Читать книгу Falling for the New Guy - Nicole Helm - Страница 15

CHAPTER SIX

TESS WAS SURPRISED to see Marc trudging across the expansive yard he’d disappeared toward. He hadn’t been subtle about wanting to get rid of her.

She had a hard time blaming him for that. Where she’d spent years upon years successfully keeping friends and coworkers firmly in the dark about what a mess she was, she’d known Marc a week and he knew. He’d seen.

That was extraordinarily difficult to deal with, because someone knowing what a mess she was made it seem more true. Less something she could muscle her way through. He didn’t believe that tough shell she donned every day.

She just wished the seer of her weaknesses wasn’t so hot. Or so sweet, in a weirdly uncomfortable, gruff way.

Shit balls.

Marc fell into step kind of half next to her, half behind her. It was only then she realized she’d purposefully slowed her pace as she’d come close to the giant old house. Because she’d wanted...

It was best if she didn’t think too hard about what she wanted.

“Hey.”

“Said all your hellos?”

“Yeah, she’s working. Didn’t want to take up too much of her time.”

“What exactly is that place? I’m not familiar with it.”

“Restoration company. They fix up old houses for people. She’s an electrician.”

“I do love a woman in a traditionally male-dominated field.”

Marc puffed out a chuckle. “Yeah, you two’d probably get along.”

It wasn’t an invitation to meet his family— obviously he didn’t want that—but it made her wonder. Marc already knew so much about her life, and all she knew was he was from Minnesota and had a sister. Electrician for a restoration company sister.

“Do your parents live back in Minnesota?”

“Yes.”

“Did you move here to be closer to your sister?”

He was quiet for a while. So much so, she had to glance back to make sure he was still behind her.

His expression was grim and something she couldn’t read. Maybe as if the superhero let everyone down.

“You could say that.”

Which was such a strange answer, purposefully vague and a little cryptic. Marc definitely had some issues of his own. People weren’t so tight-lipped about their lives if they weren’t hiding something.

Tess would know.

Was it a bad something, like a parental monkey on his back, or was it innocuous? Embarrassing, but not like hers. Not painful and potentially life damaging.

It would be best not to know.

“You said you didn’t have a sister, but any brothers?”

Before yesterday she might have considered that question making progress. He so rarely asked her for more information than she willingly gave. But yesterday had changed things, because today he was asking not out of curiosity or the desire to get to know her better, but because he wondered about her relationship with her father. If there was someone to step in and save the day.

“Nope. Just me.” In more ways than one.

She shouldn’t give him any more than that, should be as terse and tight-lipped as he always was, but there was a too-big part of her that wanted him to understand, or see, or something. This thing with her father, as pathetic as it was, wasn’t something she chose.

“Mom left when I was little, so it’s always been just Dad and me.”

She wouldn’t say more than that, because it was all that needed to be said. Maybe he would understand, and maybe he wouldn’t. But she’d given him enough information to know this wasn’t pathetic. They really were all each other had, and she was the responsible party.

Whether she wanted to be or not.

Marc didn’t say anything, so she focused on running. Hard. So her muscles would be nothing but jelly and hopefully her brain would follow suit.

When they reached the apartment complex, Tess was breathing hard enough talking would be difficult, and she was gratified Marc was in about the same shape.

“Christ, how often do you do that?” He huffed.

Tess grinned, bending to the side to stretch before her Jell-O muscles got tight. “Couple times a week. Depending.” On Dad. A few months ago it had been once a week tops. This month? Three to four times per week.

Things were bad.

You need to help him. Fix this. You cannot ignore him. You’re all he has. This is your responsibility.

But she didn’t want it anymore. For once in her life she wanted to make a decision not based on her father’s fragile mental state.

Forgetting the rest of her usual stretches, she pushed inside the building. She felt too raw to have Marc’s scrutinizing eyes around.

“No wonder you’re in such great shape,” he muttered, and she had a feeling she was not meant to hear that, as she was inside when he’d uttered it. Which managed to cheer her a little. Pathetic, yes, but, hey, she deserved a little pathetic.

