The Millionaire Tempted Fate (A Novella) (Sweet and Savory Romances) (3 page)

He chuckled. "That sounds like infatuation."

"Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that meant-to-be kind of thing."

"You know me, Angie. I don’t do anything on the edge. Except with you. You are a bad influence on me." He fished his keys out of his pocket. "Anyway, I gotta go. Pancakes tomorrow?"

"Ugh. You’re going to make me run again first, aren’t you?"

"Think of me as your friendly neighborhood—"

"Masochist." She made a face. "All right. I’ll be there. Complaining the whole time."

He chuckled, then headed out the door. Angie watched him go, his tall, lean frame like the silhouette of a tree against a stark winter landscape. Max climbed into his car and pulled away from the curb. Angie let out a sigh. Was she crazy for thinking she could win Max’s heart in such a short period of time?

More to the point, how the heck was she supposed to get this oblivious guy to sit up and take notice? Then her gaze lit on a sign hanging in the window of a small glass front shop named Gift Baskets to Die For, a happy little bright business sitting across the street.

L
ET
S
OMEONE
S
PECIAL
K
NOW
Y
OU’RE
T
HINKING OF
T
HEM!

U
NIQUE, TAILORED GIFT BASKETS FOR EVERY OCCASION.

And in that moment, a plan hatched itself in Angie’s mind. One that might be just crazy enough to work.

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

3 ½ teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon granulated sugar

1 1/4 cups milk

1 egg

3 tablespoons butter, melted

Nothing like a carb overload to take your mind off how hot your running partner looks, and how distant she’s been acting lately. Heat a flat pan over medium heat and spay with cooking spray. Mix dry ingredients in one bowl, mix wet in another bowl, then stir wet into dry. I know, it seems complicated, but really, it’s easy, quick and keeps you from staring at her legs and her smile.

Let batter sit for 30 seconds or so (let that baking powder do its job) then pour pancake-sized circles onto the pan. Flip when bubbly on top and golden brown on the bottom. Finish cooking through, then serve with butter and syrup. And try not to stare at the syrup glistening on her lips because fantasizing about your best friend can only lead down a no-return path. One where you lose the friendship and the girl.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Angie hated the first mile of their Sunday morning runs, hated it with a passion that bordered on murderous. And when the temperature was in the low teens, like it was today, that first mile was ten times worse. Her lungs burned, her legs froze, and she wanted to stop from the second she started. But she kept pace with Max, running along the Esplanade, because if she stopped she’d have to walk back to the car, and as much as she hated running in the cold, walking in it was worse. "You are…an…evil…man," she stuttered out between breaths.

He grinned. "You’ll thank me when swimsuit season is here again."

"If I…live…that…long."

"We’ll just go three today, okay? And right there, at the sign, is halfway." He waved toward the path ahead. "Come on, Angie, you can do it."

She hated him for running without panting. For being so chipper. For a hundred reasons that mostly started with cold and ended with torture. "I…hate…you."

He laughed that off, and kept on going. "Did I tell you about the delivery I got last night?"

She shook her head. She wasn’t sure her head actually moved, being that it was a wedge of ice on top of her shoulders.

"Someone sent me a gift basket. Not the dorky kind with fruit, or some girly one with chocolate, but a gift basket of real man stuff. Wedges of cheese, little smoked sausages, crackers, and a whole bunch of Red Sox swag. Even a foam finger."

"Huh. Cool." She forced her voice to sound nonplussed.

"And here’s the weird part. All the card said was ‘from a secret admirer.’ At first, I thought maybe Becky did it, but given how much she preaches to me about heart health, she’d be more likely to send a basket of spinach and kale." He laughed, still breathing easy. "Then I thought who else knows about my passion for the Red Sox, and I wondered if you did it as a joke."

They rounded the halfway mark, which gave Angie a second to compose herself before she answered. "Me? I…I wouldn’t…do that." She sucked in a breath. "You know me…not a romantic…bone…in my…body."

"True. You
are
the least romantic woman I’ve ever known. You’d rather take a motorcycle ride than a moonlight cruise."

"Yup. That’s…me." God, running sucked. She started thinking about the pancakes. Thick, fluffy buttermilk pancakes, drizzled with butter and syrup. They were only a mile and a half away
. Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes.
"Can we…just…run? Talk…later?"

Especially about the gift basket. She wasn’t exactly a pro at lying, and definitely not good at lying to Max.

"Sure." Max kept pace beside her, as they finished the run, and headed inside a small diner on the corner. For years, they had come here almost every Sunday morning, indulging in pancakes and crappy coffee after their run. Then Becky had come into Max’s life, and the runs had become more sporadic.

"Thanks for coming today," Max said after they were seated. "I’ve missed those runs."

"I’ve missed the pancakes."

He laughed. "One of these days, you’ll admit you love running."

"I’ll admit a lot of things, but not that." She signaled for coffee, and rubbed her hands together under the table to get the circulation going again. The waitress deposited two steaming mugs before them, then took their order and headed into the kitchen. Angie cupped her hands around the warm ceramic cup. "So who do you think sent the gift basket?"

"I don’t know. I’ve never had a secret admirer before. I gotta say, it’s pretty good for the ego." He grinned. "Especially for a man who’s about to be off the market."

