Читать книгу Surprise Me... - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

EDGAR PUSHED OPEN THE door to Caffe Coffee, his every-morning java shop on Chicago Street, halfway between his apartment and work. Melanie couldn’t live without Starbucks’ mocha frappuccino but he preferred the organic Blue Mountain here, flown from a family farm in Jamaica, roasted on the premises, brewed by his favorite barista, Kaitlin, just the way he liked it—strong enough to dissolve paint. He could make the same coffee at home, but the croissants at Caffe Coffee were nearly as good as the ones he’d loved so much in Paris, and the ritual of coming here every morning appealed to him. So did Kaitlin. She was the kind of little sister he would have liked to have, serious and shy, with a dry sense of humor that hit when you least expected it.

Lately, though, he’d been starting to wonder, by the way her light brown eyes lit when he walked in, by the way she lingered to chat even when customers were behind him in line, that she might have ideas concerning him that weren’t exactly sisterly.

Oh, the irony. Kaitlin was sweet, funny and in his league, a student at Marquette University, studying marketing. But even on a normal day, he was so full of Melanie he couldn’t imagine dating Kaitlin. Today…well, he’d considered skipping today’s visit, but he knew Melanie would be late to work, and he’d sit in his cubicle for what seemed like forever, a nervous wreck waiting for her. Better to stop for coffee and delay that agony by a few minutes.

Not that caffeine would do much to calm his nerves.

“Hi, Edgar!” Kaitlin had his coffee ready—he didn’t have the heart to say he wanted half-decaf this morning. “Croissant today?”

“Not today, Kaitlin, thanks.”

“I was thinking about you last night.” She snapped the lid on his cup and rang up the purchase.

“Really?” He wasn’t thinking about her last night.

“I saw that movie you recommended. Cane Toads?” She giggled. “You’re right. It was hysterical.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” He handed over a five, wishing he could have fallen for someone uncomplicated like Kaitlin instead of beating his head against Melanie’s brick wall for so long. He hoped he’d survive until she showed up at work. His heart was already beating so hard he was afraid it would give out, classic heart attack in the middle of the shop. He should probably pour his coffee down the office sink. “Pretty odd cast of characters, wasn’t it?”

“Yes! Where did they find those people?” She put the change into his hand, her fingers lingering.

He was getting even more anxious. From her touch, from his guilt that he might be encouraging her by showing up every day, from the sudden fear that Melanie might have come in early today and he was missing her. What if she was so eager to see him again after last night that—

“I, um, was wondering.” Kaitlin glanced at whoever was behind him, and leaned forward so her words wouldn’t carry.

Instinctive panic. She was going to ask him out. He couldn’t handle this. Not today.

“Listen, thanks for the coffee, Kaitlin. As always.” He spoke loudly, pretending he hadn’t heard the beginning of her sentence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, um.” Her eyes dropped. “Yeah, I…okay.”

Smiling, he backed away a few steps, waved and turned, feeling like a schmuck. A prime schmuck. Why couldn’t she have asked him another day, when he wasn’t completely insane to be near Melanie?

Because there weren’t any days like that. He knew he was obsessed; he knew his feelings weren’t rational or smart or probably even sane. No woman had ever affected him like this—okay, not since junior high school, when crazed hormones made obsession the norm. No woman should affect him like this. He understood about balance, about healthy infatuation gone too far; he knew all of it. But try convincing his id.

He left, feeling Kaitlin staring wistfully at his back, imagining the customer behind him already annoyed that his barista was not baristing.

Why Melanie? He’d asked himself over and over again. He didn’t know. He only knew he had a solid-as-rock conviction that she was the woman for him, and nothing, no amount of talking to himself or reading self-help books, had been able to shake it.

After last night…well, this morning, Melanie could, with a single glance, wipe out every long-dormant hope that had sprung ecstatically to life the previous night.

Forget heart attack. He’d have a stroke and be a vegetable the rest of his life.

Luckily, the morning was cool and refreshing, so he could arrive at work a nervous wreck, yes, but not a sweaty nervous wreck.

He pushed through the front door of Triangle Graphics, greeting Anna, the receptionist, who was stationed in front of a huge analog clock.

Eight forty-five.

If Melanie showed up at her usual time, nine-thirty at the very earliest, that gave him forty-five minutes to find out if he’d be the happiest man on the planet or the most broken.

