Читать книгу Mr Right, Next Door! - Barbara Wallace, Barbara Wallace - Страница 7

HE WAS doing it again.

Since she’d moved in a month ago, Sophie Messina’s neighbor had been banging, buzzing and doing Lord knows what in his upstairs apartment, making it completely impossible for her to concentrate.

Didn’t he realize some people liked quiet on their weekends? That people had work to do?

Breathing out a determined sigh, she redoubled her efforts. Allen Breckinridge, one of her managing directors, had announced yesterday afternoon that he needed this merger model for a meeting on Tuesday, which meant she needed to review and correct the work her junior analyst sent over this morning before passing the figures along. And, since no report could ever be finalized without repeating the process at least four times, she needed to make her notes quickly. A lot of analysts would be tempted to make nitpicky comments, more to emphasize their involvement than anything, but Sophie preferred to work efficiently. Last thing she wanted was the managing directors thinking she was the kink in the bottleneck. Especially since she planned on being a managing director herself someday. Sooner rather than later too if all went according to plan.

Bam!

Oh, for crying out loud, what was he doing up there? Kickboxing holes in the wall? She whipped off her reading glasses and tossed them on the dining room table. This was ridiculous. She must have slipped a half-dozen notes under his door asking him to kindly cease and desist whatever it was he was doing. First politely, and then threatening to bring the issue to the co-op owners association, but he’d ignored all of them. Well, no more. This noise was going to stop. Today.

Smoothing back her sleek blond ponytail, she stepped outside into the building entryway and shivered as her bare feet met the wood flooring. Before being renovated into co-op apartments, the building had been a brownstone mansion. For one reason or another, the architects kept the public areas and her apartment as true to the original decor as possible which was why a large and very ornate crystal chandelier hung in the entranceway. Sophie had to admit, she loved everything about the nineteenth-century fixtures, from the dark wood molding to the sprawling central stairway with its spindled railings and balustrade. They gave the building an Old World kind of feeling, conjuring up words like historic in her head. Words that implied stability. She liked stability.

She liked tranquility, too. A quality that had been distinctly absent the past four weekends. As she climbed the stairs, she swore the banging grew louder with each step. Did he have to do whatever it was he was doing at the loudest possible volume?

This wasn’t how she envisioned her first conversation with a neighbor. Actually, she hadn’t planned on having a conversation at all. One of the reasons she moved to the city two decades ago was because you could go months, years even, without exchanging more than a nod and a hello with the people around you. Not that she was antisocial. She just preferred being able to choose who she socialized with. She had too much she needed to accomplish to waste time frivolously. The only reason she even remotely knew this particular neighbor’s name was because his mailbox was located next to hers, and she’d needed to know who she should address her letters to. G. Templeton. She’d seen the same name on the side of a pickup truck parked outside. Some sort of contractor, she believed.

Was that what he was doing now? Contracting? Memories of half-finished DIY projects and drunken destruction popped into her brain before she could stop them. What the heck? Buying her own place was supposed to distance her from those days, not bring them racing back. At her age she should be over being plagued by the ghosts of the past. Yet no matter how much she accomplished or worked, they never seemed to completely recede. She could always feel them, lurking, keeping her on guard. In some ways, their insistence was a blessing; they kept her working and focused. Otherwise, she’d still be stuck in some banged-up, roach-infested apartment like the one she grew up in on Pond Street, instead of owning her own brownstone co-op. A co-op she’d thought would be quiet and tranquil.

By the time she reached the second floor landing, noise punctuating each step, Sophie was thoroughly aggravated. Every bang seemed to reverberate off the fleur-de-lis wallpaper and settle right between her shoulder blades fueling her irritability. Mr. Templeton was going to get an earful, that’s for certain. Summoning up every inch of her authoritative demeanor, she knocked on his door. The response was another bang.

Fine. Two could play this game. She pounded back in kind.

“Mr. Templeton,” she called sharply.

“Hold on, hold on, I’m coming!” a gruff voice called out. As if he were the one being bothered.

Folding her arms across her chest, Sophie prepared to remind Mr. Templeton about the existence of other residents and the need to respect people’s personal solitude, not to mention their right to an undisturbed weekend.

The door opened.

