Текст книги "The Billionaire and the Virgin"
Автор книги: Jessica Clare
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Where was Rob?
What was he doing?
And why had he sold his business?
Why could she find out more details about his partying in Ibiza than what he was doing with his money?
When all her searches turned up fruitless, she gently pulled the glossy page out of the magazine and gazed at his photo over and over again. She taped it up next to her bed, like she had with pop idols as a teenager, and then cried herself to sleep staring at his picture.
Chapter Twenty-four
A week later, she was delivering a box of The Prince by Machiavelli to a nearby nursing home in anticipation of Brontë’s next book club event. She handed off the box and turned down a street, only to see a familiar head of hair disappear around a corner.
Marjorie sucked in a breath. No way. Clutching her purse to her side, she walked down the street and glanced around the corner.. . . just in time to see the man disappear around another corner.
Shoot. She eyed her shoes—five-inch-tall purple Miu Mius. She’d never catch him in these. Curse her love for adorable footwear. She grabbed one and hauled it off her foot, then the other, and tossed them into her shoulder bag. Then, she ran down the street after the man.
She wanted answers.
He was ahead of her, his dark head bobbing in the weave of traffic, his shirt a pale, bland beige. She kept that beige in the corner of her eye as she followed him up one street and down another. It was a stranger, she reminded herself. It was just a man that happened to look like him. It had to be.
But when she finally caught up with him, breathing hard from her sprint, she summoned her courage and reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.
And to her surprise, Rob turned around.
He looked just as surprised to see her. “Marjorie?” He glanced at the cross streets and moved out of the way of traffic, his hand automatically pulling her along with him. They moved under the awning of a nearby business. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you,” she panted. “I saw you.”
And she couldn’t stop staring at him right now. Good, sweet lord, but he was pretty. His hair was newly cut, his face clean shaven. His green eyes were bright in his face, lashes thick, and he looked delicious in that open-collared button-up shirt and the slouchy jeans he wore with them. He looked just as good as she remembered, and he was pretty darn tasty in those memories.
Rob rubbed the back of his neck and looked embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”
“Yeah, well, you forget how tall I am in heels,” she reminded him. He laughed, and looked down at her bare feet, and she wiggled her toes. “I, um, took them off to run. I wanted to see if it was you.”
“Well, this is fucking embarrassing,” he said.
It was? Her heart broke a little at that statement. “What are you doing here in New York City?”
He stared at her for a long moment before answering. “Stalking you.”
“W-what?” She could hardly believe her ears. “Stalking me?” So that was him all those times she’d thought she’d spotted him? “Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not really stalking,” he said, glancing around and lowering his voice. “Not in a creepy, illegal way. I just miss the goddamn hell out of you and thought maybe if I got to see you from afar, now and then, it’d hurt less. Still fucking hurts quite a bit, though.”
She stared.
“Say something.”
“I-I don’t know what to say, Rob.” He was here, watching her? He was hurting? Did that mean he missed her? Or was he just pissed about how things had turned out? For days—no, weeks—she’d thought of things she would say to him if she ever saw him again. Now he was right here, inches from her . . . and her mind went blank.
Just completely, utterly blank.
The look on his face was a little disappointed. His mouth curved. “I’ll leave you alone, sweetheart. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
He turned away and she grabbed at his shirt. “Wait!”
He stopped. Turned back around to her.
“I’m not scared,” she said in a small voice. She was, though. She was terrified, and her heart was beating like a rabbit’s. She wasn’t scared of him . . . just of being hurt again. Of getting her hopes up only to have them destroyed once more.
Rob waited. Looked down at her hand, still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
Oh. She released it and flexed her hand, feeling a little stupid. She needed to say something. Anything. Get the conversation rolling. “I saw you. In a magazine.”
The look on his face grew shuttered. “Christ. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck again. “Whatever it was, it was probably lies. They make up all kinds of shit to sell papers. I haven’t touched another woman since I last saw you.”
Her eyes widened. “No, not like that! It was good.” Then, she peered at him. “Who did the tabloids say you’re dating?”
“Some D-list chick with big fake cans.” He shuddered. “Horrible. Not true at all. She’s just in one of the specials that we’ve been running lately.” He paused, and then corrected himself. “They’ve.”
