Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
R eagan had stopped in the middle of her closet project to attend to a customer emergency—an actual emergency this time. Pete Baxter’s basement had flooded courtesy of a burst pipe. It seemed he’d forgotten to detach his garden hose over the winter. When he turned on the water to sprinkle his lawn today, boom! —leak.
Pete’s out-of-state grandson had called around for a plumber, but no one could make it to the house until next week. Not ideal unless Pete wanted to take up swimming in the basement. Reagan couldn’t repair a pipe, but she could triage. She had shut off the valve, mopped up the mess, and set up a box fan to dry the utility room floor.
It’d taken her longer to do that seemingly simple task than she’d anticipated. And after a full day of shopping and working, she was exhausted, with soggy socks and a headache blooming behind one eye.
She pulled into a drive-thru to pick up dinner and realized she’d rushed out of Brody’s house and had left her wallet behind, alongside her phone. In her pocket were the same coins from earlier—not enough to buy a plastic bauble—and her truck’s change compartment held exactly eighteen cents. Even the dollar menu was out of reach for her tonight.
She growled in the back of her throat, and her stomach joined the choir. It took her forty minutes to drive back to Brody’s house. By the time she climbed out of the truck, she didn’t know if she was too hungry to sleep or too sleepy to eat.
“You forgot your phone,” he said when he met her at the door. “Noticed after you left but I couldn’t unlock it. Otherwise, I would have found out where you were and brought it to you.”
“That was thoughtful.”
“Calling a PI seemed like an overstep.” He offered an almost bashful smile. Since he’d talked so candidly about his childhood today, she’d seen a different side of him.
“Sorry to bust in on you so late. If I hadn’t left my wallet, I would have gone to Kelly’s instead of bothering you.” Her stomach roared and she was certain he’d heard it.
“Never a bother. Sounds like you’re hungry.”
“Starving. I was choosing from an entire screen of tacos when I noticed I had no money.”
“I made chicken parmigiana for dinner. Want some?”
“You, who can’t bake a frozen pizza, made chicken parmigiana?”
“I couldn’t write after you left. I had to do something. Come in.”
After a piece of chicken parmigiana and a side of buttery orzo pasta that was nothing short of heavenly, she leaned back in the kitchen chair and sighed. “That was so much better than tacos.”
“You gotta take better care of yourself.” He glanced down at her bare feet. She’d taken off her wet socks and shoes when she’d entered the house. “Want a pair of socks?”
“I need a shower.”
“I have a shower.” Heat infused the air between them. He didn’t take his eyes off her, which had her visualizing stepping into the shower with him.
She tucked one foot beneath her leg and changed the subject before she did something insane…like accept his offer. “How do you know how to make chicken parmigiana?”
He spun his beer bottle while he spoke. “One of my jobs while writing Billionaire on the Run was at a quaint Italian restaurant. The couple who owned it made incredible food. Plus, I’ve had countless meals in Rome. Learned by osmosis, I guess.”
“Rome. I should have known.” She snorted.
“You should have. The couple took me in like a son—or a stray.” He raised one eyebrow at that bit of self-deprecating humor, which made her smile. “They also taught me a thing or two in the kitchen.”
“Chicken parmigiana.”
“And Bolognese that would make you weep.”
Brody might be the first guy who’d cooked for her—not counting her grandfather’s grilled cheese sandwiches. Dustin had been the king of takeout. “I’m impressed. And grateful. I didn’t intend on dropping by at nine thirty at night and begging for food. All the same, I appreciate the meal.” She hid a yawn behind her forearm, the carbs she’d eaten weighing down her eyelids.
“How far away does Kelly live?”
“Twenty-five minutes unless there’s traffic. Unless I stay with—” She caught herself before she mentioned Ike’s name. She should have told Brody the truth to begin with. Now she was keeping secrets from him, which was ridiculous. “Jean.”
“Her light’s been out for an hour.” He stood. “Sleep here. You can borrow one of my T-shirts in addition to my socks. I can’t have my handywoman on the street.”