She glanced back at Marc following her, and though he tried to hide it, he’d very obviously been staring at her ass.

Pathetic isn’t all you deserve.

No. No, no, no cops. Not some arbitrary edict. It was necessary for career survival. So Marc could stare at her ass and be nice and hot and whatever. Her reputation was way more important than some guy.

Regardless of the size of that guy’s shoulders. Or thighs. Or biceps. Mmm. Biceps. Get a grip, Camden.

She reached the top of the stairs, probably only a few feet from her tired legs giving out completely. “Well, thanks for the company. I needed it.” She looked at her door, dreading facing the phone on the other side. Dreading the weakness inside her that would grow, fester, until she’d give up and go over there. Until she’d lose at convincing herself she couldn’t help him.

“I’m buying a chair,” Marc said out of nowhere. “Maybe a table. You...”

She turned to stare at him. “I?”

“If you’re looking for something to do.” He shrugged those big yummy shoulders she really needed to distance herself from. “I could use some help. I’ve never picked out furniture before.”

Tess’s throat got tight, but she swallowed through it. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a marshmallow?”

“No,” he said, so seriously, so disgustedly, she had to laugh despite the warmth of gratitude clogging behind her eyes as tears.

“Well, you are, and I appreciate it. I’ll even buy you lunch.”

“Look, to be clear...”

Tess had a feeling she knew where this was going, and if she were noble she might have saved him the discomfort, but a mess of a girl needed a little something to make her feel a pinch in charge of her life. “Clear about?”

“It’s not...it’s not a date. That’s not what I’m... Friends. We should be friends. Not dating...things.”

“God, you’re cute.”

“Tess.”

“No worries. I don’t date cops, even if I want to. So you’re safe no matter how much you’re nice to me.” Though she couldn’t resist one little flirt. “Or how many lusty vibes crop up.”

“I’m really starting to hate that word,” he grumbled. “Noon. I’ll meet you at my truck.”

Tess nodded and did her best not to saunter to her apartment door, not to swing her hips or bounce her steps, no matter how tired her legs were, but she could feel his eyes on her, so it was hard.

Well, welcome to life. Hard.

* * *

“PIVOT.”

Tess started giggling, which was not pivoting so they could get the damn couch up the stairs. A couch she’d somehow talked him into. He didn’t plan on having company. It was just him. Why would he need a couch? A chair would have sufficed.

“Why are you laughing?” Marc grumbled, the bulk of the weight of the couch resting on his shoulder. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, that run this morning had kicked his ass—physically and emotionally and whatever feeling was ignoring your hot neighbor/coworker’s hotness.

Something akin to wanting to crawl out of one’s skin. Or sex. Sex would be good.

He gritted his teeth and Tess got a better grip on the couch. “I take it from the grumpiness you never watched Friends. You know, Ross yelling at everyone to pivot in the stairwell?”

“No, I’ve never seen it.”

“How is that even possible? I’m not sure I can trust someone who’s never seen Friends.”

“I’m not big on TV.”

“Strike two, Santino. Next up you’ll tell me you don’t like dessert and I’ll be forced to hate you forever.”

“Depends on the dessert.” Which was not sexual innuendo. And it didn’t sound like it, either. Not to her. Not to him. Nope.

“Okay, so what’s your favorite?” They got the couch around the stairwell turn.

Sexual innuendo? Oh, no, dessert. “Cannoli.”

They reached the top and Tess dropped her end. “Ooh, Santino. Cannoli. Italian. Is your family in the mafia? The Minnesota mafia. And you’re a dirty cop!”

“No. Apparently you watch too much TV.”

“No fun.”

No, he wasn’t. But she was. He’d pity invited her on this shopping outing, one he’d mostly been dreading since picking out crap and spending money were two of his least favorite things, and she’d made it fun. He’d laughed.

He was so inherently screwed.

