Читать книгу Mr Right, Next Door! - Barbara Wallace, Barbara Wallace - Страница 8

“WHAT do you mean you said no?”

Grant ignored the incredulous tone of his brother, Mike, opting instead for taking a swig of beer. On the wall, the latest edition of the Boston–New York baseball rivalry played out in high definition. That’s where he focused his attention. As far as Mike was concerned, he knew what was coming next.

“What heinous sin did the potential client commit this time? Choose the wrong paint color?”

Predictable as ever. “He wanted to go modern.”

“Oh, well that explains everything. God forbid someone might like contemporary design.”

“It was an original Feldman. Do you have any idea how rare those buildings are?” Scratch that. His brother had no idea. “There’s maybe a handful of them left and this guy wanted to gut the place and turn it into two-bedroom condos.”

“Better have him rung up on charges then. He’s obviously committing a crime against humanity.” Neither of them mentioned the fact that not so long ago, Grant would have committed the exact same crime.

“I hate to remind you, little brother, but there are people in this world who actually like living in buildings designed for the twenty-first century.”

Grant didn’t need reminding. “Then let them move into one built in the last twenty or thirty years, not rip apart an Art Deco gemstone.”

“Says the man ripping up his own apartment.”

“I’m not ripping apart anything, I’m righting a wrong.” In more ways than one. He raised the bottle to his lips. “Somewhere my historical architecture professor is pulling out his hair.”

“Give him a call, you two can ride off into the sunset on your matching high horses.”

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Mike had been born on a high horse. “Since when is having principles a bad thing?” So what if he developed them a little late? He had them now.

“There’s principles and then there’s cutting off your nose to spite your face. Sooner or later this attitude of yours is going to rear back and bite you in the ass.”

Couldn’t be worse than the injuries his old attitude caused. “Least then I’ll be symmetrical.”

Mike’s sigh could be heard in New Jersey. “Seriously, you can’t keep turning jobs down. Not if you want to build a successful business.”

Ah yes, success. The Templeton family mantra. Settle for nothing less than the top. Grant knew it well. Hell, for the first twenty-seven years of his life he’d embodied it. Better than his older brother even.

“Maybe I’m not looking for my business to grow,” he replied.

From the way his brother huffed, he might as well have suggested running naked through Central Park. “How about survive then? Did you miss the part of economics class where they explained you needed to have an income?”

“I didn’t take economics.” And he had income. Investment income, anyway. Enough to survive a good long dry spell as his brother knew perfectly well. “Another job will turn up. One always does.”

“You hope. One of these days there won’t be a job floating around. Then what? You’re not going to be able to rely on that boyish charm of yours forever.”

“Why not? Served me well so far.” Though he preferred to use it for more personal transactions these days. Seduction was so much more pleasant without business attached. Less weight on the conscience.

“You need to think about the future, Grant.”

Meaning he should get back on the corporate ladder where he belonged.

On television, the Boston first baseman watched a ball bound in front of home plate. Grant took a sip of beer in disgust, though whether it was over the team’s million-dollar-arm’s lousy performance or Mike’s lecture was up for debate. No matter how many times he tried to get his family to understand, they just kept pitching. They thought he was wasting his education. Drifting. Wallowing.

“Do you and Dad draw straws to see who gets this week’s ‘straighten Grant out’ phone call?” Grant asked. “I haven’t talked to Nicole in a while, maybe she’d like a shot, too, in between surgical rounds.”

“We’re concerned about you is all. You used to be so focused.”

No, he’d been a tunnel-visioned tool. Why couldn’t they see that he couldn’t go back to being that man? Not and live with himself. Just thinking about those days made him sick to his stomach. He took another swig to wash away the bile.

“It’s been two years,” Mike said in a quiet voice.

“Two years, four months,” Grant corrected. Did Mike really think that because some time had gone by, Grant would simply spring back to form? Nate Silverman wasn’t springing anywhere, and Grant wouldn’t, either, thanks to his self-centeredness.

