About That Night Page 8

  If you liked that sort of thing.

  “How’d you do on the SATs?” he asked.

  “How did you know I took the SATs?”

  “I took them the same day. Remember?”

  Well, of course she remembered. She just hadn’t thought he’d noticed her there that morning.

  “I did okay.” Actually, she’d done better than okay. And really, was it so horrible if she casually mentioned her score? He might be good-looking, popular and athletic, but she was smart. Everyone knew the teenagers deemed geeks and nerds by their peers ended up ruling the world as adults. She couldn’t wait. “I got eighteen hundred.”

  It wasn’t bragging. It was the truth. He’d asked. She’d answered. Simple as that.

  “That’s great,” he said, sounding as if he really meant it. Not that she’d wanted him to be envious or anything, she quickly assured herself. “Me, too. Well, eighteen forty.”

  She stopped, her body slamming to a halt out of pure shock—unfortunately, she’d just stepped off the corner and into the road. An approaching car beeped, quite aggressively, if you asked her, and Luke took her arm. Waved pleasantly at the driver as he tugged her across the street.

  “Congratulations,” she managed. “On your score.” The score that was forty points higher than hers.

  Guess karma was working after all, giving her a good kick in the rear for being so mean-spirited. For assuming he was some dumb jock.

  He shrugged. “I did well on the math portion but just okay on the English. And I completely bombed the writing.” He sent her another of those carefree, aren’t-we-just-two-buddies-strolling-down-the-street grins. “Guess it’s a good thing I don’t plan on being a writer.”

  Gracie had aced the English and writing portions, but her math score was just above average. See? They were opposites, with nothing in common. She shouldn’t feel bad about not wanting to walk with him.

  A car went by, someone yelling Luke’s name over the heavy bass of their rap song. He waved, apparently not the least bit worried to be seen with her. He sidestepped a mailbox, and she got a whiff of his cologne. It was subtle, not overpowering like Andrew’s or a lot of the boys at school. What did they do? Bathe in the stuff?

  Luke’s was...nice...though. Soft and spicy but not perfume-y.

  And why she was sniffing the boy and critiquing his stupid cologne, she had no idea.

  Spying Bradford House, she picked up her pace, which he easily matched thanks to his longer legs. But it didn’t matter, because in a matter of moments, she’d be going her way and he’d be going his—wherever that might be. The baseball field two blocks away or one of his friends’ houses. Didn’t his Mean Girls–clone girlfriend, Kennedy, live around here?

  At the walkway leading up to the Victorian bed-and-breakfast, Gracie stopped. “Well, goodbye,” she said so abruptly, so obviously wanting to get rid of him, she wondered if she’d suffered some sort of brain damage during her sleep last night. She considered softening her brusqueness by saying she’d talk to him later, but they probably wouldn’t see each other until school started again, so why bother? “Have a good summer.”

  “Actually, I’m going in there, too,” he said with a nod toward the house.

  She had to tip her head back to see his face. “Why would you do that?”

  He scratched the side of his jaw, and she noticed the stubble covering his cheeks and chin. “Because I work there. Here, I mean.”

  The birds stopped chirping, car engines ceased to rumble, even her heart quit beating. Everything went still and silent. Except for the roaring in her head, of course. That was loud and clear. “What?”

  “I work here. Today’s my first day.”

  Impossible. She worked at Bradford House. Had quit at King’s Crossing and taken a job here as part-time housekeeper a few months back when Ivy took over as the chef. Now that summer was here, Gracie also babysat the B and B’s manager, Fay Lindemuth’s, two young boys three times a week and on weekends.

  Gracie whirled around and almost ran up the walk to the porch, took the steps two at a time, well aware Luke was behind her. That he probably thought she was some sort of freak. Stepping inside, she hurried down the hall, through the dining room and into the small office.

  Fay sat behind her desk, her almost three-year-old son, Mitchell, on the floor playing cars. As soon as Mitch saw Gracie he jumped to his feet. “Gracie! Hi, Gracie! Hi! Want to play cars?”