Good God Almighty. Sophie’s biting lecture died on her tongue. Standing on the other side of the threshold had to be, hands-down, the most incredible-looking man she’d ever seen. Not cover-model handsome—handsome was far too benign a word anyway—but rugged in a sensual way with smooth tanned skin and a square-cut jaw. A slightly too-long nose kept his face from being overly perfect and yet on him the feature fit. Strong men demanded strong features and this, Sophie could tell, was definitely a strong man. He had hair the color of dark honey and eyes that reminded her of caramel candy. Not to mention a chest custom-built for splaying your hands against.

He was also at least a decade younger than she was, and holding a sledgehammer, the obvious source of her disturbance. Both realizations quickly brought Sophie back to earth. She lifted her jaw, once again prepared to complain.

“Mr. Templeton?” she repeated. Just to be certain.

The caramel eyes made a slow sweep of her from head to toe. “Who wants to know?”

If he thought the open assessment would unnerve her, he was mistaken. She’d been fending off harassing looks since college graduation. None of them as blatant or as smoldering perhaps, but she’d fended them off nonetheless. “I’m Sophie Messina from downstairs.”

He nodded in recognition. “The lady who writes the notes. What can I do for you, Mrs. Messina?”

“Miss,” she corrected, although she wasn’t quite sure why, or why she didn’t say “Ms.”

Biceps rippled as he propped the hammer against the frame and folded his arms, mimicking her stance. “Okay, what can I do for you, Miss Messina?”

Sophie was pretty certain he already knew. “You’ve been doing a lot of banging lately.”

“Renovating,” he replied. “I’m gutting the main bathroom, getting her ready to install a claw-foot tub.”

“Interesting.” The image momentarily distracted her. Rough and rugged didn’t go with claw-footed baths.

She smoothed her hair, as much to rein in her thoughts as to keep the unruly strands in line. “Well, I’m trying to build a financial model for a potential acquisition.”

He drew his lips together. They were nice-shaped lips, too. “Financial model, did you say?”

“Yes. I’m an investment analyst. For Twamley Greenwood,” she added, figuring the prestigious name might emphasize the project’s significance.

“Good for you.” Clearly, her employer credentials didn’t impress him. “What would you like me to do?”

Wasn’t the request obvious? Stop making so much blasted noise. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind keeping it down. Your loud banging makes concentrating difficult.”

“Little hard to bang any softer,” he drawled in reply. “By nature banging is a loud activity. Even the word—bang—” he let the word burst loudly from his lips “—implies as much.”

Sophie gritted her teeth. She knew that condescending tone. He wasn’t taking her complaint seriously. “Look,” she said, drawing herself up to her full five feet and five inches—a meaningless gesture since he still had at least a half a foot on her. “I’ve asked you several times if you could please keep the noise down.”

“No, you’ve slid notes under my door commanding me to ‘cease and desist.’ You haven’t asked me anything.”

“Fine. I’m asking you now. Could you please keep the noise down?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “No can do.”

No? “No?” she repeated.

“Told you, I’m gutting the bathroom. Do you have any idea what that entails?”

“Yes,” she replied. Visions of those biceps swinging a sledgehammer came to mind.

“You sure? Because if you don’t—” a gleam entered his brown gaze “—you’re welcome to come in for a demonstration. Maybe even do a little swinging yourself.”

“I—I—” Was he flirting with her? The audacity had her speechless. The image of those muscular arms didn’t help, either.

Taking a deep breath, more to regain her mental purchase than anything else, she tried again. Blunter this time. “Look, Mr. Templeton, I have a lot of work to do—”

“So do I,” he interrupted. He shifted his weight again, biceps rippling a little more. Challenging her or trying to distract her, Sophie wasn’t sure. He was succeeding in doing both. “It’s Saturday afternoon, not the middle of the night, and last time I looked, renovating my home, on my weekend, was completely acceptable. If the banging bothers you so much, I suggest you go build your model somewhere else.”

That wasn’t the point. Sure, she had a nice big office in the financial district where she could work, but Sophie didn’t want to go into Manhattan. What good was owning your own home if you had to twist your life around others’ wishes, and besides, she shelled out a lot of hard-earned money for this place. If she wanted to work at home, by God, she should be able to.

Which begged the question of how a guy his age managed to buy into this address in the first place. It had taken her twenty years of saving and paying off her education loans before she accumulated a sizable down payment. Maybe he didn’t mind having debt the way she did. Or he was a closet millionaire. But then why would he be redoing his apartment by himself on weekends?