She was already shaking her head.
“It’s not a big deal. You can call Kelly and let her know where you are in case I turn out to be a crazed serial killer.”
“I’m not worried for my safety. Unless your sister comes home and finds me here. Her, I’m a little afraid of.”
He smiled, pleased either by her considering staying the night or her assessment of Jaylyn Crane. “My sister has procured an apartment in the city, and her furniture was delivered this morning. Guest room is open. I washed the bedding today instead of writing.”
Reagan let out a tired chuckle. “You are a master procrastinator.”
“Organized the spice cabinet too.”
She didn’t know if he was kidding, but that was beside the point. Her gaze strayed to the kitchen window where her haggard reflection stared back at her. If she did return to Kelly’s there was no way to know what sort of mood her friend would be in. Would she want to vent about her workday or binge Real Housewives over a bottle of wine? Reagan was too tired for either option.
“Just say yes,” he told her. “I can’t tell you how many people asked me to go home with them when I didn’t know where I’d sleep.” He quickly added, “Not in a sexual way. Also not what I’m offering.” He bit down on his bottom lip which made him look like a younger version of himself. She’d bet he’d been a complete heartbreaker as a teenager. “Unless you want to. In which case I’m wide open.”
She emitted a tired laugh.
“There are Egyptian cotton sheets on the bed and fancy French lavender body wash my sister left behind.”
That sounded heavenly. She sighed and hummed at the same time.
“Yeah, you’re staying. That sigh came from the depths.” He took her hand and helped her stand, walking with her down the hallway. When he pointed out the towel closet, she had to smile. She was familiar with the towel closet.
He dropped her off at the door, leaning on the frame as she took a look at what used to be her grandfather’s bedroom. A little smaller than her old room—the master—and less cluttered than when Ike had lived here.
“In the morning I’ll make you a bacon and avocado omelet.”
“You make omelets too?”
“In addition to the Italian place, I worked in a diner.”
“You’ve lived many lives, Brody Crane.” Being a part of this one was an interesting shake-up in her already shaken-up life.
“Need anything else? Extra pillow? Toothbrush? Cuddle buddy?”
She shoved his chest and ended up resting her hand there for longer than she’d intended. He palmed her hand, stroked her fingers, and she didn’t miss when his gaze dipped to her mouth.
“Good night,” she whispered, sliding her hand away before she made the mistake of pressing her lips to his. She shut the door and rested her back against it.
“See you in the morning,” he said through the door.
Phew. That was a close one.
Last night, Brody had stared unseeing at his laptop while Reagan had showered. He’d tried not to imagine her naked, honest to God, and had failed spectacularly. He planned on stealing another kiss. This morning he’d decided to go for the one-two punch of coffee and the dish he’d named after himself: his specialty omelet, the Bromelet .
He liked taking care of her, especially because she didn’t take very good care of herself. She dropped everything to run to someone else’s aid, half the time forgetting to feed herself. She picked up the phone at all hours, despite a self-proclaimed quitting time of seven o’clock. And, after mentioning what she planned on billing for last night’s call, he knew she wasn’t charging what she was worth.
His ex-girlfriend hadn’t been as generous. Alexis had believed that everyone around her was there to do her bidding. Hell, she’d treated him like he’d worked for her half the time. That had worn very thin very fast.
Reagan didn’t expect anyone to take care of her. Not that he’d specifically tasked himself with that charge, but whenever she was around the urge to do just that was overwhelming.
So, he’d planned on waking her first thing this morning. He’d pictured her asleep in the guest room, her arm thrown over her face, sheets tangled around her bare legs. He’d decided to wake her with coffee, or kisses. Or both.
Instead, when he stumbled into the kitchen at seven thirty to start the coffee pot, he found she’d beaten him to it.
He scrubbed his unshaven face with one hand. “You’re up.”
“So are you.” Her gaze jerked from his boxers and T-shirt and bare feet back to the coffee pot.
“I didn’t get dressed. Thought you were asleep.”