“I saw information about the sale. Is it true? You sold The Man Channel?”
“All of it,” he agreed, his gaze intense on her. “Every affiliate, every video, every show, magazine, anything even remotely associated with Cannon Networks. It’s all gone.” He raised a hand and mimicked a firecracker exploding. “Poof. Done.”
He was smiling as he said it. What did that mean? Why did that give her such hope? “And . . . you gave away all the money?”
“I did. I didn’t want to keep any of it. Tainted money and all that. Seemed wrong to profit off of it.”
“Tainted?” Was he just saying words that she wanted to hear? She didn’t know, and was afraid to ask. Marjorie clutched her purse strap harder, as if it could hold up her weak knees. “Are you broke now?”
“Broke?” Rob’s eyes widened and he laughed. “No, I’m not broke. I had a lot of money socked into investments and real estate, too. I’m not as disgustingly rich as I was before, but I’m not broke by a long shot, sweetheart.”
That made her feel better. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out to him, as she had so many times before, that she wasn’t his “sweetheart.” But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. After a moment, Rob added, “Before you think I’ve turned over a completely new leaf, I’m looking at other avenues now. Like a bingo channel. Maybe some sort of at-home gambling for the elderly.”
She couldn’t help it—she laughed. Of course he was still thinking things up.
The look on his face was a bit mischievous. “I can’t help it. I’m not the type to sit on my hands and count my money. I see opportunity and I go after it.”
“Some things never change,” she said, smiling.
The pleased look on his face died at once. “Can’t they change?” he asked in a lower voice. “Or are you forever fucked because of choices made before you met the right person?”
Was she the “right person” he was referring to? Marjorie’s lips were dry; she licked them and felt the urge to run away from this sudden frustration. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve been working my ass off to become someone you could respect. Someone you could like. Someone you can be proud of. Most of all, someone you can see yourself with. After we talked, I realized everything you were saying was true. I went through all of my life not giving a shit what anyone thought of me, because no one had ever given a shit about me. ‘Think I’m a dick? Fine. I’ll be a dick.’ But then I realized after talking with you that you have to earn respect to get respect, and I haven’t been bothering to earn it. I made a living off of tits and ass and the frat boy mentality, and so of course a decent, nice girl like you won’t give me the time of day. Why should you? I’m peddling everything that you hate. I get that, now. I don’t know if I can ever backtrack enough to undo what I’ve created, but I’m damn sure going to try.” He shrugged. “Nobody ever made me want to become something better than I was until I met you.”
Marjorie was silent. She held her breath, even, afraid that if she inhaled, she’d miss a word of his confession.
Rob’s gaze locked on her face and he tilted his head, examining her with an expression of such longing that her heart ached. “I haven’t stopped loving you, you know. I always thought love at first sight was such bullshit, and then I met you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Ever. It’s not just lust. It’s wanting to hear your laugh and see your smile and wake up in the morning with you right next to me. I miss the hell out of you and I want you back, and if that means I have to donate every dollar I ever earn to charity and live in a box under a bridge to get your respect, then that’s what I’ll fucking do.”
“I . . . I . . .” She could think of nothing to say. Longing and fear were twined hand in hand, holding her back. What if she confessed that he was saying all the right things to her and she still loved him, and this was all another trick? What if it broke her all over again?
“I know,” he said softly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know it’s hard to believe anything I say, but I’m telling you the truth. And I understand. Here. Take this.” He put his hand in his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Got a pen?”
She reached into her purse, fished one out and held it out to him, still in shock.
He took it and wrote something down on the back. “This is my place here in the city. If you ever want to stop by and say hello, I’d love to have you. Anytime. Day or night. You call and I’ll be there.”
Marjorie nodded, wide-eyed, and took the card as he handed it to her.
Rob touched her cheek briefly, smiled, and walked away.
And Marjorie stood there on the street corner, barefoot and clutching a pen and business card as she watched the man she was terrified to love stroll back out of her life again.
***
For two days, she stewed on what the card meant. She mapped his new address—Park Avenue—and stalked him via Google Maps. She might have taken a shortcut or two outside his building in the hopes of running into him so she didn’t have to make the first move.
And she stared at that magazine picture of him for hours before going to sleep.