  “Maybe later, buddy,” she said. Luckily, he was much easier going than his older brother, Elijah, who would have had a major fit at being told no.

  Mitch just grinned. “Okay.” And plopped down again.

  Gracie went around the desk, lowered her voice as she spoke to Fay. “Did you hire—” the sound of footsteps behind her made her turn, and she pointed at Luke “—him?”

  Standing, Fay smiled her soft, serene smile. “Yes, to help with the yard work, housekeeping and to pitch in with Ivy in the kitchen.”

  Then she skirted around Gracie as if she wasn’t trying to ruin Gracie’s life and make her completely miserable.

  Overly dramatic? A bit. But also apt.

  “Hello, Luke,” Fay said. “Welcome to Bradford House.”

  He shook Fay’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindemuth. I’m excited to get started.”

  Gracie shook her head. This wasn’t happening. This was not happening. She couldn’t be coworkers with Luke Sapko.

  She gave a mental eye roll. Okay, okay, so she could be coworkers with him. She just didn’t want to be. Didn’t want to be around him or anyone who reminded her of Andrew.

  Who reminded her of what a fool she’d been.

  “What about John?” Gracie asked of the retired man who’d been taking care of the yard.

  “His wife had a hip replaced, and he’s taking the rest of the summer off to help her recuperate.” Fay frowned. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Gracie bit back a scream. For one thing, yelling at her boss didn’t seem conducive to a happy, stress-free work environment—or the chance of ever getting a raise. For another, she liked Fay. How could you not? There was no one as sweet, patient or kindhearted.

  It was almost unnatural.

  “No,” Gracie said, grateful to have regained some semblance of composure. Even if it was cracked. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Hmm,” Fay said, still stuck on her memory lapse. “I could have sworn I did. Oh, well, you found out for yourself.” She turned to Luke. “John mowed the grass two days ago and did the weeding, and since Ivy’s off today and tomorrow— oh, Ivy is our chef. You’ll meet her Thursday—Gracie will take you with her while she cleans rooms. Show you the ropes.”

  “That sounds great,” Luke said with that big old smile. Sure. Great for him. He was probably used to girls falling all over themselves, scrambling to spend even a minute with him.

  For Gracie? Not so great.

  Sometimes life was just completely unfair.

  Guess she’d just have to deal with it.

  “Do you have the housekeeping sheet?” Gracie asked. Fay kept a list of which rooms needed cleaning, updated twice a day.

  Fay handed her the sheet. “Oh! I didn’t even introduce you two,” Fay said, sounding upset, as if this tiny oversight was a huge deal.

  “I’ve known Gracie all my life,” Luke said. “We were in the same preschool class and everything.”

  At least he hadn’t said something stupid and untrue. Like that they were friends.

  Gracie walked out without waiting to see if he followed. Headed toward the supply closet off the kitchen. She wasn’t going to let his presence bother her. She may have spent way too much time thinking about his stupid best friend since last fall, but that was over now.

  Stepping into the closet, she flipped on the light—and about had a heart attack when Luke touched her shoulder.

  “Gracie, are you all right?” he asked quietly, his gaze direct and honest.

  But then, what did she know? She’d thought Andrew
was honest, too.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her tone brisk. “You startled me. That’s all.”

  “No, I mean...you seem pissed at me. Did I do something to upset you?”

  He hadn’t, and guilt for treating him rudely filled her. Made her sick to her stomach.

  God, she was acting like a walking, talking, breathing cliché—the girl with the broken heart, putting up barriers. It was ridiculous. This wasn’t even close to being the same situation she’d been in with Andrew.

  Even if it had been, she was different. Wiser. More experienced.

  “Everything’s fine,” she told him, hoping to make it true.

  He must have believed her because he smiled. “Here,” he said when she started gathering supplies, “let me get those.”

  She handed them over, vowing to herself that she’d be friendlier to Luke.

