For Better or Worse (20 page)

Um, like,
yesterday, Heather thought.

“We do, yes. Here are our options. We can send out the save-the-date cards and hold off until the very last minute to send the invitations, hoping that by some miracle, the Plaza might become available on that date. Or, we can skip the save-the-date and official invitation process and instead keep this wedding very small and spontaneous. If and when the Plaza does open up, we can gather close friends and family members for a quiet, intimate affair.”

Danica bit her lip. “So basically, it's the slim possibility of tiny and last-minute at the Plaza, or I drop the Plaza and plan for something else.”

Heather nodded. “Yes. That, or we push the date out to when the Plaza
is
available.”

“Not an option,” Danica said. “I promised Troy.”

Heather pulled the iPad back toward her, knowing now wasn't the time to start showing Danica bridesmaid dress patterns and fondant colors. Not when they didn't even have a date and location.

“Why don't you take some time to think about it,” she said gently. “Let me know by the end of the week which direction you want to head.”

Danica nodded and swallowed. “Okay. And also . . . I guess I want to say thank you. I know I can be sort of . . . I'm used to getting what I want. Sometimes it doesn't occur to me that I can't have it.”

Heather stifled a smile. Danica was absurdly pampered, but at least there was a sliver of self-awareness
there. Somehow divas were more tolerable when they realized they were divas.

“Touch base whenever you're ready,” Heather said as they both stood. “And in the meantime, I'm here for anything you might need.”

Danica gave a distracted smile. “Thanks. I appreciate your patience with this. I'm sorry if I seemed flippant before. I've been pretty determined to be nonchalant about the wedding, and I may have gone overboard.”

“It's fine,” Heather said smoothly, as though it hadn't been the cause of several migraines over the past few weeks. “My only goal is to get you your dream wedding. I just need a bit more help in understanding what that is.”

“Understood. I appreciate your patience. I really do.”

After Danica left, Heather headed back to her office feeling a fierce sense of relief that the conversation was over, and maybe a bit embarrassed that she'd expended so much energy freaking out about the Robinson wedding instead of addressing the problem with Danica head-on.

Had she been more assertive weeks ago, she'd have saved herself a few huge headaches.

Still, she supposed maybe this was part of the learning curve. If she wanted to be like Alexis and Brooke, she had to make her own mistakes. Learn when to roll with the punches, when to deliver the punches.

Today had been a deliver-the-punch day. Gently, of course.

Heather reached for her cell phone, brought up Josh's number, and tapped out a message about her
mini-accomplishment, only to hesitate before hitting send.

Just days ago, she would have sent it without thinking twice. She'd be telling her friend—the one who was helping her with the wedding—that she'd made some progress.

But now that they'd slept together, she was telling him what, exactly? He wasn't her boyfriend. Lord knew he'd made that clear. Nor did she want him to be. Heartache that way lay.

She put her phone down, tapping her fingernails on the desk as she considered. Then before she could overthink it further, she picked up her phone and hit send.

Any other guy she'd been sleeping with for a week, no way. He'd likely freak out that his new bed conquest was getting all personal and sharey.

But this was Josh. He hadn't started treating her differently once he'd started seeing her naked, and she wouldn't treat him differently, either.

They were still friends, after all. And he was still Danica's ex—gross. All the rules for why she could share with him still applied.

She was pretty sure.

Josh texted back almost immediately.
Hell yes. Did you tell her you were shagging her ex? Was there a cat fight? Did you take pics?

Heather rolled her eyes as she replied.
Yes. ­Because this is obviously about you.

Speaking of me and everything that I am, want to make banana bread later? I bought more bananas after you let
the other ones get rotten. They're perfect for baking.

I can't handle you and your banana bread fetish right now. I have to work.

Go get 'em. Don't forget to send me the cat fight pictures. You both were naked right?

Heather was still smiling as she put her phone back in her purse and turned back to her work.

“Someone's in a good mood.”

Heather spun around, smiling in surprise when she saw Logan Harris standing in her doorway.

“Logan! Come in! What are you doing here? I thought you and Alexis only had your super-secret meetings early in the mornings.”

He smiled his slow, sexy smile and came in, settling himself in her guest chair. “You realize that sounds like a double entendre, right?”

