Love Handles (17 page)

“It’s a protein smoothie.” He dropped the mug with a thunk on the nightstand. “I made one for both of us. Sorry to wake you but the ice is melting.”

She cracked open an eye. “I had protein in my kitchen?”

“No, which is why I had to walk over to my mother’s.” His mouth flattened. “She says hello, by the way. I’ve assured her you are not dead.”

She looked up at him from flat on her back, reluctant for him to see her sit up without a bra on. She pulled the covers up to her chin. “Very not dead. And yourself? How was the couch?”

“God-awful. Even my elbows are sore,” he said, rubbing them. “ How much do you want for it?”

Smiling, she looked over at her breakfast without picking it up. “Why the beer mug?”

“Only one big enough.” He bent over, picked it up, and shoved it towards her. “Sit up and drink it before it loses its froth.”

“Froth?”

“Best part.” He nudged the rim of the cold, wet glass under her nose. It was going to leak onto her sheets unless she sat up.

Bravely deciding it was her duty to demonstrate how real breasts reacted to gravity, she wriggled upright and took the glass in both hands. “Thanks. I don’t usually drink this stuff.” As she feared, his eyes fell to her chest and stayed there.

He cleared his throat and to her surprise sat down on the edge of her bed, pulling the comforter taut over her lap. “Do you like it?”

Bev met his eyes over the glass, took a sip, and nodded. It was delicious.

“I put in a few of my mom’s home-grown strawberries,” he said. “And it’s real milk, which I like, but I know some people—”

She wiped her lips. “It’s good, thank you. Cold, but sweet.”
Like you
, she thought, then felt a stabbing alarm that she was starting to like him. That she had always kind of liked him. But then she assured herself she should like her top VP—though not because he brought her high-protein beverages in bed and had gentle, intelligent eyes.

He slapped his thighs and got to his feet. “Drink all of it. It won’t keep in the fridge. And from the looks of the groceries you’ve got around here, you need the sustenance.” He strode out of the room, his old jeans hugging each firm buttock, and Bev wondered if he had slipped something into the smoothie because she felt herself getting hot and energetic.

Snap out of it.

She took another sip, her tongue getting used to the cold, and gulped down a thick mouthful. It wasn’t waffles, but it was pretty good. Very good. It would have gone great with a cheeseburger and fries.

With a sigh, she leaned back on her pillows and listened to the sound of water running in the kitchen, thinking it gave the house a cozy feel it desperately needed. She didn’t have to worry about break-ins or angry relatives—her executive vice president was on duty with big muscles and a sour disposition. She was safe.

When she had drank as much as she could, she got out of bed and called out to him. “It’ll only take me a minute to get dressed, so I can give you a ride to BART.”

He didn’t answer so she took a few steps into the hallway and peeked into the kitchen. The clock radio over the microwave was playing Green Day while Liam rinsed out the blender in the sink, humming to himself with his back to her. The kitchen window faced south, picking up a low ray of morning sun that lit up his messy blond hair. He’d tied an apron around his waist, an ancient pink polka-dot thing trimmed with red gingham, and he was barefoot.

Like the kids in
Jurassic Park
facing the velociraptors, Bev froze where she was, terrified of being seen but mesmerized. She drank in the sight of his broad back framed in domestic bliss for a moment, then tip-toed backwards back to the bedroom, not breathing, as though disaster would strike if he saw her.

She closed and locked the door, letting out her breath in a whoosh. He was barefoot. Wearing an apron. In her kitchen.

It’s true what they said about porn:
you know it when you see it.

Grateful the mug was still chilled, she lifted it to her forehead and counted to ten. Her heart raced—not from happiness, but from panic.

She burned for him. Well, of course she did. Every woman would. But she had worked hard not to be every woman. Falling for a handsome face with muscles and vigor and cardiovascular superiority inspired women to shave their bikini lines and stop eating and forget themselves. He was the sort of guy Bev had vowed to never, ever want for herself. Again.

“Bev? You getting ready?”

She would have to keep the door locked until he left. If she opened it and saw him again she might show him how thankful she was he spent the night. With her mouth.

“Just getting dressed! Don’t come in!”