Never mind; she didn’t really care. She just wanted to get back to work. “I would agree with you if we were talking about one afternoon, but we’re talking every afternoon for a month. That’s a lot of gutting.”

“What can I say?” he answered with a shrug. “I’ve got a lot of renovation to do.”

He was purposely ignoring her point. Sophie couldn’t help noting her analysts would never get away with copping such an attitude. Maybe this confrontation would go better if she’d approached him when dressed more professionally. She’d be the first to admit her cotton skirt and Polo shirt didn’t scream authority. Casual clothes tended to make her look girlish.

Still, she tried, jutting her chin and mustering her sternest voice. A take-no-excuses tone she’d perfected over the years. “What about the other tenants? How do they feel about all these renovations?”

He shrugged again. “No one’s complained so far.”

“Really?”

“You’re the only one.”

Sophie smoothed her ponytail. Time to make him take her complaints seriously; show him she meant business. “Perhaps when I bring this up to the building association you’ll hear differently.”

“Oh, right. I forgot your last note threatened to contact the association.”

At last, maybe they were getting somewhere. “Glad to see you read them. I’m sure you’d prefer not to make this a big, official issue.”

“I would, except for one thing.” The gleam reappeared in his eye. “I’m the association president.”

He had to be kidding.

“The other tenants didn’t want to be bothered with building maintenance issues so they gladly let me handle everything,” he continued. He unfolded his arms, jamming one hand in his back pocket and letting the other rest off the hammer handle. “Come to think of it, that’s probably why they don’t mind the banging.”

“Unbelievable,” Sophie muttered.

“Not really. Not when I’m the best person for the job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some tiles I need to take down.” He reached for the door.

“Wait!” She shoved her bare foot forward to block the door. Thankfully he noticed. “What about the banging? What am I supposed to do until you’re finished?”

“The store around the corner sells noise-canceling headphones. If I were you, I’d consider checking them out.”

Sophie barely had time to slide her foot back before the door slammed in her face.

Five o’clock came early, and it came even earlier on Monday morning. Earlier still since Sophie had spent until almost 1:00 a.m. making sure the last round of revisions were done and in Breckinridge’s in-box before going to bed. Much as she longed to sleep in and make up for the late hours, she couldn’t. The overseas markets were already entering their volatile hours and she was expected to know what was going on. That is, she expected it of herself. She didn’t want to risk the chance she’d get caught off guard. Being prepared was something she prided herself on, like being efficient and goal-oriented. Although all three would be a lot easier with more than four hours’ sleep.

Then again, a lack of sleep came with the territory. If you wanted to get ahead, you put in the hours.

And, she intended to get ahead. So far ahead that eventually Pond Street and all the other ghosts from her past were nothing more than vague, faded images. Then once she’d made it, she’d retire early and sleep in all the mornings she wanted. She was already halfway along her timetable and if the rumors were true and Raymond Twamley was planning to step aside, she could be even closer. A full two years ahead of her schedule.

Until then, she’d always have coffee. She flipped off the plastic lid to see how much of the lifesaving liquid she had left. A quarter of caramel-colored liquid greeted her. Interesting, she thought. Her neighbor’s eyes had been a similar color, especially when they’d taken on that flirtatious gleam. Not that she cared. The man had shut his door in her face, the hot-looking, rude…

“Reading tea leaves?”

She didn’t have to look up to know who was asking. While normally she made a point of maintaining a professional distance from her colleagues, David Harrington was the one exception. A member of the firm’s legal department, he had introduced himself at the company Christmas party a few years earlier, and she’d quickly discovered he made the perfect companion. “More like trying to see if I could absorb the caffeine through my eyeballs,” she muttered.

A slight frown crossed his rangy features. “That’s obviously not going to happen.”

No kidding, Sophie almost said aloud, before quickly biting the words back. Normally she found David’s tendency to be painstakingly literal easy to deal with, but lack of sleep had her tired and quick-tempered. It was going to take a lot of caffeine to keep her pleasant and reasonable all day.

Proving her point to herself, she took a long drink from her cup.

The silver-haired lawyer settled himself on the edge of the desk. Despite the early hour, he looked perfectly put together in his gray suit and aquamarine tie. But then, he always looked put together. He didn’t have to try to look professional; he simply was.