“Nate would want—”

“Don’t,” Grant snapped. “Just don’t.” They both knew what Nate would want, and it had nothing to do with Grant or his future.

This time the bile couldn’t be washed away. It never would be completely.

You were his best friend, Grant. How could you not see something was wrong? He called you for God’s sake.

And Grant didn’t take the call.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Can we change the subject? Please?” The accusation haunted him enough. He didn’t want to go there right now.

To his credit, Mike relented. Even he knew when to back off. “Sure. For now.”

“Thank you.”

“But you can’t avoid the subject forever.”

No kidding. His family wouldn’t let him. “Did I tell you I met my new neighbor the other day?” Speaking of workaholics.

“The one who’s been slipping notes under your door.”

“In the flesh.”

“What’s she like?” Mike’s voice took on a wincing tone. “Or is it a guy?”

“No, she’s a woman, and she’s exactly what you’d expect from a woman who uses phrases like ‘cease and desist.’”

“I use that phrase.”

“Precisely.” Both his neighbor and his brother were high-end and tightly wound, only the neighbor was better looking. Grant could still picture her, all blonde and bossy with her “I’m trying to work” attitude. As if work was the be-all and end-all. Tension crawled up one side of him and down the other.

“I’m guessing from your description,” Mike said, “you two didn’t hit things off.”

“She threatened to report me to the building association. I told her I was the building association.”

“Nice. Now you know why you can’t rely on your charm forever.”

“We agreed you were going to drop that subject,” Grant muttered.

“Merely pointing out that not everyone finds you charming. Though I am surprised you failed with a female.”

Grant wasn’t so sure he completely failed. “Only because she wasn’t my type.” Personality-wise, that is. He had no problem with blondes, especially good-looking ones with slender lines and perfect breasts. Unless that is, she was so perfectly put together you could practically feel the hair trying to work free from her ponytail.

Problem was Sophie Messina had felt way too familiar. Dial back a couple years—twenty-eight months to be exact—and he was looking at the female version of his former self.

A sharp knocking sound pulled him from his reverie. Perfect timing. He had a feeling Mike was winding up for another lecture. “My dinner’s here.”

Soon as he said the words, his stomach began growling. When it came to pizza, he was worse than Pavlov’s dog. Giving a silent thank-you to whoever buzzed the deliveryman in, he told Mike he’d call him later in the week.

The pizza man was impatient. He knocked again. Grabbing his wallet, he strode to the front door, mouth already watering.

Except, he discovered upon opening the door, it wasn’t the pizza man. Instead, he found a very hot and bothered Sophie Messina, her arms folded across the very chest he’d just been thinking about.

“You took my water,” she charged, eyes flashing. “And I want it back.”

It took Grant a full minute to comprehend what Sophie was saying, partially because he barely recognized her. In fact, if pressed, he’d be hard to say this was the same person. The woman he met over the weekend had been glossy and tightly wound.

This woman though… Everything about her looked soft, right down to the way the front of her ponytail hung in long lazy curls around her face. One particularly twirly strand drooped over her left eye and practically begged to be brushed aside. And her lips…. He couldn’t believe he didn’t notice those succulent bee-stung lips on Saturday. The very male parts of his body stirred with appreciation. What had he been thinking about her not being his type?

“Well?” she asked, tapping her foot. “Are you going to turn it back on?”

“Turn what on?” he asked, distracted by the way her eyes switched hues. From deep blue to turquoise and back. He hadn’t noticed those before, either.

“There’s no need to stare at me like I have three heads,” she said. “There’s no running water at my place. You obviously turned the water off when you installed your tub. Since you’re finished—” her gaze flickered toward the beer in his hand “—I would like you to turn the water back on so I can shower. As you can see, I’m badly in need of one.”

Not from where he stood. But, that was neither here nor there. “Impossible,” he said, getting back to her accusation.

