Reaching First Page 9

Cursing her fair skin and her shy reflexes, she held the door open wider. “Get in here. There’s a lot of painting to be done.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He didn’t have to brush against her when he passed over the threshold, but he did. He didn’t have to let his fingers catch on the hem of her shorts. He didn’t have to pause, leaning close, as she caught her breath sharply. And he didn’t have to chuckle, deep in his throat, as she sighed when he stepped away.

  “Hey, Will,” he called as he entered the living room. “Primer already done?”

  “Just waiting for you to add the first coat,” the handyman said from his stepladder. “This is the last of the cutting in.”

  She tried not to feel jealous as the men fell into an easy conversation about last night’s game. The umpires had made some terrible calls, mostly against the Rockets. Emily knew, because she’d watched every minute. But she left the men to their discussion and padded back to her office.

  Three weeks until Mr. Samson made his final decision on Minerva House. Three weeks until she showed him the final version of her attempts to build a community for returning soldiers and their families.

  That reminded her. She still needed child-size furniture for the Fun Room, the space that had once been the dining room. She wanted to get a table that was low to the ground, along with four miniature plastic chairs. A chest, too, something that could be filled with blocks and dolls and other toys for imaginative play. As her concept for the House had grown, the Fun Room had become increasingly important. Kids needed to be kept occupied so their parents could do the hard work of acclimating to stateside life.

  Consulting her computer, she wrote down everything she needed. Tyler could pick it up on his way over tomorrow. She folded the paper and wrote his name on the outside. On a whim, she added a pair of interlocking hearts.

  Sure, it was silly. But silly felt good. It felt right. She’d leave the list on the passenger seat of his truck and make him think it was a love letter, at least until he opened it. It would serve the guy right, teasing her like that on her own front porch.

  She was still grinning, when the phone rang.

  “Emily! Jamie Martin here. I’m glad I caught you in your office.”

  Emily smiled at the enthusiasm in the photographer’s voice. “What’s up?”

  “My schedule shifted unexpectedly. I can fit you in for those headshots we talked about, if you come by this morning.”

  “This morning?” Emily heard the alarm in her voice, as she looked down at her shorts.

  “I know you want everything for the website before your big review September 1st.” The photographer was clearly used to reluctant subjects. Her voice carried the perfect amount of cajoling.

  Emily sighed in resignation. “Give me half an hour.”

  “It’s not like you’re going to your execution.” Jamie laughed. “You’ll see. We’ll have fun.”

  “I can’t wait,” Emily said dryly, but she was smiling.

  “Just bring a few outfits. We’ll figure out what works best.”

  Emily had already selected appropriate clothes; she’d ransacked her closet half a dozen times to choose the outfits that hung on the back of her office door. “Got it. See you in a few.”

  As Emily hung up, her gaze shifted to the stack of filing on the corner of her desk. Every day for the past two weeks, she’d promised herself she’d get it done. She’d even scribbled notes to herself on the corner of every page, instructions about which folder should hold each paper. The photographer’s sudden schedule change was going to make Emily skirt the responsibility once again. She’d lost too much sleep worrying about the task. This really, truly had been the day she was going to get it done. Damn.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She jumped like a cat caught on the kitchen counter. Even as she trapped a little shriek against the back of her teeth, she realized Tyler was standing in the doorway.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She laughed a little. “I was just thinking.”

  “About what?” She couldn’t put her finger on it, couldn’t say exactly what made it sound like he was asking about her sexiest daydreams. But all of a sudden, she was thinking about him, picturing him with his shirt off, standing there and offering her a lot more than community service hours.

  She shook her head and forced her mind back to business. “About how I’m going to get all this work done.”

  “Maybe we could take a drive over to my place,” he suggested with a sly smile. “It doesn’t smell like paint. I could help you forget whatever has you so worked up.”

  Worked up. That was one way of putting it.

  She firmly set aside the mental picture of Tyler Brock, hot and sweaty, administering his private brand of therapy. “I am not taking a drive with you anywhere,” she said with a smile. “In fact, why don’t you stay here and finish my filing? Then, I’ll be able to get a decent night’s sleep.”

  “You haven’t been sleeping well?” he asked innocently.

  “Don’t start with me!” She picked up her purse. “There’s the filing. The folders are all in the top two drawers.”

  “But—”

  “No,” she cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Emily—”

  “I’m not listening!” She laughed as she edged past him. But she couldn’t keep from her own bit of teasing, leaning just that much too close as she collected her clothes for the photo shoot. She felt him catch his breath, but she was halfway to the front door before he could say anything else.

  She didn’t have to sway her hips quite as much as she left the house. But it felt damn good to do it. Especially when she left her “love note” for Tyler on the front seat of his truck. She smiled all the way to Jamie’s studio.

  * * *

  Was she trying to drive him crazy?

  It she’d only met him at the front door wearing those short shorts, that would have been bad enough. If she’d only joked with him, promising a thousand things with all the words she didn’t say… If she’d only let his fingers brush against her thigh… If she’d only jumped when he found her in the office, looked at him with that mix of hunger and surprise, walked out that front door, twitching her pretty little ass from side to side…

  All of that would have been enough to drive him up the wall.