He unlocked his door, twin urges surging through him. One was the one he should listen to. The one to tell her she’d helped, and now she could leave, because he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t dying.

The other was to ignore that urge. Let her come in. Comment on his apartment again. Infiltrate on some crazy chance they both knew they couldn’t let happen.

“Thinking awfully hard there for a door opening.”

“Just thinking about how I was swindled,” he lied, poorly. Ill-advisedly.

Tess laughed, picking up her end of the couch again. “Oh, my God, you did not just say swindled. Are you living on the prairie?”

“It’s a legitimate word,” Marc grumbled. He didn’t need her help to get it in the apartment, but he didn’t say anything. Except, “I could make my own damn chair for half the amount of this stupid couch you talked me into.”

Tess snorted. “Sure, Ron Swanson.”

“Huh?”

“You, sir, need an education. Friends, Parks and Rec, The Office.”

“I prefer reading, thanks.”

“Strike three. You’re out,” she puffed out as they maneuvered the couch into the apartment. They dropped it in the general area in front of the TV. “Besides, if you prefer to read, why do you have a TV?”

“Sports.”

Tess rolled her eyes. “Oh, be a little less stereotypical.”

“My e-reader is full of romances.”

Her eyes got comically wide. “Really?”

“No. I actually prefer nonfiction. Biographies and stuff like that, but that’s probably stereotypical.”

She collapsed onto the couch, throwing her arm dramatically over her forehead. “Oh, and here I got all excited you had some secret poetic side to you.” She peered out from under her arm. “You know, I should hate you for not paying the delivery fee and making me help.”

“I should hate you for talking me into a couch when I only needed a chair.”

She stretched her long legs out. She was wearing loose jeans with random rips across the thigh and knee—which actually looked like use, not some attempt at fashion. All he knew was, on more than one occasion it had given him a glimpse of skin.

On more than one occasion, he’d had to tell himself to stop staring so damn much.

“You can’t stretch out on a chair,” she was saying, folding her arms behind her head. “You can’t nap or curl up with a fascinating biography of...” She looked at him pointedly, as if he was supposed to supply an answer.

“Lyndon Johnson.”

“Ugh. Worst president ever.”

“I think worst is a bit of an exaggeration.”

“I watched this show once that gave evidence to how he was behind the JFK assassination. It seemed pretty legit.”

“Please tell me you are not serious right now.”

“Okay, this right here is another reason I should hate you—I’m lying on your couch debating about history. That is the last thing I ever want to be doing on a guy’s couch.”

“And what’s the first thing?” Danger. Accident ahead. Like a flashing sign, only he couldn’t backtrack and take back those words, so he had to stand in uncomfortable...uncomfortableness.

“Hmm.” Her smile went sly, reminding him of that first night he’d met her in the hallway. Despite bleeding and being pissed, she’d smiled as if she had the world in the palm of her hand.

She could smile like that even though it was so obvious she didn’t. He couldn’t understand that. He was having a hard time resisting it, too.

“Pizza?”

She pushed herself into a sitting position, and glanced at the door. “I never say no to pizza.”

“You can go, if that’s what you want.”

Her eyes moved from the door to him, all sly smiles and confidence gone. Just gray eyes wide and something he was having trouble resisting, too. Like what paltry help he offered mattered, meant something.

He helped a lot of people, but it never felt as though it...resonated. People moved on, people kept focusing on other people. Having someone see the effort he was making was...why did that make him feel ridiculously good?

That probably made him a dick, because helping was supposed to be something you did without the hope of thanks or retribution, but he couldn’t deny he was desperate for a little thanks, a little gratitude.

Christ. Pathetic to the extreme. At least that was another reason not to like her. Chatty and made him consider uncomfortable truths about himself. Too bad he couldn’t get that message through all the ways he did like her. He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, to get out of Pathetic Land, but she beat him to it.

“I know, I should get out of your hair.”