“I stopped by to see how you were doing. You sounded pretty stressed when you cancelled our dinner date Saturday,” he explained.

Sophie felt a little stab of guilt. “I am sorry about that,” she replied. “Allen had the whole office running in circles all weekend. I barely had time to breathe.”

He waved off her apology. “Forget it. I know all about Allen’s demands. We’ll try that particular restaurant another time.”

“Thank you for understanding.” One of the things she appreciated about David was that he did understand these things. He was also unflappable, professional and career-focused. Uncomplicated. That was the best word for him. True, he wasn’t the most thrilling man in the world and the physical aspects of their relationship wouldn’t inspire love songs, but he was exactly the kind of man she would choose if and when it came time to think about a long-term relationship.

“I would have been lousy company even without Allen’s last-minute project,” she told him. “I was having neighbor problems. Remember the banger?” Briefly she filled him in on her encounter with G. Templeton, starting with the banging and ending with their abrupt goodbye. For obvious reasons, she left out the part about his biceps and flirtatious grin.

As she expected, David was appropriately outraged. “He just shut the door in your face? Without saying goodbye?”

“Clearly he felt he’d said all there was to say.”

“More like he wanted to avoid the discussion. I’m guessing you weren’t the first neighbor to complain.”

“He says I am.”

“Nonsense. Bet you ten dollars when the tenant association meets, there are lots of complaints.”

“Doubtful. Turns out he’s the head of the association. The other residents didn’t want the hassle,” she added when David’s eyes widened.

Picking up her discarded coffee lid, she twirled the plastic circle between her fingers. “Looks like I’m stuck listening to the banging until he finishes his project.”

“What exactly is he doing anyway?”

She shrugged. “This week? Gutting his bathroom.” To install a claw-foot tub. She couldn’t get that particular image out of her head any more than she could erase the picture of his biceps flexing as he swung the sledgehammer.

Quickly she slapped the lid on her cup. “Whatever he was doing, the noise kept up the rest of the afternoon,” she told David. “Then on Sunday, he spent the day hauling away the debris—” which sounded suspiciously like bags of cement blocks “—making sure he set them down as loudly as possible outside my door.” Every time Sophie had heard the noise, she’d been jerked from her thoughts and swore he was doing so on purpose.

“Poor baby. No wonder you were aggravated. You should have said something when I called. You could have come to my place.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Sophie replied, knowing she wouldn’t. Why was everyone so eager for her to go somewhere else? Why couldn’t they understand that she wanted to spend her weekends in her own home? Besides, hers and David’s relationship worked perfectly the way it was. She wasn’t ready to complicate matters by spending weekends together.

“In the meantime,” she said, raising her cup to her lips, “thanks to spending the weekend on Allen’s project, I’m behind on everything else.”

“Including this morning’s status report?”

Ignoring the fact he was interrupting their conversation, Allen Breckinridge strolled into her office. Sophie swallowed her mouthful of coffee. Naturally the managing director would arrive at the exact moment she mentioned being behind. The man had an uncanny knack for arriving at exactly the wrong time. Made her forever jumpy.

“Good morning, Allen,” David greeted brightly. He was never jumpy. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Good enough. Jocelyn and I spent it at the Hamptons,” Allen replied. “About that progress report…”

“Right here,” Sophie replied, shuffling through her papers for a hard copy. No sense pointing out that she had emailed a version to his computer last night; I’m not at my computer, he would say.

“Thank you,” he said. He took the report while shooting David a look.

“I was just on my way out.” The lawyer rose to his feet. “If you need any more information regarding that due diligence research, Sophie, let me know.”

“I will.” Silently, she added a “thank you.” Another point in David’s favor: his discretion. When it came to their outside relationship, he understood her desire to maintain a low profile.

Meanwhile, Allen was skimming the figures Sophie just handed him. Irrationally—because she’d double-and triple-checked the numbers—Sophie held her breath. There was an edge to the man’s demeanor that made her perpetually worry she’d screwed up. To compensate for her nervousness, she fished through her papers again. “I also have the revised model figures you asked for.”

“Never mind that.” He tossed the report on her desk as though it were a meaningless memo. “I have a new project for you. Franklin Technologies is planning an IPO. I need an analysis for my meeting in Boston tomorrow morning.”

