Love at Large (9 page)

She brought her eyes back to the words on the page and tried to regain her normal breathing pattern. She heard a soft tearing sound: the chocolate milk carton.

She peered over the top of her paperback and saw him bring it to his shapely mouth.
In a perfect world, he’d spill some of that on his shirt. And being in a laundromat, he’d think nothing of stripping it off and tossing it into one of the machines.
Her mouth turned up at the thought of this divine creature having an unexpected moment of human klutziness.

Still…what she wouldn’t give to see it happen. Her vision blurred as she imagined the fluid grace with which he’d peel off the offending garment; the hard, carved torso that would be revealed as he did so. She could see a droplet of milk mingling with the sweat in the hollow of his throat, coursing down the center of his chest, slipping past his bulky rectangular pecs, easing its way over the ridges of his abdomen ‘til it slid down to . . .

Coming to her senses, her eyes snapped back into focus and she found herself locking gazes with an inquisitive pair of piercing blue-green ones. Her mouth formed a surprised little
O
as she opened her eyes wide. The stranger’s gaze dropped to the cover of her book, taking in the painting of the heroic bare-chested Scot, then recaptured hers. His mouth twisting in a wry grin, he raised one quizzical eyebrow as if to ask,
Gotten to the good part yet?

Lauren bit her lip in complete mortification. Hiding once more behind her book, she tried again to apply herself to reading the words, but still found it difficult, as though she held the stalest of academic tomes rather than a pleasant and enjoyable novel. Before long, however, the comfort the familiar story always brought filled her chest, and she allowed herself to be transported to another world.

Lauren jumped as a dryer buzzed. The man in black wandered over to the machines lining the wall, opened the door to one and thrust a muscular arm inside. He shook his head, and managed to jam a large fist into the pocket of his painted-on jeans and pull out another quarter to plug into the slot.

She glanced at her own machines and saw that the violent shakings of one washer in its final spin-cycle was threatening to topple her detergent from its perch. Bounding from her chair, she snatched the bottle as it teetered on the edge of the undulating appliance. Then she slapped her basket on the washer top next to her and slammed the lid of the machine up.

Blinking in confusion, she bent closer to its opening. Horrified, she began pulling out item after item of pink-tinged clothing.

Will it never end?!
She spied the culprit, a scrap of bright red lace at the bottom of the washer, and groaned. She’d managed to toss one of her teensiest, most flamboyant thongs in with her white load.

It was time to be discreet. She bent low to remove it from the washer and place it with all possible haste in her basket. But the dainty garment caught on the washer’s change slide. Grumbling under her breath she gave it a sharp yank when – SNAP! - the thong flew out of her hand and sailed over her head to land somewhere behind her.

Somewhere near the man in black. She was sure.

Ok. OK, just think. Play it cool. I’m sure it didn’t really land anywhere near him. In fact, it’s probably on top of the dryers. No, it’s
behind
the dryers. So if it isn’t lying around as evidence somewhere, how can anyone really be sure that it even happened? And if nothing happened, there’s no reason for me to look around.

Best intentions thrust aside, she whirled to see if her nightmare had been realized, fully expecting to find her wayward undergarment atop the man’s sleek raven locks.

She saw nothing.

No underwear. No man.

A polite cough behind her caught her attention. He stood with his hand extended, the scarlet lingerie dangling from his fingertips in sharp contrast with the ebony of his shirt.

“I believe this is yours,” his voice rumbled, deep and resonating. His full lips quirked with barely suppressed mirth. “Unless it came from
that
direction?” He motioned toward the group of elderly ladies, who ducked and bowed their heads in whispered conversation like so many chickens scratching up feed.

A burble of laughter escaped Lauren’s lips at the thought of those particular women owning such things. But then perhaps wearing size-too-small thongs explained the constant pinched expressions on their sour old faces?

She turned to him, grinning impishly at their shared joke. Never removing his gaze from her lush lips, he captured her hand in his larger one, which made her feel almost dainty. Holding fast, and with a gentle firmness, he pressed the lacy confection into it.

The tingling sensation wrought by his skin rubbing against her flesh unnerved her. She licked her lips, desperate for something witty to say.

“Uh, thanks.” Deserted by her voice, she squeaked like one of her young charges at the daycare center where she worked.
Well. I’ll just be submitting
that
one to “Quotable Quotes”!

Gladys Bronowski waved at them from the opposite corner. “Excuse me, young man,” she oozed in the most syrup-laden voice Lauren had ever heard her use. “But do you think you might give me a hand with my basket? My old arms just aren’t what they used to be.”

Surprised by the interruption, as though he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room, the gentleman stepped away

“Certainly, ma’am. I’d be happy to.” He gave the crone a polite smile, and tossed Lauren a wink. She felt bereft when his hand left hers, but the emptiness inside her was fast filling with anger and a bit of guilt. The interfering biddy! Lauren cursed her luck for the second time that day.
Be careful what you wish for
. She regretted begging the cosmos for a chance to have the laundry room to herself.

The man in black hastened to the table, seized his basket, and filled it with clothes from his dryer, then stacked Mrs. B’s basket on his own and strode through the door held open by the salivating Gladys.

Lauren returned her attention to her own washing and, feeling forlorn, put her now pink white load into the dryer vacated by the handsome stranger, and her darks in the one next to that. Retreating to her seat, she saw the beaten-up copy of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
still sitting on the man in black’s chair. The ding of the elevator told her she’d missed her chance to run into the hall and return it to him.

Well, if he doesn’t come back for it by the time I’m done down here, I’ll just bring it on up to him myself,
she thought.
After all, it’d hardly be neighborly to leave it down here for any old person to walk off with.