Marjorie didn’t know what to do. She was inexperienced when it came to relationships, and felt completely out of her depth. She knew the easiest thing to do would be to call him, or go to his apartment and talk to him. Confess how she was feeling.
And . . . then what?
It was clear she couldn’t trust her own judgment. Anything he told her, she’d believe. So what did she do? Hire a private detective? That seemed . . . ridiculous. Right now it seemed like her options were: trust and hope for the best, or give up on him entirely and nurse the wound until it didn’t hurt.
What was sad was that seeing him again just emphasized how much she was completely, ridiculously, head-over-heels in love with the man, still. It took everything she had not to throw her arms around his neck and kiss the daylights out of him. To beg him to love her half as much as she loved him and to never, ever lie to her again.
But she still wasn’t sure if that was foolish of her. She needed opinions.
So at lunch on day three of her indecision, she met with Brontë and Audrey. It was really just to sit and enjoy talking together. Audrey was Logan’s assistant (or at least she was until she gave birth) and so she naturally spent a lot of time with Brontë. And as Brontë’s assistant, Marjorie was dragged along when lunches were planned, and they liked to go out on Fridays for pasta and to unwind. As usual, they talked about work, books, men, the wedding, and the weather. Marjorie was antsy and quiet as they chatted, waiting for their food.
When Audrey pulled out pictures of her latest ultrasound, Marjorie tore into a breadstick and then could hold back no longer. “Can people change?”
Both women turned to look at her, puzzled frowns on their faces.
“What do you mean?” Audrey asked.
“‘The universe is change,’” Brontë quoted. “‘Our life is what our thoughts make it.’”
Marjorie felt a stab of despair. She didn’t want a philosophical tidbit. She wanted real, honest-to-goodness advice. “Can people change,” she repeated, taking another nervous bite of her breadstick and chewing. It was dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth and she struggled to swallow. “Can the bad guy turn into the good guy? Can people say they’re going to change something in their life, do it, and really mean it? Or do you think they eventually fall back on their old ways?” Gosh, she was going to choke on this breadstick if she didn’t drink something soon. She gulped her water and grimaced. “I’m just wondering.”
“Are we . . . asking about someone in particular?” Audrey asked delicately.
Marjorie shook her head, cheeks burning. Gosh, she was such a pitiful liar, she really was. She was sure she was being incredibly obvious.
But Audrey took pity on her. She smiled broadly and rubbed a hand on her big belly again. “I absolutely believe people can change. Look at Reese.” At Marjorie’s questioning look, she chuckled. “Did you know Reese was a total man-whore back in the day? When I met him, he was in a hot-tub with an heiress, seducing her because he wanted a business deal with her father.”
“That sounds . . . awful.”
“Oh, I hated him,” Audrey said, a dreamy expression on her face that contradicted her words. “We got along like cats and dogs. But the more time we spent together, the more we found that we liked arguing with each other. It was fun. And then we liked spending time with each other even when we weren’t arguing. And then we just liked each other, full stop.” She shrugged and reached for the breadbasket. “We figured out pretty fast that we were miserable without each other, and I think I really started to believe that he liked me when I saw him turning down these gorgeous, svelte women to spend time with plain old me. Now, we’re as happy as can be.” She picked up a piece of bread and took a triumphant bite. “So, yes, I do think people can change. Sometimes they just need incentive . . . or a kick in the pants.”
Brontë giggled into her water glass.
Marjorie wasn’t entirely sure she was convinced. She toyed with the remainder of her dry breadstick. “Yes, but how could you trust him? Weren’t you scared of being hurt?”
“Everyone’s scared of being hurt,” Audrey said, ever practical. “But sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and put your trust in that person. I love Reese and I trust him not to hurt me, just like he trusts me not to hurt him.”
“But how do you know?” Marjorie pressed.
“You don’t,” Audrey said. “But sometimes the fear of living without that person is worse than the fear of what happens if you do choose to go after them. I was more afraid of what would happen if I didn’t take a chance on Reese.” She patted her distended belly again. “It’s worked out pretty well for us.”
Marjorie had to agree. She’d seen the way Reese looked at rounded, no-nonsense Audrey. He looked at her as if she’d hung the moon and stars, and she’d never seen him so much as glance at another woman. If Reese was a reformed man-whore, then didn’t Rob stand a chance to be someone different? And didn’t he deserve that chance? “I see.”