“No, I wasn’t saying it because...” Jeez, now he really sounded pathetic. “You were looking at the door. You are welcome to stay, but I don’t want you to feel obligated. I have eaten many a meal on my own. It’s not half-bad.”

“I just...” She looked down at her hands, pressed her palms together before looking back at the door. “I need to stay away from my phone. If I can do that for a little while longer.”

Marc felt as though he’d done an admirable job keeping his mouth shut—he was damn good at it, after all—but the trepidation in her voice, in her movements made him realize keeping quiet went against everything he stood for.

He didn’t let people get hurt if he could help it. While Tess was an adult and her father was her business, even if he did hurt her, Marc couldn’t stand by silently if she was afraid.

“Does he harass you?”

She went completely still, presumably because he’d broken the silent agreement not to discuss what had actually happened and what it meant.

“It’s not like that,” she said lamely. She got off the couch, pushing her hair back and linking her hands behind her head before letting them fall at her sides. “He calls and asks for help. I need...” She shook her head. “He’s an alcoholic, Marc. He’s sick. I’m all he has. It’s sometimes a bit much and I need a break.”

“You...” Part of him was desperate to keep his mouth shut, to keep out of this, to help in only the most peripheral ways possible, but it wasn’t a big enough part of him to keep his mouth shut. “I know it’s none of my business, but him having a fight with that scrawny guy at his apartment complex? It may not just be alcohol.”

Her shoulders slumped and she turned away from him. “I know. That’s new. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Marc. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I have things under control.” Her head bobbed as if she was nodding to herself. Then a sound escaped her mouth—not really a laugh, not a sob. He wasn’t sure what the noise was.

“God, what a joke. I don’t have a damn thing under control anymore. I’m not even fooling myself.” She sniffled. “I’m not doing this again in front of you. I’m going home. Look, I’m sorry. I need to get out of here.” She moved for the door, but he was—thankfully—faster and got there first. Blocking it.

What the hell are you doing?

He had no idea. He only knew he couldn’t let her leave. “Tess.”

Even though she’d sniffled, she wasn’t crying. Yet. Her eyes were shiny with tears. “Marc, let me go, okay? I’ll handle everything. I always do. I...have to.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, hands shaking.

The little voice in his head kept repeating the same question over and over—What the hell are you doing? Only it didn’t seem to change the fact he was doing it. He reached for her shoulders, fingers curling around them. Even though her body trembled, she felt so damn strong under his hands he just wished he had answers.

He could only do his best, which would never be good enough, but maybe it could be something. “Surely there’s someone who can help—”

“I don’t have anyone who can help us,” she choked out, dropping her hands from her eyes, a mix of determination and defeat. How did she do that?

A few tears had escaped her eyes, and he hated the feeling in his gut—helplessness. As though there wasn’t a thing he could do to fix this.

A very familiar feeling. One he couldn’t seem to shake no matter where he went, and yet the words that came out of his mouth didn’t seem to understand that. “I can help.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.” How long had he been trying to help only to fail? But...she made him feel as if this could be different. “Honestly, my choice method of help would be arresting the kind of asshole that would hurt his daughter.” Without permission from the rational side of his brain, his hands moved from her shoulders down to her arm, where she’d held a cloth over a cut that first night he’d met her.

“I can’t—”

“So, I can’t fix anything. But I can help. You need to be away from your phone. I’m right next door. Well, almost. I don’t have much of a life, considering I just moved here. The point is, if you need someone to distract you, I can do that.” Which sounded... “I didn’t mean...”

She smiled, which was nice to see. “Why don’t you order the pizza, Captain Quiet? That’ll be enough distracting...for now.” Then her expression went soft, and there was that fleeting feeling he’d been chasing for most of his life, the feeling that he’d helped, that he’d done something.

Tess rose to her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thanks,” she said.

He swallowed, because a kiss on the cheek—a friendly thank-you kiss on the cheek—was not something to get all worked up over. But that’s exactly what he was. Worked up. Tied up. Ridiculously pleased that someone had recognized his effort.

Also, screwed. Very, very screwed.