“I think you wish it had a double meaning,” she quipped.

He blinked in surprise behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and Heather felt color flood her cheeks as she realized what she'd said. She and Logan were friends, but not
that
good of friends.

“
Well
,” he said, sitting back, the simple word sounding crisp and precise in his lovely accent.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don't know why I said that, I'm all frazzled today—”

Logan held up a hand. “Heather. Please. It's okay.”

“I'm sorry,” she said again, miserably.

“Don't apologize for being observant.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Wait, so you do . . . you want . . .”

“Alexis? Yes, of course. I should think it's been quite obvious these many years. Your comment assures me that it is.”

“Well, to me, I guess. And Brooke.”

“And Alexis?” he asked. “Does she know?”

Heather blew out a breath, wishing she had better news for the guy. “I don't know. Maybe? We've teased her about it before. You two are just so . . . right. But she's always insisted that you're just friends.”

His smile was fleeting. “Just friends. Yes. We are most certainly that.”

“Why don't you ask her out?” Heather said, leaning forward and resting her arms on her legs, hands clasped between her knees.

“You know Alexis as well as anyone. How do you suppose that would go?” Logan asked.

Heather sat back, picturing exactly how it would go and feeling bad for the guy sitting opposite her.

“Exactly,” he said. “The woman doesn't do anything she doesn't want to do. Doesn't embark on any venture that's not her idea.”

“Ah,” Heather said, as his strategy clicked into place. “You're waiting. For her to come to her senses.”

“I am,” he confirmed. “And I'd request that you do the same.”

“In other words, you've been waiting too long for me to go mucking things up?” Heather asked.

He winked, quick and sexy. “Let's just say I'm playing the long game.”

“You are a patient man, Logan Harris.”

“A curse, to be sure.” He shifted in his seat and immediately his face was back to implacable, business-­minded Logan. “But actually, Alexis isn't the reason I stopped by.”

“Hit me,” she said.

Logan adjusted his glasses, and Heather nearly smiled because the shift from a besotted man to an accountant with a mission was visible.

“Your friend. Mr. Tanner. You're close?”

Heather smirked. Boy, was that a loaded question. “We're . . . we're on good terms,” she finished lamely.

“He's a musician,” Logan stated.

“Yeah,” Heather said, puzzled.

“But he hasn't always been. He said he was a hedge fund manager?”

Heather lifted her shoulders. “Yeah. I don't know much about it. To say that he doesn't like talking about that stage of his life is an understatement.”

“Interesting,” Logan said. “Because I got the impression that he missed it.”

Huh.

Heather got that impression sometimes, too. But if he did miss it, why didn't he go back?

“I think he loves music,” she said slowly.

“Oh, I'm positive he does,” Logan said. “I love music, too. But I don't think the music is enough for someone like Josh.”

“By all means, feel free to tell him that,” she said. “Might I suggest Kevlar for the conversation?”

“You've spoken with him about it?”

“Not about going back to Wall Street, specifically. But I've sort of suggested that he seemed . . . lost. He
didn't speak to me for days after. That is apparently off-limits.”

“Well,” Logan said with a small sigh. “That is most disappointing.”

“Why?” Heather asked, curious why someone who'd met Josh once, talked to him for all of five minutes, was so interested in him.

“I'm thinking about expanding my practice,” Logan said. “Actually, perhaps
expand
isn't the right word, although I do need another person to help me achieve my vision.”

“Which is . . .”

“I want to create an app.”

“An app? Like . . .” Heather lifted her iPhone in question.

He nodded. “Yes, precisely. I won't bore you with the details, but short version: Accounting is and always will be a necessity for businesses, and yet we as a group have failed to evolve in any meaningful way. From ledgers to calculators, yes, and eventually to spreadsheets, and so on, but while that makes my work easier, it doesn't change the fact that the clients are, in fact, reliant on me.”

“Isn't that a good thing? For you, I mean. Job security and all that.”

“Yes. And no. I spend significant amount of time on tiny, basic functions. Over and over and over.”

Heather studied him. “You're bored.”

“I'd like to stretch.”

“A British way of saying you're bored?”