“If you think about it,” Brontë said softly, “Every relationship is a leap of faith. No matter what the past is, you’re counting on making a solid future with that person. It’s always a risk, no matter how big or how small. You just have to ask yourself if it’s worth the potential reward.”
A leap of faith, Marjorie mused as the waiter arrived with three bowls of steaming pasta. The women dug in to their food and the conversation was momentarily forgotten. Marjorie mulled it over as they ate and chatted about other things. Maybe Rob had taken a leap of faith by selling his business and dumping a massive chunk of his fortune into a charity in the hopes that Marjorie would see and approve? That she’d still be interested?
That she’d see the real him underneath all the tarnish and still want him?
Her hands shook and she had to put down her fork, composing herself.
Truth was, she could gloss it however she wanted, but she loved Rob and yearned to be with him. It was just that leap of faith that was so utterly terrifying.
Could she leap? It’d hurt if she fell flat on her face, but would it be worse to not leap at all? She thought of Agnes’s small apartment, filled with pictures and memories. She’d leapt six times before, and still had enough love—and hope—in her heart for a seventh try.
She had a lot to think about. Now to just find the courage to do what she needed to do.
Chapter Twenty-five
Marjorie couldn’t stop thinking about Rob that night. She gazed at his picture from the magazine, then picked up her phone and did a new Google search for his name. Nothing new popped up, except for Man Channel ratings. She clicked off her browser and stared up at her popcorn ceiling, frustrated.
What would it hurt to just drop by and say hello? There was a late-night coffee shop in his area. She could always just, you know, pretend she had a deadline and was working late and just drop by there and see if he was in the area.
Just to see. Just in case he was out and about.
With that thought in mind, she got out of bed and stripped down to her skin, then picked out her sexiest panties and bra. Just in case. Then she slid on her sexiest jeans and a cute top, and pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, and then spent ten minutes applying barely there makeup. Again, just in case. With that, she gave herself one last look in the mirror, crossed her fingers, put on her sparkly shoes that Rob had given her back on the island, and headed out into the streets of NYC, ignoring the hour.
Forty-five minutes later, she’d had a whipped hot cocoa from the coffee shop, had walked up and down the block twice, and no Rob. She wanted to walk up and down the block again, but she was starting to worry that someone would think her a hooker this late at night in platform heels.
It was either go up and take a chance, or go home and stew for another day. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, thinking. Could she do this? With a small sigh, she tossed her cup into the nearest garbage can and headed to Rob’s building.
The doorman stopped her. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Oh.” She blinked repeatedly, the urge to run away clawing its way back to the forefront. “Um, Rob Cannon gave me a card and told me to come by anytime—”
“Name?”
Her courage failed her. “You know what? I can just go. It’s really late and I’m not sure—”
“Name?” the man emphasized, narrowing his eyes at her.
Meekly, she offered, “Marjorie Ivarsson. Really, though—”
He nodded at her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Ivarsson.” He opened the door for her and gestured that she should enter.
Oh. Huh. Okay. She hugged her purse against her side and continued into the building, the card with his address in her hand.
Rob apparently lived on the twenty-fifth floor, so she went to the elevator and pushed the button. To her horror, there was also an elevator attendant. Gosh, this was entirely too many people. Her courage failed her again.
“Going up, miss?”
“I-I-I—”
He leaned forward and glanced at the card in her hand. “Floor twenty five, miss?”
Eyes wide, she blinked and nodded.
He waited a minute, and then when she made no attempt to get into the elevator, gestured that she should get in. “Shall we?”
Right. She sucked in a deep breath. “I really should go home.”
The man waited, ever patient.
And despite her words, she found herself getting in the elevator. “Twenty-five, please,” she said in a squeaky voice, her hands shaking.
She was doing this. Dear lord, she was doing this.
Marjorie was silent as the elevator crept up, floor by excruciating floor. When the elevator finally dinged, she jumped.
“Floor twenty-five,” the elevator attendant said, smiling at her. “Have a nice evening.”
“You too,” she said breathlessly and stepped out into the hallway.