Her eyes narrowed. Her smudged mascara gave them a sultry, smoky look that managed to transcend her scowl. “Why not?”

“I didn’t turn it off.”

“Then who did?”

“Beats me,” he replied. “Did you pay your water bill?”

She stiffened, pulling her ramrod spine a little tighter. “I always pay my bills.”

“Whoa, take it easy,” he said, holding up his hands. Damn. He figured she’d be unamused, but the way she spat the words you’d think he’d delivered a blow. “I’m sure you do. I was just making a joke.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a sense of humor right now.”

No kidding. He would have said as much, but at that moment her shoulders sagged a little. “It’s been a really long day and I just want to take a shower.”

She said it with such longing, so much like a little girl who missed out on getting a treat, Grant couldn’t help but actually feel a little for her. Enough to give her a straight answer anyway. “Wish I could help you, but the only water I had anything to do with in this building is my own, and I turned that back on yesterday.”

“Any chance you turned mine off by mistake?”

“If I did, how would you have taken a shower this morning?

His question cut off that argument. “Besides, even if I did turn my water off today—which I didn’t—every unit has its own meter. You have to turn off each one individually.”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t give up easily did she? “Positive. You’re either going to have to wait for a plumber or shower somewhere else.”

“Terrific.” Her shoulders sagged a little more, and Grant swore for a moment when he saw dampness well up in her eyes. “Guess I better start making some phone calls.” She turned and headed down the hall only to stop halfway, as if remembering something. “Wait a moment. Isn’t this your job?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you were head of the building association. Isn’t it your job to look into building problems?”

Oh, that was rich. First she spends a month slipping notes under his door, then she accuses him of water theft, and now she wanted him to fix her plumbing? “Only regarding common areas,” he clarified.

“Plumbing’s common.”

“Nice try.” But like her complaint to the so-called building association, it wasn’t going to work. “You’re on your own, sweetheart.”

“What else is new?” At least that’s what it sounded like she muttered. She resumed her retreat, although this time her walk looked suspiciously like trudging.

Damn. Did she have to look so defeated? As if she were about to break? Guilt began snaking its way into his stomach. No way could he ignore that kind of distress. “Hold on,” he called out. “I suppose I could look in the basement. Maybe give you an idea of what to tell the plumber.”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, I would appreciate it.”

He minded, Grant said to himself. He just couldn’t say no.

Sophie continued her way downstairs, trying to decide if she felt foolish or justified. On one hand, seeing as how Mr. Templeton had disturbed her past four weekends, checking out her pipes was the least the man could do. On the other, barging upstairs and accusing him of water theft bordered on crazy lady behavior. For someone who believed in being aloof and in control she wasn’t doing a very good job. Templeton started it though, by shutting the door in her face and acting all flirty. She’d been stirred up for the past two days, and now, between the sweat and the work and the bumpy subway guy, she wasn’t thinking rationally. That was her excuse.

It was also, no doubt, why his presence felt as though it was looming behind her. The back of her nylon running shorts insisted on sticking to her thighs, so that when she stepped down, the material would pull upward, and, Sophie was certain, reveal way too much bare skin. Even though a man her neighbor’s age probably wouldn’t notice or care about her legs, she felt exposed. Which was interesting because she’d just ridden on two subway cars in the same outfit without a second thought. Then again, no one on the subway looked like her neighbor, either.

Two steps from the bottom she made a decision. They would have to pass her door on the way to the basement. She could slip into her apartment and ditch the shorts in favor of something more appropriate. That way, when he reported back about the pipes, she’d be rid of this weird self-consciousness.

Unfortunately, her front door was where her neighbor chose to catch up. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said when he saw her reach for the door handle. He caught her elbow with his hand. “You’re coming with me.”

Her pulse picked up. This new position had him standing almost as close as her subway friend. Either that or her awareness of him had increased again because he sure felt close. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re coming downstairs with me so we can both learn what the problem is together.”