Logan laughed. “Sure. Anyway, I want to create a new model. One that allows customers to balance
their books on their own. One that has a large database of information on FAQs, because trust me when I say that the questions I get are frequent. And repetitive. I envision a subscription-based model. They sign up with my company and get access to all my knowledge.”

Heather nodded, understanding why something like this could potentially be huge. “But how does Josh fit into this?” she asked.

“I need a partner. It's just me, currently. And there simply aren't enough hours in the day for me to support my current customers and undertake this new venture. I'll need to hire developers and build a website and a business plan. I need help.”

“Why not find another accountant?”

“Because I liked your friend,” Logan said simply. “We accountants can be a stodgy lot, and Josh is anything but. He already understands the basics of what I do. He thinks in numbers, I know he does. I can tell. Plus, there's a . . . youth, about him.”

“I'm pretty sure he's your age,” Heather said.

“Yes, but does he wear elbow patches?” Logan said, lifting his arms and revealing that his tweed blazer did, in fact, have elbow patches.

Heather burst out laughing. “Point taken.”

“It may not work out,” Logan said. “It's a long shot. I just wanted to feel you out. See if it would even be worth speaking with him. If I ever decide to return to England, I'll need someone here that I can trust.”

He looked at her expectantly, and Heather bit her lip. “I don't know what to tell you. I really don't. I
think your idea's brilliant. I think you're right that Josh probably would have plenty to contribute. I also think he'd love it. The trouble is . . . well, heck, I don't know what the trouble is. Like I said, he's weird when it comes to his life's purpose, or whatever.”

Logan nodded and stood, lifting the modern-style briefcase that was slightly at odds with his elbow patches. “Understood. If you decide not to bring it up, I won't mention it again. No hard feelings, all right?”

“Logan?” she asked before he could leave.

He turned back.

“I know you don't know Josh, not really, but when you spoke to him at brunch, did he seem . . . happy?”

Logan was silent for several moments as he considered. “I wouldn't say he was unhappy, but no, happy isn't the word I'd first use to describe Mr. Tanner.”

“What is?”

Logan's smile was a little sad. “Scared. I'd say Mr. Tanner is terrified of something.”

“But what?” Heather asked.

Logan lifted a shoulder. “I dare say that's perhaps for you to find out.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

O
KAY, WHICH OF THESE
do you think Danica would like best?” Heather said, sliding the iPad across the table to Josh before refilling both of their wineglasses.

He pulled the tablet toward him and looked at the screen for a long moment before lifting his head and looking at her. “You are joking right? I'm looking at pink, pink, and pink?”

“No.” She leaned forward and tapped her nail against the swatches. “You're looking at dusty rose, heaven's mauve, and winter blush.”

Josh made a gun motion with his hand and held it under his chin. “Can we order dinner yet?”

“After we pick the bridesmaid dress color.”

“That one,” he said, pointing to the screen without glancing.

She tilted her head. “Really? You don't think that's a bit dark?”

“Heather. I
will
kill you.”

“Fine, fine. Winter blush it is.” She pulled the iPad
back toward her and switched back to her notebook, where she typed it in.

“Why can't Danica pick her own ugly bridesmaid dress color? I thought you guys were besties ever since your little powwow?”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Heather said, sitting back and picking up her wineglass. “Things are definitely better. But I'm still trying to shield her from some of the more mundane details.”

“Right. By all means, don't bother the bride, but harass the bride's ex.”

“I didn't see you complaining when I brought home the chocolate turtle cake to taste-test.”

Josh stretched his arms over his head, his shirt lifting to reveal a tiny sliver of abs that made her mouth water.

Work first, play later.

“So you're willing to help with the food portion of the wedding but not the color scheme,” she said.

“Honestly, I don't know why you sound surprised. How many dudes do you know who want to sit and discuss various shades of pink dresses?”

“Actually, I'm good on the dresses. I do, however, need to figure out whether we want to go with ivory or white candles. The white will better match her dress, the ivory will work better with the pale-pink color scheme I'm putting together. Thoughts?”

“Is there any cake left?”

Heather sighed and turned her iPad off. “Okay. You win. No more wedding talk.”

“You can talk. I'm just fresh out of things to say on the subject,” he said, reaching across the table
and taking her hand, rubbing his thumb across her wrist.

