Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(15)
This was the part of the story when Brooke interrupted by thunking him—literally thunking him—on his head.
“You just said you aren’t even into this girl,” she said incredulously.
They’d moved out onto the deck while Ford had been telling her all about his adventures the previous night. Leaning against the brick ledge, he rubbed his head. “First, ouch. Second, just because I’m not into her doesn’t mean I have to be a dick.”
“I guarantee she left your place this morning thinking you’re interested in her.”
He waved this off. “No way. After I said we should slow down, we just hung out and talked. You know, like you and I do.”
She rolled her eyes. “You men can be such boneheads about these things. She doesn’t know you the way I do. She’s vulnerable right now. Her ex turned out to be an * and then you come riding in—”
“There was no riding.”
“—being the good guy, looking the way you do”—Brooke gestured to him—“wanting to talk and slow things down and be all sensitive with your coffee and your little blanket. What woman could resist that? My God, why didn’t you just cuddle a puppy shirtless while you were at it?”
He mentally filed away that seduction technique for future reference. “So, you’re saying I was supposed to just toss the crying, heartbroken woman out of my condo in the middle of the night?”
“Of course not. That would’ve made you an *.”
Ford considered this for a moment. “So, from the female perspective, basically anything I could’ve done last night to get myself out of an awkward situation would’ve resulted in me being either a bonehead or an *.”
She smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Now you’re catching on.”
“You know, Parker, these male-female heart-to-hearts of ours are just so helpful.”
She laughed. “Somebody has to keep you in your place. You’re too charming for your own good.”
She ruffled his hair, and a comfortable silence fell between them as they leaned against the brick wall, sipped their beers, and looked out at the view of the Chicago skyline.
Then she looked sideways at him. “About all these home improvement projects of yours . . . how long are we going to pretend this isn’t some male angsty excuse for you to bang on things and work out your grief and frustration?”
“Probably when I’m done remodeling the kitchen.”
She half-smiled at the joke, but then the look in her eyes turned serious. “I’m here anytime you want to talk. I love you, you know.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. “I know.” When he and Brooke were kids and his dad was in one of his foul moods, he used to hang out at her house whenever he’d needed a break. During those times, he hadn’t said much about the situation with his dad—talking about feelings was hardly his forte—and he didn’t say anything further right then, either.
After a few moments she broke the silence in typical Brooke fashion. “So, about this sex problem you’re having . . .”
Seriously.
“There is no sex problem,” he growled, fully aware that she was teasing him in order to lighten the mood. But still. “Just the wrong girl at the wrong time.” He cocked his head, suddenly remembering something. “But you should’ve seen this brunette in red heels that was also at the bar last night. She was . . . something.” He grinned. “With a girl like that, there would never be a wrong time.”
“Aw, it’s cute, seeing you with your smitten, I-just-saw-the-most-beautiful-girl-across-a-crowded-bar glow,” Brooke said.
He brushed off her teasing. “I don’t do smitten.” That kind of vulnerability and willingness to put himself out there to be rejected by someone . . . well, that was something he’d never been able to do. Never had any desire to do. Instead, he kept things light and casual in his relationships, never getting too close to anyone, always just having fun.
And his entire adult life, he hadn’t seen anything that had made him want to handle things any differently.
* * *
VICTORIA FLIPPED THROUGH her mail as she rode up the elevator to the fourth floor. Seeing how her plans for an afternoon siesta had been interrupted by the ubiquitous Mr. F. Dixon and his saw and drill, she’d gone out for a walk in her new neighborhood. She had a quiet evening planned—assuming a certain someone didn’t have any more drywall to tear down or raucous penis-pop parties planned—and figured she’d order pizza and veg out on the couch with a movie.
Once inside her loft, she tossed out the junk mail and set the rest on her kitchen counter. She’d just pulled out her phone to look up Piece Brewery and Pizzeria, a restaurant she’d discovered during her walk that seemed promising, when she heard a man’s voice out on her balcony.
She froze at the sound, her heart pounding, until she saw through the sliding glass doors that her balcony was clear.
Right. The man’s voice wasn’t coming from her balcony, but the one next door.
She exhaled—holy crap, that had freaked her out—and then realized something. If the man’s voice was coming from the balcony next door . . .
It had to be F. Dixon.
Between her run-in with the woman who’d left his place this morning with a satisfied smile, and the way he kept intruding into her space in the less than forty-eight hours she’d lived in the building, she was a little curious to get a look at the guy.