He didn’t answer so she thought he’d left until she heard his voice close at the door. “Pass me the glass so I can wash it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it.”

He rattled the doorknob. “I promise I won’t peek.”

Her heart skipped and she went over to the mug, reaching out with an unsteady hand. “All right.” She saw her hand pick up the mug and carry it over to the door. She watched her other hand turn the knob to pop the lock. His long fingers appeared in the opening, outstretched at chest level, and she imagined bumping into them to see what he would do.

She pushed the mug into his hand. “Thanks for making me breakfast.”

His fingers brushed against hers as he wrapped them around the mug. She tensed, imagining she heard his breathing on the other side of the door until he finally said, “You’re welcome,” and drew back. “I’ll make you another one some time.” He returned to the kitchen.

Bev sat back down on the bed until her head cleared. He didn’t mean to imply anything. She was like a lonely eighth grader misinterpreting the cute boy’s smile. Always overreacting.

After taking a quick, cold shower and putting on her favorite jeans and an old sweatshirt, Bev was ready to face him again. He stood out on the front deck, balancing his smoothie on the railing and gazing out over the bay.

“I’d ask my brother for a ride,” he said, “but he’s still asleep.”

“No problem. Ready to go?”

He drained the rest of his drink and walked into the house. “When will your sister get here?”

She followed after, locking the sliding door behind them and sliding down a security bar. “Before dark, I’m sure.”

“Lock all the windows too.”

“I did.”

“And the automatic garage door?”

“I’ll be fine. I checked everything a million times last night, the first time you left.”

He frowned down at her. “I shouldn’t have left at all.” How could she ever have thought his eyes were cold? They were too richly brown, the lashes too thick, the expression full of feeling—

“Let’s go.” She strode ahead of him. “I want time to get ready for my sister. Maybe buy some protein.” She had to wait for him out at the car while he rechecked all the locks and even strode down the hill to rattle the side door and tap on windows.

“Is your sister soft and weak like you?” he asked, getting into the car next to her.

“She could kick your ass.”

He grinned. “Look anything like you? I’d like to see that.”

Jealous but polite, she backed up and pulled out into the hilly street. “She’s very L.A.—blond and perfect. Kind of like you, but with more toned arms.”

“More toned, huh?”

The car snaked its way down to the flat streets of the city while Bev kept her eyes on the road, secretly hoping he’d strip off his shirt to prove her wrong. But he just sighed and leaned back in the seat, saying nothing until several minutes had gone by and they were driving through the gourmet ghetto of Rockridge. “BART is near the freeway entrance, right?” she asked.

“Yeah, but—hold on. Right up there’s an empty spot. Take it.”

“Can’t I just drop you off?”

“Slow down!” He pointed at the tiny stretch of visible curb ahead. “Pull over.”

She braked. “You sure? Why?”

“Here.”

Making the cars behind wait, Bev signaled and carefully backed up into the small spot, her arm stretched out along the back of Liam’s seat while she craned around to look behind. When she turned around, her fingers brushed the back of his neck. She swallowed. “You can walk from here?”

“Follow me.” He got out onto the sidewalk and put several coins in the meter while she watched with warring impulses. Sleeping on her couch had made him irresistibly rumpled. His jaw was unshaven, his t-shirt was wrinkled, and when he ran his hand through his unwashed hair it stuck up in a funny wave on one side. He came around to the driver’s side and opened the door. “Come on.”

She gripped the wheel and looked up at him. “Why?”

“Nothing bad. Promise.”

The last thing she wanted was for him to suspect he made her nervous, so she got out and leaned against the car, buying time by reaching into her bag for an Altoid. He marched ahead to a small shop with faceless female mannequins in the window and—

She froze, the sharp peppermint stinging her tongue. “No.”

He came back to her and grabbed her elbow. “Yes.”

The skinny androids in the window were wearing Nike, Addidas, and Fite. “If you want to show me Fite, show me at work. I have to go home and get ready for my sister.”

“You cannot own a fitnesswear company and never shop the stores. This is a boutique. Hardly our bread and butter, but it’ll do.”

“Forget it.”

He propped his hands on his hips. “Coward.”