  But she wouldn’t be as naive as she’d been with Andrew. As foolish.

  She wouldn’t trust Luke. Wouldn’t like him. No matter what.

  * * *

  C.J. STEPPED INTO the elevator of his apartment building and prayed like hell it would break up the reception.

  “It’s not fair,” his mother complained, her voice loud and clear over his cell phone.

  Damn reliable service.

  He jabbed the button for his floor, the headache that had started when he’d answered her call ten minutes ago worsening by the second. He watched the numbers light up as the elevator rose. Three. Four. Five.

  Twenty to go. Twenty floors of listening to Gwen bitch and moan.

  He slumped against the wall. Hell.

  “Your father,” Gwen continued, with all the venom that had poisoned her since her husband left her for another woman—close to thirty freaking years ago now, “has more money than anyone could spend in ten lifetimes, and he’s refusing to give me my fair share.”

  Gwen could handle Senior cheating on her. She’d ignored it for years during their marriage, had figured they’d continue on in that vein. What she would not accept was her husband actually choosing another woman over her for the long haul.

  Not that the long haul was all that long. Of Senior’s five marriages, the longest had been to Rosalyn, Oakes’s mom, at ten years. And with things between Senior and Carrie being strained since the engagement party, and getting worse, C.J. doubted the two of them would make it to their fourth anniversary.

  Thinking of the engagement party only reminded C.J. of Ivy. Of her amazing face, that sinful body. Of how she moved. The sound of her voice. How she’d felt under his hands, how responsive she’d been to his touch. His kiss.

  How she’d walked out on him.

  “It’s impossible for me to survive on such a paltry sum,” Gwen insisted.

  “Paltry?” He tapped the back of his head against the wall. Then again. And one more time for good measure. “Your monthly alimony is more than most people make in a year.”

  She sniffed. “Normal people, maybe. All I’m asking is that I’m given enough to continue living in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. Really, if you think about it, the way your father is treating me is unethical.”

  Unethical? His mom was using big-girl words. Never a good sign. “Is that your opinion? Or someone else’s?”

  “David and I had lunch today. He thinks we have a strong case and should ask for an increase in my support.”

  “Of course David thinks you have a strong case.” Gwen’s longtime attorney loved nothing more than suing people. Except maybe billing well-off divorcees. “I don’t think going after more money while Dad’s still recovering from his stroke is a good idea.”

  “Is he getting worse?”

  And that had sounded way too eager for C.J.’s peace of mind. His mother, a nipped, tucked, bleached-blonde vulture. “No.”

  But Senior wasn’t getting better, either, even though it had been more than a year since the stroke. His father was trapped in his body with very little hope of ever being able to walk or talk or even feed himself again.

  “I loved your father,” Gwen said, her voice wobbly. C.J. had no doubt that she’d worked up a tear or two, even though he wasn’t there to witness them. “I gave him the best years of my life. I supported him. I was there for him, by his side, through the tough times. I helped him build Bartasavich Industries into what it is today. I deserve to be fairly compensated.”

  Best years of her life? He wasn’t touching that one, considering she’d been younger than C.J. was now when she and Senior had divorced. “The company was already well established when you and Dad got married,” he reminded her.

  No, it hadn’t been as big as it would become, but it had still been a top company in the state. Now it was a top contender in the country.

  “You know I’d never wish any ill will on your father,” Gwen said, her tone perfectly balanced between outrage and heartbreak. “Why, I forgave him for how horribly he treated me.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure he appreciated it,” C.J. said as he left the elevator and dug his keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door and stepped inside while Gwen cranked up her crying from sniffles to out-and-out sobs.

  He walked through the foyer, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood, then made his way to his bedroom. Tossed the phone on the bed, set his briefcase down and took off his jacket and tie. Undid the top buttons of his shirt while he toed off his shoes, then removed his Stetson and stabbed his fingers through his hair.