He strode down the short hall to the open room where the graphic designers worked, including Melanie; said good morning to Todd Maniscotto, his and Melanie’s boss; nodded to Jenny, Melanie’s good friend; sat at his cubicle, which was right next to Melanie’s.

Melanie. Melanie. Melanie.

Roughly forty-minutes later, thinking he could expect Melanie any second, he checked his watch to find it was actually roughly five minutes later.

Not heart attack, not stroke; aneurism. One big pop in his brain and done, before he knew what was happening.

He opened the file he’d been working on last night before he went home, ate dinner alone, went to bed and was awakened by the sexiest woman alive sliding into his bed and.

Get a grip, Edgar.

Where was he? Working on a sporting goods catalog for Premium Sports. Today’s challenge: how to make a package of golf tees look like the sexiest product in the world.

Paint Melanie’s picture on it?

Grip, Edgar, remember?

He grappled with the tees and won, rotated a baseball mitt this way and that, changed the text to wrap more snugly around it, all with a few clicks of his mouse.

As convenient and time-saving as computers were, part of Edgar couldn’t help romanticizing the idea of Man at His Drafting Table, like his architect father, pencils sharp, straightedges handy. He’d grown up playing trucks around his dad’s legs, since his father had worked around the clock. Whenever Dad had taken time off, he’d sit blinking at his family in surprise as if he couldn’t quite figure out how they had gotten there.

“Good morning, Ralph.” He heard Melanie’s voice down at the end of the line of cubicles.

Edgar fumbled with his mouse, selected something he shouldn’t have, reached to fix it and hit the wrong button on his keyboard; his computer started shutting down.

Damn it. Edgar, the epitome of cool. No wonder Melanie had been able to resist him for so long.

A glance at his watch while he tried to steady his breathing. Nine-fifteen. Early for her. Good sign? Bad sign?

Hang on, Edgar, you’ll know all too soon.

Her perfume rounded the corner of his cubicle a split second before she did. Just the scent had him buzzing with arousal. She’d been everything he dreamed of in bed. No, everything and more because his dreams had been dreams and last night she’d been real.

“Morning, Eddie.”

“Hey.” He grinned up at her, as tenderly as he dared, knowing no matter how she felt underneath, she’d still be skittish this morning. Whatever had made her bolt in the middle of the night wouldn’t have resolved itself this soon. And with their coworkers all around, she couldn’t exactly launch into praises of his sexual technique or drop to her knees and confess undying love. Which was a damn shame.

But she’d have to give some sign, wouldn’t she?

God, she was beautiful. Yawning, clutching her Starbucks cup, hair disheveled as if someone had been tangling his fingers through it all night in order to kiss her as often as possible. Her lips were dark, chin pink from his stubble. He hated to think he’d hurt her at all, but the man part of him—yes, there was a man part even to him—enjoyed a cheap macho thrill that he’d left his mark.

She wore a clingy rose-colored knee-length skirt that molded itself to her gorgeous thighs. Her ass looked firm and strong underneath and he nearly sighed when she sat, and he lost the view. Last night his hands had been a-a-ll over that—

He had to stop thinking about it right now.

Or else he was going to stand up, yank the skirt up those strong soft thighs, lift her onto the desk, step between her legs and—

He had to stop thinking about that right now.

Or else he was going to— “How was Chicago?”

He blinked. Back to earth. How was what? “Chicago?”

“Hello? Edgar?” She leaned down, smiling, waved in front of his face. “Last night? Remember?”

He remembered every second. “Oh, yes.”

“So…?”

He was lost. “So what?”

“Tell me how it was.”

He stared blankly. “I don’t.”

“You know, Chicago?”

Chicago? Was that her code word for what they’d done? So they could talk about it in the office and no one would guess? Very odd. She was not acting the way he expected. “It was…God, Melanie, it was fabulous. The best night of my life.”

“Wow. That’s…wow. Great.” She tipped her head, looking a little surprised. “What made it so great?”

“Uh…” He was not really sure he liked this game. “The sights. The, um, sensations. And really, most of all the. emotions. More than I’ve ever felt in…Chicago.”

“Oh. Well. I’m glad you had fun.” Her eyes narrowed. He’d said something wrong. She’d blindsided him with all this coded talk; he was hopelessly confused. And hopelessly in love with her.

What else was new?

“Edgar.” She leaned closer to whisper, her shy smile so sweet he could barely keep from kissing her. Last night those lips had belonged to him. He still couldn’t get over it. He probably never would. “I had a fabulous night, too.”