“Please. I know what you’re trying to do. You said it last night, but you should give up right now because stronger campaigns led by larger armies have been waged and lost.” She wrenched her arm free. “I am not going to work out.”

“Apparently not,” he said. “Not here and not at Fite.”

“That’s not what—”

“Because refusing to walk into a store that sells our product out of some leftover childish resentment you have with your parents just shows you’re not capable of holding a leadership position.” He looked at his watch and glanced down the street at the BART tracks that crossed over College Avenue. “I’ll try to catch the ten-sixteen. Guess I’ll see you Monday.”

“Nice try, Liam.” She let him walk away. Then he kept walking. The shop was small and sandwiched between a used bookstore on one side and a taqueria on the other—nothing fancy. She wondered how they stayed in business, competing against the big box and department stores.
Damn
. “All right, Liam. Come back. All right!”

Without smiling, but with a funny tension around his mouth that suggested he’d like to, he nodded and walked directly to the door of the shop without waiting for her to catch up. He went inside with her on his heels, swearing under her breath, and nodded at the young saleswoman who was dusting a display of aromatherapy jars and vials along the far wall.

“Morning,” the woman said. “I’m Kimmie if you need help.”

“What size are you?” Liam asked Bev, pushing his way through a round rack stuffed with clothes.

“We’re just browsing, thanks,” Bev told Kimmie, nudging Liam with her hip to get him out of the way. Then she popped another Altoid and muttered to him, “Depends.”

“Don’t tell me you’re shy,” he said. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Female, you mean?” Not many women would want to blurt out their measurements to an Olympian with an attitude problem. “I guess a large—but most stuff doesn’t fit me right. I have to try everything on.”

He tilted his head and let his gaze drop down over her body, setting her nerves on fire. When his lips parted slightly as he stared at her breasts, she thought about pulling up her shirt and demanding to know if he’d seen enough. But the salesperson looked barely twenty, probably made minimum wage, and didn’t deserve the drama.

“You have a very low waist-to-hip ratio. Not to mention waist-to-bust.” He scowled.

“I have big breasts and a big butt. Nobody designs for me.”

“You—” he stepped closer and lifted his hands around her waist, fingers outstretched in the air above her body as though measuring the space around her. “It’s just that you’re so small in the middle. Relatively speaking.”

Heat and more heat. “Relatively.”

Then he was touching her, with no gap between his hands and her body. She felt his large hands wrap around her waist. He barely touched her, but the contact burned. Then the pads of his fingers slid down over the curve of her hips. “Fascinating, really,” he said, his voice like gravel.

Her chest felt tight. “Glad to be of interest.”

He glanced up at her, withdrew his hands and stepped away. “Don’t get upset. I’m just trying to figure out what you should try on first.”

“I’m not upset,” she said. She wasn’t breathing right. His touch hadn’t felt professional. The tension she saw tightening his jaw had not been professional tension. He was thinking about the exact same thing she was thinking about, and from the angry cloud darkening his face as he shoved shirts aside on the rack next to them, he didn’t like it any more than she did.

“You won’t be able to talk to Jennifer about fit problems unless you know for yourself how they feel,” he said. “I’m obviously unable to judge for myself, and my mother and sister have given me their opinion. Now it’s your turn.” He pulled out several pair of dark pants bearing the Fite logo and a pair of t-shirts and thrust the pile at her.

Reluctantly she clutched them to her chest and made eye contact with Kimmie. “I guess I’d like a room.” She walked over to a wall rack of sports bras, knowing he was right but annoyed he’d ambushed her. Since day one she had intended on dropping into Macy’s—wonderfully impersonal Macy’s—to see if she could wear any of the Fite line—but not in a Rockridge boutique with the help of a starved Amazon with buttocks like halved cantaloupes, and certainly not with him looking on.

“This one is totally the best for D cups. And up.” Kimmie held up a white bra that looked more like a very small, thick, short, sleeveless t-shirt.

“That’s quite a lot of coverage.” Bev took it from her. “How do you get into it?”

“You just have to kind of pull like really, really hard. Over your head,” she said. “I can help if you get stuck.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Liam put his hand on Bev’s shoulder and guided her towards the back of the store. “The changing rooms are over there.”