But it wasn’t so black-and-white in her mind. The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts, and she took a breath before opening the door.
Chris had his hands tucked in the pockets of his stiff jeans, attempting a cool stance. It was charming despite the forced effort. “Hi,” he said, darting a kiss to her lips.
She took his hand and led him inside.
Jonathan parked half a block from the apartment complex, a good distance between the streetlights. Their glow was shrouded by heavy fog, but he couldn’t be too careful. He didn’t want the tenants to know he was back in town, crashing at Ma’s old place for the night. Easing from his car, he tugged the hood of his sweatshirt into place and stole across the long driveway, keeping his head down as he crept to the second-floor apartment.
Shucking his sneakers by the door, he padded to the kitchen in his socks. Not that he cared about getting the floors dirty. This wasn’t his place. He chuckled at the irony. Correction: this wasn’t where he lived. And he didn’t want the tenants below to call the police because they’d heard an intruder. As he filled a glass with water, he wondered if Ma had asked him to come back all those months ago so she could give him the paperwork for the complex. He wished she would’ve said more. But with her, it was always the dangled carrot, and he didn’t have time for that.
When she’d asked him to come home, he’d been across the country in New York visiting a friend. She hadn’t told him she was dying. It was a voice mail saying she wanted to see him about something important. How the hell was he supposed to know she was near the end? When he returned for the funeral, he found a note she’d left for him on the table by the door. In her annoyingly perfect handwriting, she’d written, I wish you would’ve come around more. And I hope you find a nice girl.
That’s not a problem, Ma. He drained his glass, and a satisfied smile eased across his lips.
He was still riding high from his two-month luxury escape to Europe. How else was he supposed to process his mother’s death? The Italian girls had been especially hospitable to the fine American man. Life was good. He could almost taste the salty air drifting up off the waters of Positano on the Amalfi Coast. Before long, he’d go back and rent a yacht. Hell, he could probably buy one. He’d cruise the waters with any number of gorgeous dark-haired females with satiny olive skin. A few details needed to be squared away with the apartment complex, and he’d go back. The tenants wouldn’t be too tough to deal with. One had even brought him a casserole after Ma died. Too bad she hadn’t offered to comfort him the old-fashioned way instead. That chick was hot. Married, but hot. Setting his glass on the counter, he crossed to the sofa and settled onto it, trying to get a clear picture of the blonde in his head, but the image was blurry. All he could see was her full lips babbling about the rent.
She’d insisted that Ma had given them a discount. That had knocked her hotness down a notch. Who’d she think he was? Santa Claus? He wasn’t going to honor any alleged discounts. This was a business. And collecting the rent checks had become a hefty supplement to his fickle income. He smiled to himself as he thought about the piles of cash that would soon be his. Rent checks were one thing. But selling this place? He’d make a mint.
Ma had tidied things up nice and neat before her death, putting every last asset into a trust that transferred to him upon her death. Tomorrow, he’d meet with his real estate agent. The current climate for sellers in the area was sizzling hot. He could be a multimillionaire by the time the spring flowers had sprung.
CHAPTER THREE
Thursday, March 9
The alarm blared, startling Riki out of a deep sleep. She slapped at her phone, trying twice before successfully hitting the “Snooze” button. Chris pulled her close, tucking her body into his. “I wish it was Saturday,” he whispered into her hair. “I want to stay in bed with you all day.”
His words jolted her from sleepy to alert. They’d never stayed in bed all day. Not on a Saturday or any other day, for that matter. Was he imagining that they would sometime soon? Did guys fantasize about the future the same way women did? It should give her a feeling of security in their relationship, but it made her want to break free from his arms and run.
He trailed a line down her back with his finger. “Hey. I’m serious.” He continued snaking his hand across her skin. His touch seemed to have hypnotic powers.
She shivered and softened into him. “About?” Her voice was husky with sleep, and it made her sound unintentionally sexy. She turned to face him and cleared her throat. “Sorry. Sleep voice. What are you serious about?”
“Wanting to stay with you all day.” He readjusted the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.
Riki reached out a hand and rubbed it across his smooth buzz cut. She liked the way it tickled her fingers. But I hate his haircut. It reminded her of Geoffrey Kozinski, a neighborhood kid with a bully’s swagger who’d taken to calling her Riki McHickey in middle school. She hadn’t known what a hickey was back then, which had made him laugh even harder. Stupid kid. She tried to ignore the resemblance in their haircuts, but it was always there. Other things about his appearance were nice, though. He had good hands. They were big and capable with neatly squared fingernails. His eyes were interesting too—a dark contrast to hers—almost black, to be honest. She preferred soft brown eyes or even hazel ones. Or bright blue like Brandon’s.
Stop! She wished she could poison the voice in her head, killing it once and for all. It was like her mind was a desperate addict, going back for more even though she knew better. She knew better.
So why had she closed her eyes last night and imagined Chris was Brandon? It was just so easy to do. Both he and Brandon were six feet tall, give or take. And his hands were so much like Brandon’s. A casual observer wouldn’t notice, but Riki had. It was in the way their knuckles knotted beneath the skin. It was in the square fingernails.
But it wasn’t like she’d thought of Brandon the whole time. He’d only flitted in and out of her thoughts. Chris was a great guy. He’d been so sweet on their first date, holding doors for her and taking her hand. Throughout the night, he’d pegged her with compliments like Cupid with his arrows. It was nice until it wasn’t—until she began to wonder if he was just another charmer. She’d told her friend Amelia, who taught second grade with her, about it, saying all the flattery seemed a little overkill, but Amelia had insisted he was probably smitten. “You’re one of those weirdos who doesn’t know how smart and pretty you are.” Riki didn’t know about that, but it felt good to believe that Chris’s kind words were sincere. And since then, he’d been very consistent and reliable, calling when he said he would and not canceling plans. That was important. Relationships were supposed to be built on love and respect, not on the flimsy wings of butterflies.
He opened his eyes and touched her hand that was now resting on his head. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped massaging. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She tucked the covers to her chin. “I’m still half-asleep.”
“So call in sick. Hell, call in sick tomorrow too. We need a long weekend.” His voice was thick with suggestion. Simple enough for him to call in sick. He was a PA on a reality show. Or maybe even an assistant to an assistant. It seemed he didn’t do much beyond fetching coffee. It was easy to have a slacker job when you were a trust-fund baby, but in his defense, he was still figuring out what his passion was. “Last night was amazing.”