“Of course. No problem.” She and her staff could pull together a couple days’ worth of research in a few hours.

And so began another typical Monday. She was going to need a whole lot of coffee.

Turns out, coffee wasn’t enough. From the second Allen walked out of her office, Sophie found herself rushing around like a headless chicken, without about as much sense of direction, too. Every time she turned around someone needed something else, and she was asked to be the go-to girl. She missed lunch and dinner. Come to think of it, she decided while wolfing down a protein bar and a couple aspirin, having her head cut off might be preferable. At least then her neck might not be so stiff.

Finally she broke away for her nightly run thinking the endorphins might improve her mood. Wrong. All the forty-minute treadmill simulation did was add hot and sweaty to her already gigantic list of complaints. What the heck happened to the air-conditioning in the club anyway?

“Hey, where you heading?” someone hollered out as she made her way through the locker room to the showers. “Didn’t you see the sign? The showers are closed.”

What? Sure enough, a sign hung next to the door advising patrons that the club would be painting the showers and therefore shutting down the facilities early for one evening. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” the note chirped at the bottom.

Her head sagged. Fat good an apology did her. She was a sweaty, frizzy-haired mess who still had several hours of work ahead of her when she got home.

And of course, since she was eager to get home, the trains weren’t running on schedule. Meaning the crowd waiting just grew larger and larger so that when a subway car finally did arrive, she was forced to stand pressed into a horde of commuters as ripe and sweaty as she was. Naturally, the air-conditioning didn’t work on the subway, either. And did the guy standing behind her, the one with all the shopping bags, really need to bump into her backside every time they lurched to a stop? Lurch, bump. Lurch, bump. No way was that a French baguette in his bag.

By the time she reached her front door, all Sophie could think about was stripping off her clothes and dousing herself with water. Maybe disinfectant, too, she added, thinking about shopping-bag man with a shudder. The water didn’t even need to be hot. So long as she got clean.

Sliding her key into the front door was a little like greeting a long lost friend. Home. David and others, they could never truly understand the pleasure the word gave her. Or why she was so stubborn about spending her weekend here. That’s because they’d been coming “home” their entire lives. They’d grown up in homes with normal parents and permanent addresses. For her, the term was still a novelty. True, since graduating college, she’d had apartments, luxury apartments in fact. Some in far better neighborhoods. But none had been hers. The day she signed her name to the mortgage, she’d achieved a goal she’d had since she was a teenager. She owned her own home. No more checks to landlords, no more temporary locations she could decorate but never really lay claim to. She could paint the living room neon green and it wouldn’t matter because the place was hers.

With a welcome sigh, she tossed her gym bag on the bed and made her way to the shower. White-and-green tile greeted her when she switched on the light. When she bought the co-op the Realtor told her the previous owner insisted on keeping the original fixtures so, like the entranceway, the apartment had a very Old World, nineteenth-century look. David, of course, thought she should completely modernize the place and give it a sleeker look, but Sophie wasn’t so sure. She’d clipped out a few sample photos from design magazines but nothing had truly captured her eye yet. Part of her liked the Old World feel. Again, it was that feeling of permanency. Knowing the building withstood the test of time. Kind of like her.

Then again, if she were using herself as a metaphor, modernizing made sense, too. A statement to the world that Sophie Messina had finally and truly arrived and was in control of her own destiny. Either way, she wasn’t in a rush. She much preferred to take her time and develop a plan.

Right now, she’d take a hose and spray handle if it meant getting a shower. She reached past her green plaid shower curtain and turned the faucet handle.

Nothing came out.

Frowning, she tried the other hand. Again, nothing.

No way. This couldn’t be happening. She checked the other faucets, including the small guest bath next to her second bedroom. All dry. Someone had shut off the water supply.

No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. An overwhelming need to pout and stomp her feet bubbled up inside her. Where was her water? Had she missed a notice about work here, too? Just to be certain, she peeked outside to see if a note had been stuck to her front door. Nothing.

The pouting urge rose again. Of all the days to suffer her first home-owner problem. Why couldn’t the water wait until tomorrow to fail? Or better yet, this past weekend.

Weekend. Of course! As the realization hit her, Sophie did stomp—all the way to her front door. She knew exactly what happened. And it involved a claw-foot bathtub.