ThisTimeNextDoor (4 page)

He looked at the dash. “How much more time do we have?”

“Counting the minutes, are you? You know, I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Take it easy. I’m just calculating our options. I figure we can drive down to El Cerrito and back along the bayshore. Have you been to the Berkeley marina yet?”

“I went to a used bookstore on Telegraph, but that’s about it for my sightseeing.”

“Then turn left here and take it all the way down to San Pablo. It’s not pretty, but you might as well learn how to get around.”

They drove down the windy, leafy streets in silence for ten minutes until they’d left the residential neighborhoods and were creeping through the congestion of the gourmet ghetto of boutiques and restaurants between Oakland and Berkeley.

“What do you read?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“At the bookstore. You said that was the only sightseeing you did. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

Her poor job prospects had made her desperate enough to think, with a little hard work and self-directed reading, she could go to graduate school in a field that might employ her. But she didn’t want to talk about that with a computer geek who probably couldn’t relate to being unemployable. “Not really.”

“Turn right at the light,” he said. After a few minutes, he looked at her again. “How do you and… your roommate… like living in California so far?”

“Too soon to tell,” she said. “And Blair has other things on her mind.”

To her surprise, he said, “The baby.”

“You know about that?”

“My brother is engaged to John’s cousin. His mother, Ellen, used to live in that house. Before my time, but our families have known each other for years.”

“Lucky you.”

“You know them, then?”

When a bus stopped in front of her, she looked over her shoulder to pull into the other lane. They’d left the retail strip and were now passing small bungalows and concrete apartment blocks huddled right up against the busy divided street, fronted with patchy brown lawns and low iron fences. “Not that I like Ellen, but at least she’s interested in the baby. Offering Blair the house was quite a gesture. Paying her doctor bills clinched it. No way Blair could turn her down.”

“I haven’t seen John in years,” Mark said.

Rose glanced at him, wondering what gossip had reached him. “He’s a selfish jerk.”

The car was silent for a few moments. “Does Blair agree?”

“She’s beginning to notice. Breaking up with her when she told him she was pregnant was her first clue.”

He let out a long breath. “But she’s here with his family.”

Rose heard more than casual interest in his voice. She braked at the light and looked at him. “She didn’t have anyone else. Her mother died in a car accident—she was an alcoholic—and her dad’s super religious, wants her to marry the first guy he can line up. Ellen is Mary Poppins in comparison.”

His face clouded. “Man.”

“Yeah.”

When the light turned green, she asked him, “Should I stay on this road?”

“Yeah. Turn right on San Pablo. You’ve still got a ways to go.” He rolled the window down, then up, then down, making a little tapping sound with his finger on the plastic. “How could John just leave her out here to face his mother alone?”

Rose appreciated his indignation but didn’t like the way he was playing with the window controls. “I don’t know. Could you please stop doing that? It might mess up the wiring.”

“It won’t.”

“How can you know? I’ve had enough trouble with my car and I don’t want any more.”

“The switch is designed to raise and lower the window. How is using it going to break anything?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but it’s driving me crazy.”

“That, I’ll accept. But not some uninformed claim that I’m inflicting mechanical damage.”

“You know,” she said, flicking the turn signal, “I think the battery will be fine after I drive you back up the hill.”

“What’s your problem?”

“Dude, you invited yourself along on this journey, and quite frankly, I’m not enjoying your company.”

“It would be stupid to turn back now,” he said. “You’ll have to borrow the cables again tomorrow, which will make my mother think you’re trying to be friendly, and believe me, that’s not a risk you want to take.”

She pulled over next to a white curb in front of a liquor store. “Why are you tormenting me?”

“I told you.”

“Socializing is not tormenting.”

“It is to me. That’s why I avoid it.”

She slapped her hands on the steering wheel before pulling back out into the road. “To heck with it. I’m going home. If the battery dies in the driveway, I’ll borrow Blair’s car.”

“You really don’t have to. I’ll be quiet.”

“Too late.” She took the corner without braking, turned again. Soon they were heading back the way they’d come.