“No big deal. I heard you coming down the hall.” She handed him a full mug. Was it him or was she struggling to keep her attention above his neck? “Which reminds me, I need to fix that squeaky floorboard.”
“How’d you sleep?” His voice was craggy this early in the morning.
“Great after my shower.”
Groan. He had not needed a reminder of that enticing visual.
He sipped the coffee and then moaned for a different reason entirely. It was strong—the way he liked it. “This tastes amazing.”
“I make great coffee.” She smiled at the edge of her mug before a serious expression crossed her face. “Thank you for letting me sleep here. I went to bed after my shower and died. I also appreciate the T-shirt and sock loan.”
He glanced down at her feet, where she still wore his socks. She was back in her own T-shirt and jeans, though.
Bummer.
“So my guest bed rivals Kelly’s couch?”
“Definitely. I love Kelly but she’s going through it right now with her ex-husband. She can be…a lot.”
“Those transitional times are hard. You’re in one, you know. I would think you’d have a lot to commiserate with when it came to relationships. Wasn’t your ex a dick?” It was more of a hope than an actual question. Not that he liked the idea of Reagan dating a jerk, but from a purely selfish standpoint he’d like to hear about how he’d one-upped that loser.
“He was a nice guy.”
Brody pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. “Nice guys are as boring as plain white toast.”
“Are you saying you’re not nice?”
“I’m saying that when a woman describes a guy as ‘nice,’ it usually means he didn’t know how to please her.” He waved the egg carton. “And they usually mean that in more than one way.”
She opened her mouth but closed it again, unable to argue with his logic. Intuitively he’d known that her former boyfriend had been a dry-as-toast, disconnected loser who hadn’t given her what she needed or deserved—in the bedroom and out.
“Lucky for you, I know how to please a woman in myriad ways.” He gave her a cheesy wink. “Ready for your world-famous Bromelet ?”
“Did you just say Bromelet ?”
“It’s my signature dish.”
“As tempting as it is to?—”
“Be pleased by me?” he interrupted, hoping to change her mind. The word no was speeding at him faster than a bullet train. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had my omelet.”
“Thanks, but I should get going.” Her gaze darted to the front door. “I have to swing by the apartment and change. If I have clean laundry. Then there’s the grocery, the bank, and I need to stop by the post office to check my PO box.”
“A simple no thanks will suffice.” He offered a smile, slighted by the list of excuses. “It’s not a requirement to stay for breakfast.”
“What if I come by later to work on the shelves in the closet?”
“You make your own schedule.”
“I would stay, but I also need to pick up some paint, and?—”
“Reagan.” He touched her arm lightly. “It’s fine.”
“I promise to return your socks.”
This was beginning to feel like a bad one-night stand without the sex. He kissed her forehead. “See you later. Keep the socks.”
Her throat worked when he backed away. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d taken a lingering look at his mouth. His gaze dipped to her lips, but the moment he lowered his head a fraction of an inch, she muttered a hasty goodbye and then bolted out the front door.
“Something I said?” he muttered to himself. He cracked a few eggs into a bowl. “Omelet for one, I guess.”
Then the front door opened, and he felt a smile crest his mouth. “Change your mind? Can’t blame you. I make…” When he looked toward the doorway, his smile fell. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Jaylyn dropped her purse on the kitchen table. “Your handywoman practically bowled me over in her haste to leave. What’d you do?”
“Offered her breakfast. She said no.”
“She turned down a Bromelet ?”
He was somewhat mollified by the disbelief in his sister’s voice. “She had to run errands and didn’t have time to eat.”
“She stayed here?” Jaylyn came closer to the stove as he fired up a burner and set a pan on to heat.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. She left something behind and came to pick it up. By then she was too tired to drive, so I offered her the guest room.”
“That’s all that happened?”
“That’s it.”
He continued cracking eggs, aware of his sister staring at the back of his head. She was probably wondering how the hell a beautiful blonde had stayed the night without ending up in Brody’s bed. He was wondering the same thing.
