she asked, “Who’s next up on the docket?”
“Litigator from down on three.”
“Elevator Guy?” she choked out. “I thought we talked about this.”
The guy had been riding past his floor for months, striking up odd conversations with Ava every time they landed in the same car. And finally one day they got as far as what firm he was with, and she realized what he’d been doing to talk to her all that time.
There were plenty of women out there who might find it romantic, but in Maggie’s mind…it smacked of deception. Sure, it might have been small. But deceit was a slippery slope.
A flash of Kyle’s angry, desperate face breached her thoughts, his clammy grip bruising her arms, and his words sounding before she could shut them off.
“You think I wanted this? That I’m proud? I did it for you. Everything, Maggs!”
Stomach churning, she tamped down the old memories, shoved them back to the recesses of her mind so she could concentrate on the more immediate problem in front of her.
A guy with the potential to do or say anything to get what he wanted. And her best friend going out with him.
“Sam, you know who Ava’s going out with this month?”
He popped his own fry in his mouth, chewing around his words even as he reached for another. “Elevator Guy?”
Maggie swatted at his hand and took the fry he’d been after. “And that doesn’t bother you at all?”
Brows drawn forward in a look of pure confusion, he asked, “Why would it?”
Ava let out a short laugh, shrugging down in her chair. “Maggie thinks he’s a liar. Dangerous.”
“I don’t know. Seems okay to me. I mean, he thought you were hot and was working the opportunities to get to know you better.” As though satisfied for himself, Sam kicked back and started humming “Love in an Elevator.”
Maggie shook her head at Sam’s selective overprotective disorder flaking out at exactly the wrong time. “He’s waving a giant flag in your face telling you he’s not above a little deception when it suits his needs.”
Ava leveled her with a pitying look. “Or he’s telling me he thinks I’m worth going out of his way for. Look, Maggie. He’s a nice enough guy. Tall, clean-cut, obviously employed. And I kind of appreciate his effort. The fact that he looked at me and he decided to take action, to do something about it, take an extra minute out of his day a couple of times a week to see where it could go. I like that.”
Right. There it was.
Ava dug guys who went after what they wanted. And that his pursuit managed to be active, understated, and thoughtful all at once—fine, he sounded right up her alley. So maybe Maggie shouldn’t drag all her own issues into the conversation and just let her friend enjoy.
“He meets the criteria?”
“He works downstairs from me, Maggie. I know about thirty people who know him. References…check. Employed…check. General heebie-jeebies and hygiene thing…check, check. And come on, I’m trapped in an elevator with him on a semi-regular basis and he hasn’t broken out the chloroform yet…so I’m going.”
Maggie forced a smile she really wanted to be genuine. “That’s awesome. Hope you have fun.”
Something sizzling and damn near aromatically orgasmic hit the table to their left and Maggie was starting to salivate. Reaching for the menu again, she met with resistance when Ava hooked a finger over the top, drawing it away.
“So enough about me. What about you?”
Cripes.
“No prospects yet, but I’ve still got another couple of weeks.”
Ava rolled her eyes in a silent “whatever,” then went on. “Right, because you’re going to be out trawling for dates on Christmas Eve. Let’s nip this month’s question mark in the bud early, shall we? Neil was asking about you at the gym yesterday.”
Maggie perked up. “Really?”
Neil had been the personal trainer assigned to them for the four freebie sessions that came as part of their package when Maggie and Ava joined the club the previous year. He had an ehh sense of humor, a gym-pumped physique that was impressive but sometimes made her wonder what would happen if she stuck the guy with a pin, and a sort of loose, Southern California way about him. Sure, there’d been those few times when it was clear they weren’t on the same page—when his casual reference left her confused, or her tongue-in-cheek remark dug a furrow between his brows. But with the scarcity of qualifying dates what it was, she wasn’t about to let a lack of chemistry or connection hold her back. It never had before. Besides Ava had essentially just handed her December on a silver platter.
—
Tyler stood at the street corner. Gina had texted him twenty minutes earlier that she wasn’t going to be around for their call the next day and she had time to talk right then. It had literally taken him thirty seconds to get outside and dial, but he rang through to voicemail. He’d left a message, texted, and waited five more minutes before trying again. She might have gotten another call. Or she might be dicking him around. With Gina, it could be anything. He wanted to go back in the restaurant and sit down with the friends who didn’t get off on fucking him over. Not even bother texting Gina back to tell her what she could do with her call…
But that wasn’t how it went. Not anymore. He had the one call a month and if he gave Gina crap about it, he wouldn’t even get that. Which meant he’d wait out here another twenty minutes or another hour if that’s what it took to get her on the line.
A message pinged and his teeth went on edge.
Gina: You can call now.
Right.