He started rolling the window up and down again. “It’ll probably be fine. Leave it idling in the driveway for ten minutes after we get back.”

She didn’t reply. The fog had rolled in, bringing early gloom to the evening and a chill that was creeping across her bare arms and legs. Her clothes were still damp from her workout, and an icy current of air was whipping in through Mark’s open window.

Why was she so annoyed with him? He was just some geeky guy next door. So what if he’d drooled over Blair? Rose didn’t want a guy—she was off the market. Moving to California was her fresh start. The day she’d found out about Blair’s pregnancy, Rose had made a solemn oath to herself: no more casual sex. Poor Blair got unlucky the first time she tried it. Rose had escaped serious consequences for years.

She stopped herself from mentally reviewing her own life, uncomfortable with the train of meaningless guys that chugged through her past. Another fling was the last thing she needed.

Blair, however, had always been alone, and if anyone needed a nice guy in her life, it was her. She’d always been so shy, so understated, she’d never had much luck with men. One reason John had blinded her so easily.

Mark was just the kind of man Blair needed. He seemed sweet. A little awkward, but funny, self-deprecating, kind. The opposite of John Babydaddy Larkin.

She glanced at him. Not completely the opposite. He actually looked a little like a young Harrison Ford—brown hair, unassuming good looks. A young, nerdy swashbuckler in disguise.
Although she’d had to crane her neck up to see all six-plus feet of him at his front door, she hadn’t noticed his handsome profile or long, athletic build until he’d grabbed her thigh in a panic.

That ratty T-shirt and jeans didn’t do anything for him. Frayed and tight, they made him look like a gawky teenager. And his hair was shaggy and uncombed.
 

“You need to get out more,” she said.

“No kidding,” he replied.

Smiling, she decided she’d been rude. His obvious preference for Blair had wounded her pride, and that was silly. She’d never had any trouble finding men who were interested in her. Blair, quiet and mousy in her black sweatshirts and jeans, did.
 

“Tell you what,” she said. “Come over for dinner tomorrow night. Blair’s been craving pasta like you wouldn’t believe. I was going to make something a little better than the fluorescent mac and cheese she’s been snarfing down. Some linguini, maybe a cream sauce, chicken, peas, something like that. Interested?”

He didn’t reply immediately. “Really?” he said finally. “Do you want to check with her first?”

“Why would I need to do that?”

“It’s her house too.”

“Technically, it’s neither of ours. But no, she’d be glad to have company. She’s not much of a social butterfly, but even she needs to be with people sometimes.”

“Like me,” he said softly.

Oh, boy, he was a goner. She wasn’t jealous, she was happy for Blair. Of course she was. “Exactly,” she said, smiling brightly.

“Okay, yes,” he said. “I’ll come. Great. Thanks.”

Chapter 3

THE NEXT MORNING, FRESH OUT of the shower after a fitful night, Mark waited until he saw Blair’s car drive away before striding over to knock at the house next door.

“I can’t come,” he said quickly.

Rose, looking very different than she had the afternoon before in a filmy blue robe with her blond hair long and loose, squinted at him over a steaming mug of coffee. “Excuse me?”

He told himself to look at her face, not the body beneath it. He almost preferred the weightlifting clothes. “Tonight. Dinner. Can’t do it.”

“Why not?” Holding her mug to her chest, she opened the door wider. “Hold on, Mark. Come in. It’s chilly out there and we haven’t figured out how to run the furnace yet.”

“It’s only September.”

“I don’t care. We’re freezing.”

He looked around, not surprised they’d made old Mr. Roche’s house feel feminine somehow. Flowers on the table in the hall, colorful pillows on the sofa, some delicious smell coming from the kitchen.

“Nice,” he said. But it did seem cold. “What’s the problem with the furnace?”

“I have no idea, but when we turn up the thermostat, not much happens. We got nervous about gas so we turned it off.”

“Was there a clicking sound or anything?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. If we didn’t run the risk of getting Ellen involved, we’d call somebody in to look at it.”

He took a few steps deeper into the house, scanning the walls of the living room for the thermostat. “Want me to check it out?”