His heart rose like a rocket, the hope almost as painful as the countless rejections. “Yeah?”

“Mmm, yeah.”

Oh, dear God. He was getting hard again, not the best place or time. But this was everything he’d hoped for. Melanie, acknowledging what went on between them, admitting she enjoyed it. “You had a good time, huh?”

“Ohh, yes.” She blushed. “You know what I mean, right?”

“I do.”

Her smile turned a little anxious. “I hope it’s okay with you.”

“It’s more than okay, Melanie.” He was whispering, too; his passion for her made voice impossible. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of for the last two years.”

Her shy smile froze. She looked as if she’d eaten something rotten. “Uh…really?”

Crap. Crap. He’d gone too far. He had to remember whom he was talking to. That she wasn’t in the same emotional place he was. That letting herself be so open to him was undoubtedly a new and frightening experience. If he pushed too hard now, this soon after the breakthrough, she could bolt.

“Okay, not everything I’ve dreamed of.” His laugh came out goofy and strained.

She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her face relaxed and she laughed, too, considerably more musically than he had.

“Well, I’m glad you approve. I wouldn’t want anything to upset our friendship, Edgar.”

His heart sank. Lower than he thought possible. Friendship?

No way. No effing way. What went on between them last night was not friendship no matter what she wanted to tell herself this morning. It was not friends with benefits, it was not getting their rocks off just for the hell of it. What they had last night was everything sex with love should be. And if she blew it off like it was another romp in the hay, he was going to check himself into a psychiatric hospital. Or have her committed.

“I think we’re talking a hell of a lot more than friendship, Melanie.” His voice actually came out with strength.

“Whah?” She looked bewildered.

“Last night. It was not about friendship.”

“Oh, no.” Her face cleared. “No, Stoner and I aren’t friends, not the way you and I are. Nor will we ever be, I’m sure. Don’t worry.”

He gaped at her. “Why would I worry whether you’re friends with Stoner?”

She gaped back. “I mean, after I was with him last night.”

Last night? With Stoner?

No, no, wait, Stoner had mentioned he’d bumped into her. “You mean when you saw him in the bar?”

“Ed-gar.” She rolled her eyes. “What is with you this morning? No, not in the bar, afterward, in your bedroom.”

“What does that have to do with Sto—” The rest of his brother’s name refused to leave his lips. This morning Stoner had said a planned late-night date with Melanie hadn’t worked out. Melanie had been worrying that sex with his brother would affect her friendship with Edgar. Her ugly, dorky buddy, Edgar.

“Excuse me.” He got up, staggered across the room, nearly knocking down his boss, coming out of his office.

Todd looked concerned. “Edgar? Something wrong?”

Yes! Everything! “No. Nothing. I’m fine.” Suicidal, maybe, but nothing serious.

Luckily, there was no one in the men’s room. He made a beeline for a stall, horribly afraid he was going to be sick.

Melanie had thought she was screwing Stoner last night. She didn’t know she’d been making love to him. All that passion, all that emotion, all that sweetness between them.

A dream after all.

He wanted to puke even if his body wasn’t ready to. Melanie hadn’t come to him; there was no miracle there. Of course not. She’d come to his brother, the sex god, the hot masculine jerk without a shred of depth, without much intelligence, without room in his monstrous head to care about anyone but himself.

Melanie’s type all over. What had Edgar been thinking? How could he even have imagined she’d crawl into bed with him?

Stoner had bumped into her at the bar, invited her up to Edgar’s room, Edgar’s bed, knowing Edgar would be sleeping on the couch so as not to inconvenience his brother.

Chicago? That would be Stoner’s invention. Which helped only a little, knowing at least Melanie hadn’t come into his apartment expecting to step over Edgar on the sofa bed and then screw his brother’s brains out a few feet away.

He leaned back against the partition, making himself breathe slowly and carefully until the urge to lose his breakfast subsided. This was worse than when he’d introduced Melanie to his jewelry-artist downstairs neighbor, Sledge, in order to buy her one of his pieces. Sledge repaid him by hitting on Melanie and then telling Edgar all about it. This was much worse. His own damn brother, who had everything Edgar didn’t—except brains and integrity, which didn’t count for enough in this world.

Edgar had grown up invisible to women, one of those kids fawned over by adults, a “good worker,” a “great help to his parents,” a “responsible citizen,” while his mess of a brother was like a bug zapper for the female sex. One after another, drawn to his light and his high voltage, zap, zap, zap, they went up in blue smoke one after another, the destruction of so many not slowing the lineup at all. While “responsible citizen” Edgar sat on the sidelines in awed misery.