He should consider himself lucky she bothered to get back to him at all.
Rolling out his neck, he took a deep breath and dialed her back.
“Hey, babe…No, no. It’s not a bad time at all. How you doing?” he asked, pushing as much caring into his voice as he could muster. It wasn’t as hard as it had been at the beginning. And he was rewarded for his effort when he heard her long sigh into the line.
“Okay, I guess.”
And like that, he didn’t care that she’d screwed around with making him wait again.
“That doesn’t sound very good, Gina. Want to talk about it?”
“You’re not calling to hear about my problems.”
That’s where she was wrong. Her problems were the solution he’d been waiting for.
“I care about you, Gina. Of course I want to hear if you’ve got a problem. I want to help.”
“Oh Tyler, I don’t know what to do…”
Chapter Eight
Maggie should have been ashamed of herself, but in her world of forced dates, shame was a luxury she couldn’t afford. So it was with her head held high and an exaggerated swing in
her step that she strode into the gym, working her “come hither” for everything it was worth.
Jackpot.
Not only was Neil at the front desk, but she was pretty sure that audible click she’d heard from across the entry was his throat after catching sight of her.
Just what she’d been hoping for.
She was wearing her bad-girl boots, after all, a pair of black stilettos that zipped up in a snug caress of leather ending at her knee and leaving a few inches of bare skin below the hem of her tight skirt. Top that with a fitted V-neck sweater and the outfit did wonders for her figure—which thanks to her more legitimate visits to the gym was still in shape.
Neil leaned over the desk, checking her out head to toe. “Miss Maggie Mae. No workout gear? What brings you in today?”
“What? These aren’t regulation for the treadmill?” she asked, making herself want to puke when she swiveled her boot, drawing the kind of attention to her legs that was shameless indeed. But today working her coy, little kicked-out ankle was a necessary evil. She was doing her part for the pact. Sending signals and making herself available. Laying the foundation of flirt they would build their one, possibly two, dates upon before she razed the relationship completely.
Unless somehow, Neil turned out to be “The One.”
Open to the possibilities.
He wrinkled his nose at her and flexed his pecs.
Showy. But who was she to judge after donning the cruel shoes from hell because of their miraculous throat-clicking potential?
Twelve and a half minutes later, Maggie was around the corner from the club, replacing her stilettos with a pair of knockoff Uggs pulled from her bottomless tote and congratulating herself on landing her date for Saturday night.
Not only had she checked off December, but Neil had invited her to his roommate’s holiday party. Which meant lots of people. And considering they’d managed an awkward silence within less than fifteen minutes just now, that was probably a good thing.
This date was going to be a piece of cake.
—
Hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, nose running, her body swelling in spots she didn’t want to think about, Maggie coughed out a curse with Neil’s name on it and signaled left. The air whistled through her lungs with each tight, furious breath. Almost home.
“But it’s not my cat.”
Turned out the conversational disconnect Maggie had noticed from the start was a bigger problem than she’d anticipated.
“It lives in your apartment,” she’d gasped.
With her cat allergies, she always checked. And this was the reason.
Neil nodded, smiling in a way that suggested he didn’t get how precarious his situation was. “Uh-huh, but it’s not mine.”
The guy had been lucky she hadn’t had time to maim him.
Another block and, miracle of miracles, she scored a parking spot right in front. Maybe things were looking up.
Hands shaking, she jerked the keys from the ignition and sucked a too-thin breath into her lungs, already getting the skimp on oxygen. This was the worst of it. As bad as it was going to get.
Another minute and she’d be snacking on Benadryl, hopping into a steamy shower, and then scrubbing every inch of herself. She’d be able to breathe. But until then…Don’t touch anything!
Elbowing her way out of the car, she abandoned her scarf and coat within, knowing they’d have to be cleaned. Hell, the whole car was going to need a detail.
But now, the only thing that mattered was getting inside.
She hit the lock and—stepped straight into a pothole, stumbling as the keys flew past her fingers.
Damn it! Blinking back her tears, she searched the cold ground around her. Got on her hands and knees, trying to see under the car. Nothing.
More tears she couldn’t afford pushed at her eyelids, welling fast as they tightened her throat. Desperately, she swiped at them with her sleeve, realizing too late what she’d just done.
Oh. Shit. Dander!
She’d been able to drive only because she hadn’t touched her eyes. But now…
The corners went first. And then—
“Apartment Two?”
—
Maggie had called him her hero.
And sure, he’d happened along at the right time. Carried her practically blind ass upstairs when she kept tripping. And then made an emergency run for Benadryl, or whatever this off-brand stuff was she’d shotgunned like Red Bull when he passed it through the shower curtain to her…
But as far as white-knight moments went, staring down at his jock, trying to will it into submission, Tyler was fairly confident this wasn’t one of them.