“But I don’t know anything about plumbing.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want you to see that I checked everything out thoroughly.”

She supposed she deserved that. “Fine.” Stepping sideways, she broke contact, silently advising him to take the lead. If she was going downstairs to the basement with him, she could at least avoid the skin on the back of her neck prickling.

Back when it was first built, part of the brownstone’s basement had been the servants’ kitchen. Thus, instead of being greeted by cold damp air, Sophie found herself stepping into a room that was warm and stifling. She instantly felt the air close in around her. The lack of adequate lighting didn’t help matters, either. There were, she knew, a line of overhead lights, but her guide apparently didn’t need to use them. Instead, he deftly navigated the space using the dim glow of the night-light. Sophie followed along. They walked past the storage cages and the skeleton of the building’s dumbwaiter and through the opening that led to the rear portion of the room. Here the air was slightly cooler but not by much. Lack of windows or space erased any air circulation that might have existed.

A cobweb dangling from the ceiling beam tickled Sophie’s face. She wiped it away, spitting imaginary strands from her lips.

Oblivious, her neighbor pointed toward the rear of the room where the heating units sat side by side. Perpendicular to them was a series of pipes with levers, each connected to a pipe feeding upward. He stopped in front of the first one on the left and bent down to study the joint.

“I think I found your culprit,” he announced. “Come here.”

She tiptoed forward.

“This set of pipes feeds to your apartment. Though I can’t tell for sure, I’d guess your gate valve is broken.”

“My what?” Peering over his broad shoulder, all Sophie saw was a collection of copper tubing.

“When they laid the pipes, the plumbers must have used an old kind of valve. Sometimes, when debris breaks off from inside the pipe, it knocks down the gate inside, blocking the water flow. I’m betting that’s what happened here. The water came in through the main pipe, and then got blocked at the base of your pipe.” He turned and gave a smirk from over his shoulder. “You can feel free to apologize at any time.”

Apparently, the blood flow to her cheeks wasn’t blocked because her face flushed with chagrin. “Can you fix it?” she asked. He was a contractor, right? She’d gladly pay him to get her shower running.

True to the rest of her day, however, he answered with a shake of his head. “Not without ticking off most of the area’s plumbers. Repairs like this are out of my jurisdiction, so to speak. You’re going to have to call a professional.”

And so, she was back to square one. Her skin began to prickle, a sure sign stress was raising her adrenaline. Just what she needed; more sweat. Where was she going to find a plumber that made late-night house calls? More likely she was going to have to waste a chunk of her day tomorrow waiting on one. Leaving her more behind than ever, because Lord knows Allen wouldn’t care what she had to stay home for. That’s why we gave you a laptop and smart phone, Sophie. She let out a decidedly unladylike oath.

“You’re welcome,” a deep voice replied.

Once again put in her place, Sophie cringed. “I’m sorry,” she said, brushing hair and cobwebs from her eyes. “I don’t mean to take my frustration out on you.”

“You sure? Why stop now?”

The remark made her smile, albeit ruefully. “I have been acting difficult, haven’t I? Sorry about that, too.”

He shrugged. “As long as we’re apologizing, I might have played a small part in your bad attitude.”

“When you say ‘small,’ are you talking about the banging or slamming the door in my face?”

“I did not slam the door. I shut it.” In the dim light, Sophie caught the gleam of bright white teeth. “The high ceilings made the noise sound louder.”

“My mistake then.”

“Apology accepted.”

Sophie brushed the hair from her eyes again—stupid curls refused to stay in place—grateful the darkened atmosphere shrouded her appearance. With their business in the basement now finished, she should be heading back upstairs to start looking for a plumber. Her feet didn’t feel like moving, though. Instead, she leaned against the chain-link cage behind her, hooking her fingers through the gaps in the pattern. “I think we both got off on the wrong foot,” she heard herself say. “I’m not normally such a witch.”