  He picked up the phone. Yep. Still crying. Wrapping both hands around the device, he pretended to choke it then brought it back to his ear as she hit a particularly grating wail. He winced. Tugged at his earlobe as he picked up his briefcase and went out into the kitchen.

  His steps faltered and he froze. The hair on his arms stood on end. The tips of his fingers tingled. He smelled her first, that intoxicating scent that he hadn’t been able to forget. Even as he tried to tell himself he was imagining it, he turned slowly, cautiously.

  And, through the doorway to the study, saw Ivy sitting on his leather sofa. She was like a fantasy come true in a short strapless sundress the color of ripe peaches, her long tanned legs crossed, one strappy high-heeled sandal dangling from her toes. Her hair was back, a few wisps loose at her temples, silver hoops in her ears.

  She’d come to him. Had sought him out.

  He squashed the joy that tried to wiggle its way into his chest. Yeah, he may have thought of her once or twice or a hundred times in the past four months. May have dreamed of her. Relived their night together. May have considered making another trip to Shady Grove, to King’s Crossing, to find her. But in the end, his pride had stopped him from hunting her down like some infatuated fool.

  Thank God.

  “Mother,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving Ivy, “I have to go.”

  “But, C.J.—”

  He hung up and, knowing she’d call back—and lecture him on his rudeness—turned the phone off.

  “How is your mama?” Ivy asked while he stood there staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “Still dating the beefcake?”

  C.J. walked toward her as though he was a trout she was reeling in, unable to resist her pull. He stopped in front of her, forcing her to tip her head back. “What are you doing here?”

  Ivy shrugged her golden shoulders. Smiled. “I came to see you. Now, be honest. Did you miss me?”

  The question hit him with equal parts fury and embarrassment because, damn it, while he hadn’t missed her—hard to miss someone he didn’t even know—he had thought of her.

  And the confident gleam in her eye told him she knew it.

  “Don’t tell me,” he managed to drawl in an even tone. “You’re a mild-mannered waitress by day, a cat burglar by night.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Mainly because he’d envisioned her, quite clearly and in great detail, in a snug black outfit. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”

  She laughed. He couldn’t say he didn’t like the sound.
/>   Damn her.

  When she finally wound down, she leaned forward, still swinging that foot. Winked at him. “I don’t have to break in anywhere.” She slowly uncrossed her legs and stood in one smooth motion. Looked up at him from under her lashes, a trick she’d probably learned in her crib. “Let’s just say I have certain...charms...that open a lot of doors for me.”

  So much for his apartment building’s advanced security system.

  He should be pissed—rip-roaring, teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling pissed—not mildly irritated. Not wondering how, exactly, she’d managed to talk her way into his home. Not wanting to find out more about her.

  Not wanting to reach out and rub one of those loose curls between his fingers. To step closer and breathe her in. Touch her.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. Stepped back. She’d really screwed him up. Had him retreating. It grated his pride, which had kept him sane and controlled all these months.

  “So, you were in the neighborhood and thought you’d look me up?” he asked, wanting badly for that to be true.

  She strolled over to the glass doors leading to the balcony. “Houston isn’t exactly one of my regular hangouts. But for this view,” she said with a nod at the twelve-acre park his suite overlooked, the city of Houston behind it, “I might have to change that.”

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “I did some digging. You’d be amazed what a woman can find out with a Wi-Fi connection, a name and a few clicks of a mouse.”

  “What are you? Nancy Drew?”

  “Not quite that innocent. As you well know.” She looked around. “Not going to offer me a drink?”

  This entire experience was so surreal, he almost did. “No. What are you doing here?”

  “It seems I have something of yours.”

  He hadn’t noticed anything missing from his wallet that night. He had his watch. His phone. All the personal belongings he’d brought with him to Shady Grove four months ago. “Still playing games, I see.”

  “Oh, but you know how much I enjoy those games,” she purred, walking toward him, all sex appeal and artifice. She touched his chest, the warmth of her fingers burning him through the material of his shirt. “You didn’t mind when you took me to bed.”