  But no. There was more—that constant promise between them. The tease that kept them both on edge. Seventeen more hours of community service, and they’d be free to finish what they’d started that night in her bedroom.

  He hitched at his jeans, trying to relieve the pressure at his crotch.

  And then he stared at the stack of papers she’d left on her desk. What the hell was he supposed to do with those? Filing. It would be bad enough if he could read the damn things.

  But he had to do it. If he didn’t, Emily would find out. If he didn’t, he’d blow his whole community service gig and shake her faith in him, besides.

  Shit. With all his experience avoiding situations exactly like this, he should have figured out a way around the project. Maybe he could get Will to do it. Tell the handyman…

  Right. Like that was going to work.

  Feeling like a man facing a pit of poisonous snakes, he set his jaw and walked over to her desk. She’d written notes on each page. Must be the files she wanted the papers to go in.

  He tugged on the top drawer of the filing cabinet, jerking it toward himself with enough force that he almost pulled the whole thing over. His heart was pounding hard enough to make him pant. He wiped his palms against his jeans and picked up the first page.

  E. The letter was right there, clear as a hung curveball.

  He licked his lips. The filing cabinet had to be in alphabetic order. He squinted at the folders. Sure enough, there was the E. Fifth one in.

  He jerked the file from the drawer and swore when a dozen pieces of paper started to spill. He tried to grab them, to keep them from falling
, but he only succeeded in scrambling all of them.

  Goddamit! Now they were all out of order. Even if he wanted to figure out where the E paper in his hand went, he couldn’t. He’d have to sort the rest of them. Have to match them up.

  Sweat pooled in the small of his back, the cold trickle of failure. Christ. Why hadn’t he told her he couldn’t do this? Made up a lie? Told her he had to get to the ballpark?

  He tossed the pages on her desk. E. He squinted at the next letter. Tried to force it into place. It twisted around itself, flipped upside down.

  He stared at the stack of documents. He’d be here for the rest of the day. Rest of the night. Sure. Emily would let an idiot like him stick around for the night.

  Swearing, he shoved all the papers into a single file—the old ones he’d spilled and the new ones she’d asked him to file. He left the entire goddamn mess in the center of her desk and stormed down the hall to his truck.

  “Hey!” Will called out from the dining room. “Aren’t you going to finish the trim?”

  “Can’t, buddy,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Gotta get to the ballpark. They just called a team meeting.”

  His heart thundered as he slammed the front door. His stomach burned like he’d swallowed a flaming brick. Trying to read hadn’t made him puke since he was ten years old. He leaned his head against the steering wheel. Deep breaths. Eyes closed. Calm down. Don’t think. Just breathe.

  When he opened his eyes, the entire world was tinged with a light green glow. That was just from the sun shining in his face, through the red of his eyelids. He was fine. He rubbed his eyes, hard.

  And then he noticed the note on the passenger seat. The paper was plain white. He saw his name, in all capital letters. Two hearts beside it.

  Swallowing the acid that rose in his throat, he flipped open the paper. It was signed E. Same as the goddamn page he’d tried to file.

  E for Emily.

  Emily, his name, and hearts.

  She’d continued the same game she’d started that morning, the flirtation that had been fun until the moment she left him alone in her office. He crumpled the paper into a ball.

  He better get the hell out of the driveway, or Will was going to come looking for him. He’d said he had a meeting at the ballpark. Might as well head over there. Couldn’t hurt to see one of the trainers. Get a massage, work on that tight hamstring. If only the team docs had something that could cure the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  * * *

  Emily stared at the papers spilled across her desk.

  What game was Tyler playing? Sure, office filing wasn’t his favorite job, but what the hell?

  She couldn’t believe he’d actually sabotaged her hard work by ransacking her existing files. He probably thought he was being cute. He’d piss her off, and she’d demand he come back and clean things up.

  But she didn’t feel like playing. Not with three weeks left before her Minerva House deadline. Not when she’d spent the entire morning smiling and posing and feeling like an idiot having her picture taken again and again and again. Not when she felt most like an impostor, pretending she was a competent businesswoman, launching a major mental health enterprise on her own in seven short days.

  And here was something else she was screwing up—monitoring Tyler’s community service. She shouldn’t count the time he waited for the inspector. And she definitely shouldn’t count the hours he’d spent messing up her previously filed papers.

  The more she thought about his sabotage, the angrier she got. Their flirtation that morning only emphasized the lies she’d been telling herself. How was she supposed to get up in front of a court and say Tyler had served his time?

  It wasn’t just the sentence getting to her. He knew how stressed she was. He knew she was running out of time to meet Ethan Samson’s demands. She’d told him she’d lost sleep over the simple project she’d asked him to help with.

  Gritting her teeth, she turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. “Will?” she called. “Did Tyler say when he’d be back?”

  The handyman looked up from the trim he was painting. “Nope. He tore out of here about ten minutes after you left. Said he had some sort of team meeting.”

  Team meeting, my ass. And he’s probably thinking I’ll count three more hours toward his total.