After a moment of silence, she asked, “Are you making me one?”
“Grab bacon out of the refrigerator and don’t give me shit about Reagan and I’ll make you one.”
Half an hour later, their plates were empty and another pot of coffee had been brewed. Jaylyn lifted a slice of bacon and munched on it. “I’m not a very good vegetarian.”
“You are when you don’t eat meat. Life isn’t meant to be perfect.” He sipped from his mug. “How’s the new place?”
“Tidy. Neat. Boring. I need something to do.”
“Like what?”
“I was thinking about taking on a project.”
“You want to work?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but I thought you were content to learn and travel.”
“I was . Now I am ready to express myself in a new way.”
He understood. Traveling, learning about life, dating, and partying had been fun while in his twenties. Then he hit thirty and began wondering if there was more to life. Jaylyn seemed to have had a similar epiphany, albeit five years sooner than he had.
“I like to work when I feel inspired.” He sent a derisive glare toward his laptop in the other room. Hopefully Reagan would return soon, and in full Muse Mode. Otherwise…well, he had his doubts about spontaneous inspiration.
“I’ve always loved sketching jewelry ideas, and when I designed this a few years ago”—she showed off her skull ring—“I went to the shop and watched as he created it. It was fascinating. There were all these metal files and blowtorches?—”
“Blowtorches?” He raised one eyebrow. “You want to work in a machine shop?”
“God, no.” She shook her head. “But understanding the process helps to know what’s possible.”
“We have that in common.” He held out his arms to refer to the house. “You learn by immersion too.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I think we inherited that from Dad, don’t you?”
“That, and a resistance to putting down roots.” If there was one thing O had taught his children, it was to stay mobile. The man rarely stopped, but it had served him well.
“I’ve been working on new designs.” Jaylyn scratched her nail on the kitchen table’s surface as if shy about admitting that. “I kind of want to try to sell some of my original designs. It would be fun to take special orders. Like commissions.”
There was no denying her cautious excitement.
“I think that’s a great idea.”
“You do?” Her eyebrows lifted.
“Absolutely. You don’t need anyone’s permission. Go do it. Try it out. See if you like it.”
“Yeah. I could just…try it out.”
“You come from a long line of entrepreneurs, J. There’s no way you won’t succeed. It’s in your blood.”
“Thanks.” She stood from the table. “I’m going to shop for office furniture. If I’m an entrepreneur, my apartment should reflect that vibe.”
He decided not to argue that she didn’t need an office to start sketching her ring designs or hire virtual manufacturers. He’d learned most of what he knew by trial and error and had a feeling she’d learn the same way.
She pulled her purse onto her shoulder. “I forgot to ask. How’s the book?”
His least favorite question.
“Fine. Good.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t sound fine or good.”
“I write more when Reagan is here.”
“Really? Isn’t it difficult to keep your fingers on the keyboard while your mouth is fused to hers?” She grinned, proud of herself for that one. “Oh, by the way, Dante hasn’t called me back yet. Do you think he’s ignoring me?”
“He’s not ignoring you. He’s busy.”
Her lips screwed to one side. “I’ll try him again. I’m hoping he’ll come to Zan and Chloe’s housewarming party. You’re coming, right?”
“Of course.”
“Are you bringing a date ?” she asked meaningfully.
“Maybe.”
He followed her to the front door. She scowled past him at his laptop, which was currently sitting on a sofa cushion, lid open, screen dark. “You need a desk.”
“Pass.” A desk would make him feel more confined, not less. “I can write in a coffee shop if I want to feel like a real writer.”
“You are a real writer. A famous, bestselling one.” She hopped onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Thanks for joining me.”
Once she left, he considered going to a coffee shop to write. He’d written his first book in lots of weird places. Sipping coffee and people-watching sounded like more fun than cleaning the kitchen. Maybe that was the missing piece…
But as he shut off the warmer for the coffee pot and grabbed his laptop, he thought of Reagan and how motivated he was whenever she was here.
This time around, it seemed the missing piece was her.