Floor twenty-five was a narrow, straight line from the elevator, with two potted plants and a bench right in front of the elevator doors. Down one end of the hall, she could see one door, and on the other side, another door. Only two doors on this floor. These must be penthouses, Marjorie realized, and her stomach gave another funny lurch. She’d known that Rob had a big room back at the resort, but it had never really occurred to her how much money a billionaire had.
Or was he even a billionaire anymore? Either way, he was still obscenely rich. She could only imagine how much a Park Avenue penthouse cost to buy, given that her tiny apartment on the Upper East Side was almost two grand a month to rent.
Swallowing hard, she crept toward Rob’s door. Her stomach lurched in protest. What if he was entertaining someone? Oh god, what if he wasn’t home by himself? Should she have called? Or was it better to just spring her visit on him and hope to catch him doing something? She felt sick. Was that trust? Did he even deserve trust yet?
Good sweet lord, what was she doing here? She was pretty sure she was going to throw up from nerves, even as she walked to his door and knocked twice.
“Coming,” called a male voice from the other side. She heard steps jogging toward the door and her courage threatened to give out. Oh god, what if he was here with someone? She’d die. She’d just curl up and die right here on his doorstep. She’d—
The door opened.
Rob stood there, his hair messy, his chest sweaty. His chest naked and sweaty. He wore a pair of grubby jeans with holes in the knees, and his feet were bare. White flecks covered his skin. He was holding a paint roller.
His eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Holy fucking shit, Marjorie! What are you doing here?”
Oh, no. Oh, no. “Um, you told me to come by anytime—”
“I know I did, but Jesus, it’s—” he looked at his bare wrist, grimaced, and then craned his neck, looking into the apartment behind him. “Two in the morning,” he declared, then looked back at her. “Why are you here at two in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest protectively. “Why are you painting at two in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said with a grin. “Insomniac, remember? Anyhow, I was looking at the walls of this place and kept thinking that they needed a coat of fresh paint, and the painters weren’t coming until next week and I figured I could just do it my goddamn self, and,” he paused as the paint roller dripped on his foot. “And . . . shit. I think I just left a trail from the bedroom all the way to the front door.”
A giggle escaped her, the sound slightly hysterical. Yeah, she was pretty sure she was going to pass out.
He gave himself a little shake, then grinned. “Come in. Come in. Come get high off my paint fumes with me.”
Marjorie laughed again, and stepped inside.
The apartment was a mess. Plastic sheeting covered the floors, and the walls were bare—and stained from the prior occupant, she guessed. A stack of boxes were piled into one corner of the room. Overall, though, the apartment was enormous, much bigger than her own. Actually she was pretty sure his living room area was bigger than her entire apartment. “Are you moving in?”
He blinked at her. “No, I thought I’d break in and paint the place, and then just leave again. Like a vigilante.”
She snorted. Okay, that was a stupid question. A vigilante painter. Even as she thought about it, she chuckled. And then she began to laugh.
His smile curved his mouth, and he rubbed his neck with his free hand, and she realized he was nervous to have her here, too.
And she kept laughing. The entire thing was absurd. She’d been so freaking nervous, and here she was, and he was painting. Painting! There were no party girls. No sexcapades. Nothing but Rob in bare, paint-spattered feet on plastic sheeting and a penthouse that smelled of paint fumes.
Hysterical laughter erupted from her, and she just kept laughing and laughing.
“Marjorie?” He asked, a puzzled look on his face. “You okay?”
She smothered the hysterical laughs that kept bubbling up, pressing her fingertips to her lips, and nodded. When she could breathe again, she pointed out, “You’re dripping on the plastic.”
He looked down. Then, he shrugged. “Eh. Carpet’s shit, too. If paint gets on it, I’ll replace everything.”
“Your place is huge. Don’t you have friends that can help you with this?”
“Sweetheart, I don’t have any friends.”
For some reason, that sobered her and tugged at her heartstrings. She pulled off her sparkly shoes and placed them by the door, and then held out her hand. “You’ve got me.”
The smile on his face grew broad as he looked her up and down, admiring her form. “You’re the sexiest friend I have.”
She plucked the paint roller from his hand, trying not to blush. “You just told me I’m the only friend you have.”