“Sure you want to use a W?”

“Very funny. And, I’m normally not that, either. Although my assistants might disagree.”

“I see. You’re one of those bosses.”

She drew her brow. “Those bosses?”

“The kind that demand a lot from their employees.”

“If you mean I have high expectations, then yes, I am.”

She could almost imagine him analyzing her words, and out of habit jutted her chin at him in silent challenge. Work hard and work smart. What was wrong with that?

“There’s only one problem with that statement.”

He strolled toward her, his figure casting a towering shadow on the wall. “I don’t work for you.”

“I know that,” she replied.

“You sure?” He smiled again, his curvy grin curving crookedly across his face. “Because the last couple of days you seemed to have a different impression.”

Sophie’s cheeks flushed again. Good Lord, but she’d blushed more in the past couple of minutes than in the past year. This man definitely made her act out of character. “Is that your way of asking for another apology?”

“Just making sure you don’t forget the true nature of our relationship.”

“Which is?”

“At the moment, barely civil neighbors, although I suppose now that we’ve buried the hatchet, we could drop the barely.”

He strode a little closer, until the space between them wasn’t more than a few feet. Without thinking, her eyes dropped to the V of his shirt and the patch of smooth skin peering out of the gap. His skin smelled faintly of beer and peppermint. Its aroma lingered in the basement air like a masculine perfume. Wonder if his skin tasted as good as it smelled.

What on earth…? Since when did she think such kinds of things, about relative strangers no less. For goodness’ sake, she didn’t even know the man’s full…

“Name!”

In the quiet basement, the word came out louder than necessary, causing them both to jump. “I mean, I don’t know your name,” she quickly corrected. “Only your first initial. From the mailbox.”

“Grant.”

“Grant,” she repeated. That was better. Knowing his name made it better. That is, made him less of a stranger. She still had no business thinking about his skin. Extending her hand, she pushed all inappropriate thoughts out of her head. “What do you say we start fresh? I’m Sophie Messina.”

“Nice to meet you, Sophie Messina.”

His handshake was firm and strong, not the soft grip so many men adapted when greeting a woman. Sophie could feel the calluses pressing rough against her palm. They were hardworking hands. The sensation conjured up images of work-hewn muscles rippling under exertion.

Lifting her eyes, she caught the spark of… something… as it passed across his caramel-colored eyes, bright enough to light them up despite the shadows, and briefly she insisted their gaze dropped to her lips. Sophie’s mouth ran dry at the thought. He cleared his throat, alerting her to the fact she still held his hand. Quickly she released his grip, and they stood there, awkwardly looking at one another.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.

No, not a bell. A buzzer. Once. Twice. Then nothing.

“Dammit, I forgot…”

She stumbled slightly as Grant rushed past her. “Forgot what? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy taking the steps two at a time.

“Wait!” she heard him call to someone from the top of the stairs. It took her a second to catch up, but when she did, she found him standing in the foyer, front door open, staring at the traffic passing in the street. A missed date?

He glared at her from over his shoulder. “You owe me a dinner.”

For the second time that evening, Sophie heard herself saying, “I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he said, nodding toward the front door, “was my dinner. I missed the delivery because I was downstairs showing you the broken meter.”

In other unspoken words, he blamed her.

“I’m sure if you call, he’ll turn right around.”

Another glare, this one accompanied by him jamming his fingers through his hair and mussing it. If only disheveled looked that good on her. “It was pizza from Chezzerones.”

“Oh.” Sophie was beginning to understand. Chezzerones had the best pizza in the area, as well as a very strict delivery policy. Fail to answer the door and your number got put on the “bad” list. Something to do with drunken university students and too many wasted calls. Sophie made the mistake of inquiring and had gotten a very detailed explanation from Chezzerone himself one night. It looked like, by helping her, Grant had gotten himself stuck on the bad list.

Darn it all, she did owe him a dinner.