“Nah, I think I've given enough of my week to Danica Robinson.”

“But you've made progress, right? Picked the place and all that?”

Heather nodded.

Danica had called her today—called, not texted, shock of all shocks—and said that she'd decided to forgo the Plaza. She'd even agreed to tour Heather's top-two backups tomorrow, both gorgeous hotels with the same classy elegance of the Plaza, and the not-so-minor perk of
being available.

Josh's phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket, only to silence it and set it on the table.

“You can pick up if you need to.”

He shrugged. “It's not a big deal.”

Heather fiddled with the corner of her iPad. Most of the time, she was pretty content with whatever it was she and Josh were doing. The sex. The companionship. They hung out most nights, working, eating. Watching a movie.

And then there was the sex. Lots and lots of sex.

But sometimes it was as though there was this extra layer between them. A line that Josh wouldn't cross. When it came to her job, her life, her issues, he was always there to listen and advise. He could tease or seduce her out of a bad mood like nobody she'd ever met.

But it was a one-way street. His life remained strictly off-limits. She could barely get him to talk about his day at the gym or his latest song, much less anything deeper that had to do with his life.

And yet, her conversation with Logan Harris earlier in the week was still lingering. Instinct told her that Josh was the perfect man for the job—it also told her that he would enjoy it.

The question was whether or not he'd let himself enjoy it.

“It's Trevor,” he blurted out. “That's who's calling.”

“Oh,” Heather said, blinking in surprise. “You don't want to get it?”

“He thinks he found someone to buy my drum set.”

Heather blinked. “What do you mean? That drum set is yours? I thought it was what's his name's?'

Josh shook his head. “Nope. Mine. Everything in the practice room is mine; the guys just play it.”

“Ah. Are you thinking of replacing the set with something newer?” She tried to keep her voice casual, even though she was secretly thrilled he was opening up, even a little bit.

Instead of responding, he held up his phone. “You care if I order Thai?”

She bit back her disappointment. “No. Go for it.”

“Pad thai with shrimp, right? And spring rolls.”

“Yup, that's great.” She pulled her iPad toward her, flicking it back on. “Hey, how's your sister? She's due about now, right?”

“Past due. Baby Josh is past due, but no sign yet.”

“Baby Josh?”

“It's a girl, but I'm still holding out hope they'll name her after her uncle. If the kid's at all lucky, she'll look like me.”

“Yes, that's what all little girls dream of. To resemble an overgrown frat boy.”

He glanced up. “Overgrown frat boy?”

“Who's good at sex. Really good. Did I not mention that bit?” she asked teasingly.

Josh didn't smile back.

“Hey,” she said, reaching toward him, but he stood up abruptly, moving away from her.

“Would it be better if I wore suits all day? Walked around with my phone plastered to my face, rambling about shit that doesn't matter?”

Heather blinked. “Um. Where is this coming from?”

“I'm thirty-three years old. Guess being called a boy isn't exactly every adult male's dream.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” she said quietly.

“How did you mean it?”

Uh-oh.

“I just meant you're not on a typical path,” she said gently. “It's not a bad thing.”

“I broke up the band.”

Whoa. What?

She shook her head. “Sorry, I'm getting conversational whiplash. Back up. What now?”

“It's not a big deal. Trev and I talked about it a few nights ago. It's just a hobby for the other guys, and we just don't see it going anywhere unless we're really going to give it our all, which we're not. So . . .” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug.
“Finito.”

“What about for you?” she asked. “I always got the impression you were pretty passionate about it.”

“I am. That won't change. I just . . . I don't know. It just felt right.”

Heather nodded. “As long as you're happy with the decision.”

“Happy's a stretch,” he said, tossing his phone on the table with a sigh. “It feels right, I just don't know . . .”

He trailed off and Heather swallowed, deciding to take a risk. “You don't know what to replace it with?”

His blue-green eyes snapped to hers. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” she asked.

“I don't know, 4C. Not all of us had our dream job lined up at the age of twelve, or whatever.”

“Fine,” she snapped, losing patience. “You want to have another of your sulking episodes, have at it, but do me a favor, and don't bring up things you don't want to talk about.”