Stuck outside his bathroom door, he watched the wisps of steam curl between the gaps, listening to the shower run and Maggie alternately groan in misery…and then seconds later when she’d finally succumbed to the itch…moan in ecstasy.
The latter? She needed to knock it the hell off, and fast.
“No scratching!” he barked, ready to walk in there and tie up her hands to the shower rod to keep from having to hear that deep pleasured sound echoing out of his bathroom.
Except, perfect, then he had the wet-slicked image of Maggie, miraculously hive free and sans nasty swelling except for maybe her mouth—because, damn—dripping wet, water sluicing down the peaks and valleys of a body he’d never been able to ignore, arms overhead—shit—with him holding them there.
Cue the sultry moan.
Nice. And this one capped with some kind of gaspy squeak.
“I said stop scratching!”
“I can’t. I’m one…giant hive. They’re all connected now. And…they itch.”
At least the wheezing wasn’t quite so bad, but the agonized groan that followed had his head slamming back to the land of guilt and empathy. Only as he probably had less than fifteen seconds before the pendulum swung the other way and Maggie gave in to the itch and inadvertently fired up half a dozen shower-soaked scenarios he didn’t want his head playing with, it was time to put his foot down.
“Shower’s over, Maggie. Finish up and hop out.”
After what sounded like some clumsy fumbling, followed by the contents of his shower shelf hitting the tub, the water cut off.
Leaning into the wall, he closed his eyes and tried not to laugh. But at the quiet “motherfucker” hissed from within, he couldn’t help it.
“Uhh, Apartment Two? Need some help?”
Another thud, slip, and fumble, and then a feeble yet pissed, “I can’t see enough to…get the towel and get out…everything in here’s white.”
He could still hear shades of Vader in the pauses between her words, but the shower and drug chug seemed to have improved it significantly.
Chin to chest, he walked into the steamy space, resolved not to look.
Strike that. He had to look if he was going to help. What he wasn’t going to do was leer. He wasn’t going to splash around in the deep end of Salacious Lake just because his favorite flavor of smack-talking good girl happened to be standing naked at the shores. They’d decided to be friends. And for some reason, out of the whole group—hell, the whole city—Maggie was the only one he’d really clicked with. She was the one who got what he was saying. The one who made him laugh first. She made him feel something other than shitty, and after the way he’d pushed everyone else away for so long, the last thing he wanted to do was screw things up with her.
Keeping his eyes on the opposite wall and his thoughts to the clinical, he grabbed a towel and stuck his hand past the shower curtain. “Here. Wrap it around you and then I’ll help you out.”
“Okay, I’m ready—no, wait…take your shirt off first. It’s contaminated from when you carried me. And wash your hands.”
“Right.” He grabbed a handful of the back of his oxford and pulled it over his head. Did a quick hand wash and turned back to the shower, where Maggie had wrapped the towel around her and pulled open the curtain.
Eve
n without looking directly at her, his damned peripheral vision was doing a bang-up job offering details he didn’t want to have. And it only got worse when he pulled her in tight to lift her out of the tub, because the smell of his soap on her skin, coupled with the soft press of her breasts against his chest, was the last thing he needed.
Make that the last thing right after the little bite of her fingers gripping his shoulders as the warm puffs of her breath washed over his neck.
He should let her go, step back. Only it had been so long since he’d had anyone in his arms that way. Since he felt the light brush of a woman’s hands on his bare skin. Add to that the woman was Maggie…and she hadn’t let go of him either?
Not. Good. At. All.
A desperate-times, drastic-measures moment if ever there was one.
Bracing, he looked into her face. And yeah, that did it with the down-boy. Because she was a mess. The girl looked like she’d just gone a few rounds in the Octagon.
“I thought the shower was going to—” He waved an open hand around in front of his face, then wondered if she could even see that far. Figured he’d test it out.
“What, are you giving me…the finger?”
Check that. She could see, at least a little. “No. How long before your eyes look normal again?”
Her free hand came halfway up to her face, then stalled out and reversed its path until it fisted at her side. “Day or so, maybe. Depends if I touch them.”
“For God’s sake, don’t touch them, then.”
She let out one of her soft laughs, and he wondered how it was possible that sound still hit him in the chest like a blow he hadn’t seen coming. “That good, huh?”
The laugh? Yeah. But he rubbed at the spot, trying to erase the feel of it, because he knew better. All he had to do was think about the way he’d woken the night before. Two a.m., Charlie’s lost cries echoing through the silent apartment. Frustration clawing at his gut.
“Turn around, Two.” Hands on her shoulders, he held her a stiff arm’s-length ahead of him as he pushed her out the bathroom door into his bedroom and sat her at the edge of his bed.