  But all she said out loud was, “Thanks.”

  Tyler didn’t answer when she phoned him, and his cheerful outgoing message merely stoked her frustration. Staring at the scrambled files, she snapped into her phone. “This isn’t working for me, Tyler. We need to talk.”

  She couldn’t confront him here, though, in Aunt Minnie’s house. He’d turn it into a chance to play, a challenge to distract her. She firmed up her tone. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow. Noon, at Callie’s Café. Don’t be late.”

  She slammed down the phone and started on the filing.

  * * *

  Emily slipped into a booth at Callie’s, positioning herself so she could see the door. The cafe always cheered her up, with its bright green and yellow wallpaper.

  Which was fortunate, because she needed some major cheering up. She’d barely slept the night before, worrying about this meeting. After twisting in her sheets for hours, she’d finally turned on her light at four in the morning, sitting up in bed to write down her thoughts.

  She needed Tyler to work with her on this. She needed him to prioritize completing his community service. It was like completing his sentence would make a statement about their entire relationship. He had to want to succeed—and that was completely separate from how badly she wanted him to support Minerva House. To support her.

  She glanced at her phone. He still had five minutes before she could call him late.

  And she felt the tiniest bit relieved, when he walked through the door as she returned her phone to the table. At least he’d taken her seriously about the time.

  He slid into the booth opposite her, an easy smile on his lips. “I’m guessing this place is a little short on rib-eye steaks.”

  “You’d guess right.” Damn. That came out sounding a lot more bitter than she’d planned. She set her jaw and forced herself to stop playing with the paper wrapper from her straw.

  The waitress came by. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked Tyler.

  He nodded toward Emily’s glass. “Tea would be great.”

  “And do you know what you want to eat?”

  “He hasn’t had a chance to look at the menu yet,” Emily said, more annoyed than the question warranted.

  “No, I’m fine,” Tyler contradicted her. “Go ahead and order, and I’ll figure out what I want.”

  She frowned. She didn’t like him telling her what to do. Not today. Not when she had to make him understand how important this conversation was to her. But that wasn’t the waitress’s fault. “I’ll have a Sunshine Salad,” she said. “Dressing on the side.”

  Tyler closed the menu. “Make that two.”

  Great. She wasn’t any happier when he agreed with her.

  They sat in silence until the waitress brought him his tea and topped off Emily’s own nearly-full glass. Then, she was out of excuses. She fortified herself with a deep breath and said, “Tyler, this isn’t working for me.”

  She saw him start to say something sly, and her pulse picked up as if he’d actually delivered the flirtation. But she tamped down the reaction, just as he swallowed hard and looked at her with those hot fudge eyes. “What isn’t?”

  “The community service thing. You’re putting me in an impossible position. I have to report on you. Whether I have good news or bad, the court will make me swear to a statement. And when you pick and choose from your assignments…when you ignore my instructions and just leave piles of paper on my desk—”

  She realized her voice had gone sharp, and she washed away the rest of her complaint with a healthy swallow of tea.

  His face had slammed shut. His fingers curled into fists. His lips set into a t
ight line, clasped so tight they were almost gray. It didn’t take a mind-reader to know how angry he was with her.

  Dammit. She knew better than this. She’d majored in psychology, for God’s sake. She knew demanding to see him would be a threat, and her tone made it even worse. Her words had to feel like an attack.

  She took a deep breath and started over again. “When you ignore my instructions, I feel like you don’t care about your community service.”

  “I care.” His voice was dangerously low, as if he were holding back a thousand other things he wanted to say.

  “When I saw those papers on my desk yesterday, I felt like you were deliberately ignoring me.”

  “What about when you saw the new floors, Emily? What about when you saw the new wiring for the overhead lights? When you read the inspection certificate from the county? How did you feel then?”

  She nodded, trying to rein in her own frustration. “I felt like we were playing on the same team. But not when you slack off with the other stuff—organizing the books and the flyers, and checking out the computer site. You owe a hundred hours, and every one of them has to count. If I tell the court you were great for the first eighty, but then you decided you were done, they’ll throw a fit. Don’t ask me to sign off on that.”

  She gave him a chance to answer, but he didn’t even try. Fine. Maybe they’d do better if she moved on to another project. If they just agreed to disagree about the filing and the rest of it. She sighed and asked, “Did you at least pick up the kids’ table?”

  “The kids’ table?” It was like she’d suddenly spoken to him in Ancient Greek.

  “The table and chairs, along with the toy box. Didn’t you get the note I left in your truck?” The note with the hearts. The note she was seriously regretting right now.

  “I got it,” he said quickly. “I got it, but…”

  But what? she wanted to shout. But I didn’t care enough to swing by the store. But I didn’t feel like doing it. But I thought I knew better than you do about how to set up Minerva House, about what you have to do to succeed.

  Before he settled on an answer—one she knew she didn’t want to hear—the waitress brought their salads. Emily used hers as a distraction, poking her fork into the mixed greens. She focused on distributing the dried apricots, the pistachios, the golden raisins and slivers of almonds.