Lauren settled into her chair and propped her book in front of her face once again, pleased to be back in Scotland basking in the love of her hunky laird. At last the dryers buzzed their end signal and alerted her to the fact that it was time to shake a leg. Grateful to discover the biddies were done, she stuffed her clothes into her basket and repacked her survival kit, with the gentleman’s wayward book perched in precarious fashion on the top of the heap. Thoughts of seeing the man in black again propelled Lauren out the door and back to her apartment. Before she returned his book, she really needed to improve her appearance.

Once inside the sanctuary of her home, she tossed the basket of rumpled clothes on a chair in the corner of her bedroom, and made a beeline for the shower. After much cleaning and primping, she shimmied into a bias-cut shell top and side-zip slacks that flattered her voluptuous curves, the burgundy tones of the outfit picking up the chestnut shade of her hair. She spritzed a cloud of her favorite lavender-scented perfume in the air before her and walked through it.

Running a self-satisfied hand down the front of her ensemble one last time, Lauren was sure the hunk would be hard pressed to recognize her as the sorry slob from the laundry room. Snatching her purse, keys, and the tattered book, she blew a confident kiss at her favorite Marilyn Monroe poster tacked to the closet door, and headed back to the elevator.

Lauren’s bliss received a slight dent as she stepped in and found herself joining none other than the infamous red-head and two of her dazzling friends. She offered them a shy smile and started flipping through the book in her hands. Inside the cover, scrawled in smudged black ink, was the name
Dr. James Brandt
. Lauren wondered if the book had once belonged to someone else, or if the man in black was indeed the good doctor. Riffling through the pages she saw notes crammed into the margins, but had trouble making much sense out of the scribbling.

The elevator slowed and she realized she’d reached the seventh floor. Stepping into the corridor, she angled across the hall to apartment 7B, kitty-corner from the left of the elevator doors. She waited for the redhead and her pals to disappear from view, then reached out a dainty finger, pressed the doorbell and waited with a sense of excitement.

Nothing.

No sounds of life inside the apartment.

She gave the bell another ring, and after a moment of waiting swallowed a rising sense of disappointment. It was probably better to shove the book under his door and leave.

She bent down and tried to gauge whether or not the novel would fit through the narrow crack. Distracted by her task, Lauren was surprised to hear the elevator bell ding and the doors swoosh open. Without a doubt, she knew deep in her soul that the mysterious man was standing behind her.

Of course, why not? Why shouldn’t I be bent over in front of his door looking like one of those ridiculous old-lady-gardening wood cutouts??

“Can I help you?” His voice was even more mellow and rich than she remembered, and her knees started to wobble.

“I, ah.. you forgot this downstairs.” She straightened and held the book to him, but pulled it back when she realized his arms were full of paper sacks overflowing with groceries.

“Oh, yeah, thanks for returning it. Would you mind holding it a second? I need to get this stuff inside before the cheesecake disintegrates.” He jostled the bags a bit, produced his apartment key, and unlocked the door.

“Come on in.” He graciously waited in the hall for her to make her decision to accept his offer.

“Thanks.” Lauren did a mental victory dance as she slipped through the doorway. He followed close, kicking the door shut behind them.

“Just set it down there.” He nodded at a teak coffee table with sleek Oriental lines. His apartment had an air of Asian mystique, with beautiful silk screen prints gracing the beige walls of the combined kitchen and living area. A small Zen sand garden sat nestled between green leafy plants and stereo speakers on the top of a crammed bookcase. A set of simple chairs and a matching futon-style couch all covered in a coffee-toned burlap cloth filled one corner of the living room, facing a tidy looking little entertainment center on the opposite wall.

“Your apartment is lovely.” Lauren breathed a sigh as she took it all in and moved to join him in the kitchen area. There, a large window showcased a beautiful picture of the sun setting over the bay.

“Not what you expected of a bachelor?” He deposited the groceries on the granite-topped island in the center of the spacious kitchen, retrieved a small bakery box from one paper bag, and crossed to the fridge where he placed it inside.

“No. I mean, yes.” Lauren laughed. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what the right answer is. Just that I really do think your apartment is lovely and I like it. It has ‘style’.”

“Well, I’m glad. Would you be interested in spending some time in it tonight? I’m making Chicken Marsala and would really hate to eat it all alone in my ‘lovely’ apartment.” He sauntered back to her.

“Chicken Marsala? Ohhhhh.” She smiled at him. “That just happens to be one of my favorite Italian dishes.” A sudden wave of shyness overcame her, and she stepped back from the counter.

“Since you were so kind as to return my book, I really feel I should repay you.” He paused as he took in her dubious expression. “If the Chicken Marsala hasn’t sold you, I’m also offering a fresh salad, new potatoes, focaccia, and chocolate cheesecake, though I confess I just bought those last two at the bakery. But the rest will be homemade, I promise.” He smiled. “Besides, it would be great to have a chance to talk to someone who’s lived in the building a while.” He raised a questioning brow, then began to unload his grocery sacks, divulging some of the delicious temptations.

Lauren hesitated a moment more, unable to breathe with that aquamarine gaze looking down at her. “Well, sure. Uhm. I’d love to have dinner with you. Do you need any help?” She made a nervous grab for the vegetables and began to line them up on the counter.

“I hate to make a guest work, but if you really insist, you can get down to fixing the salad, seeing as how you’ve already got the ingredients and all.” He pulled up a red leather and stainless steel barstool for her to sit on, then grabbed a remote control from a nearby basket on the countertop and gave it a click. Soft jazz filled the air around them.

“I, uh, ought to have said so way earlier, but I’m James Brandt. Most folks just call me Jamie.” He dropped the remote back in its resting place and stuck out a large hand.