“What youprobably saw is them watching for money to fall out of my pockets. Getting paidis priority one.”
“Ispaying them an issue?”
Shesighed. “Things have been a little off. I had to let one crew go because Icouldn’t keep them busy, and these guys are nervous. Understandably. They relyon me. So do their families.”
“What’sthe problem?”
“What isn’tthe problem?” She rubbed her forehead. “Inspectors giving us a hard time,the EPA on our backs, unexpected repairs sucking up profits and slowingeverything down. I haven’t got many deals in the pipeline to spread the risk.Usually I can balance, but it’s tough when it all hits at once.”
“I knowall too well.”
“It’sbad, huh?”
“It’snot great.”
“I, um,pulled an ownership and encumbrances report on your place. Standard procedure.”She slid a paper from between a few other sheets and pointed at it. “I saw ajudgment, so I dug deeper, and if what I’m seeing is correct, you have asizeable IRS lien on your property.”
Henodded, staring straight ahead. When he glanced back at her, she gave him asympathetic smile.
“Well,if you’re ready to move on this, let’s get busy signing,” she said.
Hefished his glasses out of his shirt pocket and slid them on. She seemed not tonotice. They sat side by side, her explaining what he was signing and himagreeing while he pulled in her fresh-flower fragrance.
Whenthey finished the stack, she said, “The photographer will be there tomorrow.Your place should be listed before the weekend.”
“Okay.”He tossed the pen down on her console with a twinge of sadness. He hadn’t lovedthe house, but it was one of the few remaining threads in a weave thatrepresented a life he no longer had. And he’d loved that he could afford it.Once upon a time.
“I’llget you as much money as I can, but there’s a chance you’ll need to bring moneyto the closing table to cover the lien and mortgage. You do understand that?”
“Yep.”
Shetouched his arm. “I don’t understand everything you’re going through, but I’llhelp any way I can.”
“You’realready helping.” He folded his glasses and slipped them into his pocket.
Shewithdrew her hand. He wanted it back.
“Can Ibuy you a cup of coffee?” he asked softly. When was the last time he’d inviteda woman—married or not—to do something so simple, so wholesome? So normal?
Alittle frown played on her face.
“Please?”he added, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
Whathad moved him to ask? Easy. He could breathe around her, and he desperatelyneeded to breathe. She was the rare one who recognized his bullshit, and yetshe looked past it. She cared—not because she wanted anything from him likeeveryone else, but because it was her nature, because she was sweet and warmand kind. With her, he could just … be.
.~ * * * ~.
Beckett’s blue eyes fixed on her hopefully. She didn’t wantto have coffee with him. She just wanted to sell his house and help him moveon. But the plea in his voice had struck a note, and he looked so pathetic, sodifferent from the strutting, strapping man who had burst into Marty’s officelast winter and boasted of his sexual prowess. Where had that swagger gone, theone he’d had since college? Maybe she should offer to buy him a coffee.
“I just… Jesus, I just want to … to talk to someone normal, just for a little while,and be myself without wondering who wants what from me.” There was no mistakingthe frustration in his deep timbre. “Just talk. About how you come up with yourdesigns. About the latest book you’re reading. About your favorite dessert.Your choice.” They stood outside her truck now, and he was plucking herheartstrings as though she were a steel guitar. Gwenn’s warning bounced aboutin her brain.
Paigelooked at her watch dramatically. His puppy eyes were compelling—and gorgeous. Werethose the same eyes he used when he was seducing the latest supermodel? Orthree? No lie, it was effective. But she was immune, inoculated with herindomitable Adrian vaccine.
She bither lower lip. “I only have time for one.”
Oneside of his mouth twitched in a half-smile. He suddenly looked nervous. “Um,good. I’ll take it. One is good.”
AtPaige’s suggestion, they walked, Beckett scrunching a ball cap low on hisforehead. He continually tugged it down as he looked around. Awkwardnesscharged the air between them, manifesting itself in starts and stops inattempted small talk. Though the walk was only a few blocks, every step wasexcruciating. What am I doing? I just want to go home, sit in front of theTV, and eat a quart of vanilla before I talk to Adrian. But this guy’s myclient—I can give him a half hour, right?
Theypeered through a window at Dazbog and spotted an open table. After arguingbriefly over who was paying—Beckett won because he invited her,he claimed— they slipped into hard wooden chairs on opposite sides of a squaretable. She stared at a poster of a giant cup of coffee. “Flavor as big asRussia,” it bragged. Fascinating. When she slid her eyes farther down, anotherposter listed their specialty drinks. Ah! That would take some time, andattention, to study. Maybe she could read them off to him and start aconversation that wasn’t as painful as what they’d exchanged so far.
Theircoffee arrived with a clatter of cup and saucer. She blew on the foam of herdecaf skinny cappuccino and glanced around the space. An extraordinarily largenumber of women seemed to be in the shop, and they all seemed to be staring atBeckett. He removed the cap but kept his head down, intently stirring hiscoffee. His black coffee. He lifted his gaze to her, and a few strands of hairfell forward, hiding one eye. As he pushed it back, he gave her a half-smile.
Shepulled in a deep breath. Find common ground. “So. Tell me about playingin the NHL.” Oh God. It sounded as cheesy as, “Come here often?” and she cringedinwardly.
Eitherhe didn’t notice, or he was being polite. “Signed with the Kings out of collegeand stayed with them seven years. Won the cup with them in 2012. God, that wasan amazing time.”
Apicture of Beckett in his backward ball cap, hooting and playing air guitaratop a double-decker