This time it was his heart that got busted, not his ego.

Zap.

He turned to the wall, took a few more deep breaths; the cold metal felt good against his forehead. Solid. Impartial. Calming.

Okay, Edgar. Deal with facts. Fact: Melanie hadn’t known in the dark that he was himself. Fact: they’d had incredible sex. Fact: she’d left in the middle of the night, which he happened to know she didn’t usually do, because generally she was hopeful the relationship would continue and she wanted to be around in daylight. So something had been different last night for her.

That was good. He’d concentrate on that. Regardless of whom she’d thought he was, she’d experienced emotion so intense she’d ducked out rather than face it. Which meant that on some level, however subconscious, she had feelings for him. Only she didn’t know it yet.

Therefore, logically, all Edgar had to do was go out there and tell her she’d been with him last night. Make sure she knew he was an innocent party in this, explain the bed mix-up. She’d be shocked at first, but then her wheels would start turning, she’d remember what it had been like with him, Edgar, and she’d come around. She’d realize—she had to realize—that they were meant to be together. And once she realized that.

There would be nothing stopping them.

He lifted his head and grinned at his homely face, mind whirling, stomach at peace. He’d get to be with her again, maybe tonight. Those eyes, those lips, that body.

Edgar closed his eyes and groaned, tortured by his so-long-yearned-for happiness now so closely within reach.

Only one more thing to do.

He straightened, splashed water on his face, washed his hands. Tried to tamp down his mess of wiry hair.

Okay.

Out of the men’s room, he walked back to his cubicle, one step at a time, adrenaline buzzing so loudly through his system he felt as if he were operating in a different dimension from the rest of the office.

When he rounded the corner, Melanie looked up in concern, saved her file and turned her chair to face him. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry if this has upset you. You could have told me right out that you didn’t want me with your brother, you didn’t have to pretend—”

“Melanie.” He sat, scootched his chair close to hers, took her hand. He was just going to say it. “Last night. In bed. That wasn’t Stoner. That was me.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the punch line. He didn’t crack a smile.

The eyebrows sank slowly. “Edgar…don’t do that. It’s not funny.”

“I’m serious. It was me. It was dark, so you didn’t realize, and I thought…”

She took her hand away, eyes widening. Understanding dawned on her face, then rose and rose into full-blown horror. Not shock, not surprise, but horror. As if he’d just told her she’d slept with a person with active cases of every known STD. Or with her brother. Or with her dog.

He waited. Waited for the horror to change to surprise, for those wheels to start turning, for her to connect the man in front of her with the passion and tenderness, the wild erotic chemistry, the panting straining desperate need to join and climax, and for that surprise to soften her expression, to part her lips, Oh, Edgar, that was you!

None of that happened. She continued to stare as if she couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting than lying naked with him.

Okay. He’d wait longer. She had to make the connection soon. Tick…tick…tick…

Still nothing.

He couldn’t bear it. Not one more ticking, torturous second of this pain or this humiliation, not one.

A forced laugh, as real as he could make it. “Gotcha.”

Her laughter wasn’t forced. It was loud and long and full of so much relief that his pain, which he’d been pretty sure was as bad as it could get, got worse.

“Oh, my God, Edgar. You really had me. Ha!” She put her hand to her chest. “Damn. That would have been really, really—”

He must have shown something in his face to stop her. Something. Because thank God she did stop, and looked confused and contrite.

“Horrible?”

“No, oh, no, Edgar. No. Of course not. It’s just that you and I…” She laughed again. Uncomfortable this time. He was glad. He wanted her to suffer, even just a little. “We’re not about…that.”

“Right.” She was wrong. She was so damn wrong, he wanted to jump up and bellow it, beat his chest and fling furniture around the office.

But that wasn’t him. He was sweet, gentle Edgar, who let the world walk all over him rather than trip people up to get what he wanted. Who adored this woman unreasonably and would do anything rather than make her unhappy.

So she’d go on being wrong, and he’d go on being her best friend, and she’d probably go on and try to screw Stoner again. And even when she did and the sex was bad compared to what they’d shared, even when she put two and two together as she writhed in bed with his brother and realized Edgar really had been in bed with her last night.

At least he wouldn’t be there to see that look of sick horror on her face ever, ever again.