She grabbed her wineglass and stormed toward his kitchen sink. She couldn't quite bring herself to dump it, but neither was she going to sit there and try to make small talk with a guy who ran hot and cold every time she tried to connect with him on a remotely human level.

“Don't get pissed,” he muttered, coming up behind her.

“Well, I am, a little,” she said, grabbing her iPad. “Sometimes it's like you want to have a conversation, you start it, then decide you don't want to talk after all, and you blame me.”

He rubbed at his forehead. “And
this
is why I don't have a girlfriend.”

Ouch
.

Her mouth dropped open. “Seriously? You don't have a girlfriend because you're an
ass
.”

“Heather.”

But she was done. He wanted to keep things light, fine, but she was
not
going to sit around and serve as his emotional punching bag.

“This goes both ways, you know.” She threw the words out at him as she headed for the door. “­Conversations—sorry,
non
-conversations—like this one are exactly why
I
don't have a boyfriend.”

“Hey, would you hold up a minute?” he asked, coming after her.

Heather spun around. “Why, so you can sit here and dangle all sorts of conversation starters and then get pissy when I respond? You're selling your drum set, but don't want to tell me why. You're dismantling the band, but don't want to talk about that, either. And God forbid we talk about what you might want to do
instead
of the band, because you totally lose your shit.”

His nostrils flared in irritation, his eyes turned flat and cold, and she suddenly had a very good sense of what the old Josh might have looked like before he decided to be all devil-may-care. The aura he must have given off when he was striding around in expensively tailored suits, barking orders at lowly peons, and going out for $400 power lunches.

But although it was becoming increasingly clear that while there was an old Josh and a new Josh, nowhere to be seen was the
real
Josh.

“Can we just hold on a second?” he said.

“How about you come up with a list of safe topics,
and then we'll talk,” she snapped, reaching for the door handle and jerking it open. “I'm not in the mood to walk on eggshells tonight. I've got work to do.”

“You always have work to do,” he muttered.

“Well, that makes one of us,” she shot back, stepping out into the hallway and slamming the door behind her. She didn't wait to see if he'd follow her before she stormed into her apartment and slammed that door, too.

It felt . . . good.

A little petty, sure, maybe a touch immature. But sometimes a good old door slam was exactly what one needed.

She threw herself on the couch, determined to get some work done. Because that's what adults did. They worked.

You always have work to do.

Heather scowled as she thought back over Josh's words. She didn't always have work to do. Well, she did. The wedding-planner business wasn't exactly nine-to-five. But she didn't let it rule her life.

Did she?

Sure, she brought her work home with her sometimes. Often.

But she also loved it.

Maybe it had been a touch unfair to make him look at color schemes tonight—she hadn't really needed his opinion. But talking about Danica's wedding gave her an excuse to see him without seeming clingy, and—

Heather sat up straighter. Well,
crap
.

Her mind flitted back to the week that had just
passed in a flurry of sex and laughter, realizing that almost always, it had been her seeking him out. He'd always seemed amenable to hanging out, sure, but wasn't it her who usually called first?

In fact, after they'd first slept together on Thanksgiving night, he hadn't been to her place once. It was always the other way around. He hadn't used his key, hadn't so much as knocked on the door.

Heather groaned and slumped back on the couch, tossing her iPad aside.

Had she been that girl? The one who wouldn't go away? He hadn't seemed to mind. He'd always smiled when she'd knocked at the door, never seemed to be trying to get rid of her, and yet that was what Josh did. He was polite to the women he slept with. Hell, how many women had she watched him say good-bye to with a smile and a wink and a flirt?

Her eyes flew open. For that matter, how many women had there been since they'd started sleeping together?

And even if there hadn't been any, there likely would be now. She wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he was calling another one up right this very minute. A woman who wouldn't overstay her welcome, who wouldn't ask pesky questions, who wouldn't be distracted by something as mundane as her career.

The thought made her sick, considering the guy wasn't her boyfriend.

And she didn't want him to be.

Did she?

No.

He was mercurial and immature, and half the time she felt like she didn't even
know
him.

But the other half of the time she suspected he might very well be the best man she'd ever met.

“Tricky,” Heather muttered to herself. “Very tricky.”