“Fair enough.” He shut the door and headed back into the apartment. “You’ll have to forgive the mess. I’m still getting set up. Just signed paperwork on this place last week. The old tenants were smokers so the place has been airing out for a few days, but I can still smell it, so I’m hoping the paint kills a lot of it.”
Marjorie gave it a tentative sniff. Sure enough, it did smell like cigarettes. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, but I got the place for a song because of the stink.” Rob stretched and turned toward the hall. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Her gaze fixed on his tight ass in his jeans, and the two dimples at the base of his spine. There was a smear of paint there now, and she longed to put her fingers there and wipe it clean . . . actually, she just wanted to put her fingers there.
This was just . . . weird. She’d come to Rob’s in the middle of the night expecting to make a passionate declaration, and instead they were being friendly and . . . painting.
Marjorie tiptoed across the paint-splattered plastic and followed his more confident steps down the hall. She peeked through doors as she passed them, seeing a study with ugly wallpaper and wooden built-in shelves, a posh, tiled bathroom, and an empty room that might have been a bedroom. “So you bought a fixer-upper?” she asked politely.
“Yep.” He gestured at the ceiling. “The old owner lived here for thirty years or something. That’s why everything’s so outdated. I figured I could put a little elbow grease and a few dollars into the place and make it nice.”
“I see,” she said carefully as he walked down the hall into a room with double doors. This had to be the bedroom. It was enormous, with a lifted step where the bed would go. There in the center was an air mattress with a blanket and pillow tossed on it, and his laptop propped open on one corner. Cords trailed over to a plug in the wall. It looked so incredibly college-dorm-era and so out of place for a billionaire that she just stared at it for a long moment before glancing around again.
On the far end of the room, there was a door to the master bathroom, and off to one side were the painting supplies. A wall of windows looked out on the Manhattan skyline, and the windows were currently open to let the air ventilate. Faint sounds of traffic murmured below.
Despite the outdated look, the place was still huge. And for Manhattan, that couldn’t be cheap. She wondered just how broke he was after donating his money, and an uncomfortable twinge of guilt hit her. “Um, exactly how much was the ‘song’ you paid for this, Rob?”
He moved over to the paint supplies and unwrapped a new roller. “Ten? No, wait, I think it was eight and a half after the haggling. Only three bedrooms, though.”
She felt weak. “Ten . . . million?”
“Eight and a half,” he corrected. “I’m trying to slim down my lifestyle in accordance with my new budget.” Rob said it all so happily.
Marjorie’s stomach gave another queasy lurch. “Rob, I don’t mean to pry, but . . . how broke are you if you’re buying an eight-million-dollar apartment?” He was full of mixed signals. He’d bought a penthouse . . . but was painting it himself. He was a rich man . . . sleeping on an air mattress. She was so confused.
“Hm?” He dipped the roller in the paint and she stared at his tight ass as he did so. Why was he being so casual and friendly? Didn’t he want to tear her clothes off? She was itching to divest him of those jeans.
But she needed to know. “Rob . . . are you almost broke? Because of me?”
He looked over at her, surprised. “Marjorie, sweetheart, I’m still a billionaire. Well, for now. I might give away more money. It felt pretty good to give away the last chunk. Did you know, some of those women cried like babies when I signed over the check? Never saw anything like it in my life.”
“I’ll bet.” She walked over to the wall slowly, feeling wooden.
Rob slapped the roller on the wall, and paint splatted. “So. You never said what you’re doing out so late. It’s not safe, you know.” He glanced over at her. “You should be more careful.”
It struck her as a funny thing to say. Was there an appropriate time frame to come to a man’s house to proposition him? Had she missed the window? The idea struck her as funny and she began to laugh again, the hysteria creeping back into her throat. Why wasn’t this going the way she wanted? Why were they being so weird about things?
“Marjorie?” He put down his paint roller and walked the few steps separating them over to where she stood, stiff-limbed and awkward, holding a drippy paint roller. He quietly took the roller from her and laid it on the plastic. His hands went to her shoulders and his gaze sought hers. “Sweetheart, why are you here?”
She swallowed hard. “I’m leaping.”
He tilted his head. “You’re wha—”
She threw her arms around his neck and hauled him against her. Her mouth sought his, and then she was pressing her lips to his in a quick, passionate kiss.