She studied him with a combination of amusement and impatience. “Blair and I would appreciate that, but it’s not necessary. We’ll have to deal with Ellen sometime.”

“Still, it would be nice not to, right?”

Nodding, she said, “Well, yeah. That lady is way too into being a grandmother. Just this morning we found out she set up a baby registry at a boutique in San Francisco and emailed a copy to everyone she knew. Without ever asking Blair what she wanted.” She rolled her eyes. “Though it was nice she cc’d her.”

“Ellen terrifies me. She even terrifies Liam, my brother, not that he’d admit it. They worked at Fite together for years. And he’s pretty scary himself.” He found the thermostat along the back wall of the living room and flipped open the casing. “The battery seems fine.”

“I checked that already. But thanks.”
 

She peered over his shoulder, distracting him with the smell of coffee and perfume. Something sweet and flowery, very girly, which surprised him. He tapped and fiddled with the switches inside the thermostat, wishing he understood her relationship with Blair. “Did you check the furnace itself? In the basement?”

“You don’t need to help us with another one of our mechanical failures,” she said. “Are you
 
hungry? I just plated an omelet.”

“I’m fine. I can’t.” He looked around for the door down to the basement. He’d been in it once, years ago, helping old Mr. Roche carry some boxes.

“You can’t come to dinner and you can’t eat an omelet. Why?”

He strode back into the foyer, testing doors. He frowned into a closet. “I’ll just go down and check it out.”

“Mark.” She touched his arm. “Was yesterday too much socializing for you? Was that it? Because I promise, we’ll respect your space. We like a lot of space ourselves.”

He didn’t know what the relationship was between Rose and Blair, if there was a tragic love triangle brewing, but he knew he didn’t have the social stamina to get involved. “I’m really sorry. I was thinking—maybe another man is the last thing you need.”

Her eyes went wide. “Me?” Then some mischief came into her expression. “Or Blair?”

“Either of you,” he said. “I mean, you’ve got enough problems without me adding to them.”

“How could
you
add to them?”

“No need to get nasty.”

She laughed. “Come in, have some breakfast.
 
No strings. I was making it for Blair but she was afraid of being late for work. No appetite, anyway. Poor thing.”

“She’s got a job?”

“Temping. This is her first day of a two-week assignment. I’m signed up with them too, but they don’t have anything for me yet.”

Curiosity piqued, he followed her into the kitchen and accepted the plate she pushed at him. “Thanks.”

“Ellen’s going to pry when she finds out Blair’s working. But Blair needs whatever independence she can get. She can’t be that woman’s bitch.”

He nodded. “Good for her.”

“Ellen wants to go to all the prenatal appointments. She showed up in her Lexus an hour before the one last week and was furious when Blair said no.”

He imagined shy, sweet Blair staring down the imperious Ellen. “Good for her,” he said again.

“Here’s a fork. Coffee?”

What the heck.
Stomach growling, he took the plate over to the small table by the window with its panoramic view of the bay and sat down. “Thanks.”

She brought over a mug and joined him.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

“Already did,” she said, sipping her coffee, watching him.

He took a bite, realized he was starving, took another. It was cold but tasty. “Wow. This is good. And I know good food, living with my mother.”

“Thanks.”

He stared down at his plate. “That seems really pathetic, doesn’t it. Living with my mother.”

“Not these days,” she said. “I was living with mine up until six weeks ago.”

He swallowed another savory mouthful. “Really?” Smiling, he reached for the coffee. “That does make me feel a little better.”

“I’m surprised you can’t afford your own place, though, being an engineer.”

“Oh, I can afford it. I just like living at home.” Then he saw the way her eyebrows shot up on her forehead. “It’s just for a little while,” he added, but the damage was done.

Loser alert,
her face said.

A very pretty face, though the blue robe was making it impossible to keep his gaze above her chin. Her breasts were a wonder of nature. They’d impressed him yesterday in the tank top, but now, full and lively and barely covered by the thin robe she wore, they struck him with awe. The nipples—lord, the nipples. He slathered butter onto a piece of toast and relived the sight from moments ago when she’d been chilled in the doorway.