"Permanently. One woman, for the rest of your life. No one else. Ever. Just Becky’s shining face in yours every morning."

"You make it sound like a death sentence."

She shrugged. Kept her gaze on the coffee. If she didn’t look at him, maybe he wouldn’t discern the truth. "Well, clearly someone out there wants you."

"Yeah. Either way, I’m not going to dwell on who it could be. All that will do is distract me."

The hope that had peaked inside her when he mentioned the basket deflated. She’d thought maybe having a secret admirer would get Max to see there were other fish in the sea, fish better suited to him than Becky. Instead, he was going to pretend it never happened, and keep focusing on little miss dental hygienist. Any other day, she liked Max’s ability to hone in on one thing, unlike her scatterbrained approach to life. Today, though, she couldn’t seem to get him to forget his marriage to Becky before he hit thirty plan.

She needed to come up with another idea. A different approach. Max was right—Angie didn’t have a romantic bone in her body. She didn’t play games. Didn’t flirt and bat her eyelashes. She was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl.

And maybe that was why Max had never seen her as anything other than a friend. Pretty Becky, with her flouncy skirts and overly white smile had game. She had that innocent-me sweet-as-pie game that men tripped over themselves to score. She was the quintessential helpless female. Angie, on the other hand, had changed her own oil more than once, switched out a tire on the highway and replaced the faucet in her apartment, all without asking for one bit of testosterone help. Maybe it was time to show Max she could be domesticated. "Hey, what are you doing tonight?"

"Same as last night. Sitting on the couch, making manly grunting noises while I watch whatever sport is on TV."

"And you wonder why women are falling at your feet?" She laughed and shook her head. "How about coming over to my place for dinner?"

"You mean, how about I pick up takeout and we eat it at your coffee table?"

"No, I mean a real meal. With plates and napkins and everything."

"You. Cook." He laughed. Hard. "Riiiighht."

"I can cook." Grilled cheese, tomato soup from a can, and if hard-pressed, a pot of spaghetti. "Just be there at six and I’ll prove it to you."

He grabbed a napkin out of the dispenser, then scrawled a number across the front. "Keep this handy."

"What is it?"

"The number for the pizza place around the corner." He grinned. "Just in case."

She got to her feet. "Hold on to your hat, Mr. Blackwell, because I’m about to surprise you." Then she crumpled the napkin and threw it on the table. "Hopefully in more ways than one."

*~*~*

The acrid smell of burnt meat hit Max’s senses first. Angie threw open the door at his knock. "Do not say a single word."

He made a motion of zipping his lip, and bit back the laughter in his throat. Poor Angie. She meant well but she was never going to be June Cleaver or even her distant cousin. He didn’t care if Angie could cook. He never had. It was her heart and spirit that he valued, but for some reason, Angie had this domestication bug up her butt.

"What’s—"

"I said don’t say a word." She whirled away from him, and dashed toward the kitchen. Max deposited the wine he’d brought on the table, then headed into the small galley style space.

The contents of Angie’s pantry had exploded on the counters and floor. Flour dusted nearly every surface, potato peelings lined the sink, and three cookbooks with newly cracked spines lay open under a mound of spices and grocery bags. The oven timer beeped a steady high-pitched tune, while smoke billowed from behind the door.

"Ang? I think dinner’s done," Max said.

She pressed the off button, then jerked open the oven door. A gray cloud rushed out first, followed by the smell of charred steak. Angie started cursing, a steady stream of words that would make a trucker blush. "Stupid stove. Stupid steak. Stupid recipe." She yanked the pan out, then let out a shriek and dropped it on the floor. The overdone steak bounced off the broiler pan and landed on the tile floor with a soft thud. Angie cradled her hand against her chest.

"You burned yourself," Max said. "Here, get that under some cold water." He pivoted toward the sink, and started the tap, then tugged Angie’s hand away from her chest and to the faucet. She winced. "Keep your hand there. I’ll go get some bandages."

He headed down to her bathroom. All the time he’d known Angie, he’d never gone through her cabinets or medicine chest. It felt a little like snooping, he thought, as he moved aside moisturizers and razors to find the bandages and antibiotic cream. A box of condoms sat in the corner of the medicine chest, sending a flare of jealousy through Max. He shook it off. He wasn’t Angie’s boyfriend. He had no right to wonder who she was sleeping with.

His hand lingered over the box. For a second, he pictured Angie in bed, her lithe body soft and hot beneath his, her mouth open in breathless invitation, her breasts arching against his touch. He imagined himself plunging into her, hearing her sweet gasp of pleasure and surprise, then—

"Max? How long do I have to keep the cold water on it?"

"Uh, just a second." He grabbed the bandages and cream, then shut the medicine chest and headed down the hall. His body was still caught in the fantasy of having sex with Angie, a fact that would be very evident if he didn’t do something about it. He paused in the hall, closed his eyes and tried to picture Miss Shnack, his third-grade teacher. Didn’t work. He drew in a breath, and tried to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. His mind switched to Angie’s face when he reached the word "republic".

"Max?"

The pain in her voice jerked him back into action. He hurried back to the kitchen, reached past Angie to shut off the water, and led her over to the small table in the corner. "Here, let me bandage this for you."