Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(13)

She hesitated, her face conflicted. “Maybe.”

“Hear me out.” He rested his forearm on the door frame, leaned closer, and smiled into her suspicious face. “I have a deal for you. I think you’re going to like it.”





Chapter 4

Across the hall, a door opened and a young male face appeared. “You all right, Mary Poppins?”

Bev stopped glaring at Liam and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, Arturo. It’s nothing.”

“You want me to call my brother?” He looked Liam up and down and his eyes widened. “Or the cops?”

“No, no. This guy’s just a suit. Thanks, but I’m fine. He and I will talk inside.” With a tight smile at her neighbor, she stepped back for Liam to enter, shooting angry sideways looks at him.

Just a suit?

He stepped inside and felt as though he’d been magically transported to a high-end SOMA condo. Like his. Somehow, she’d managed to make the hard angles of the institutional ‘50’s apartment building look cool. Not a single shabby chic, cozy thrift-store item in sight—everything was sleek, simple, and modern. She didn’t even seem to have—ah, there it was. A white, long-haired cat, comatose on a black rug and looking like a fluffy plus-sized slug.

For a moment, he forgot why he’d come. He ran his fingers over a triangular lamp shade. “Is that a Winzler?”

“IKEA,” she said. “Winzler’s not quite in my budget.”

He nodded, turned, pointed at the low-backed leather sofa. “You like red?” Other than white, black, and stainless steel, red was the only color in the room.

“Yes.” With quick, rough jerks, she combed her fingers through her dark hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, sending little peachy ears on each side of her head into high relief.

He jerked his attention away. Remember, she’s nothing special—just a younger version of Ellen. “You’ve got a talent for design.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said. “What do you want? As if I don’t know.”

Shrugging, he smoothed his hand down his shirt and fought down the absurd urge to tuck a loose strand of hair on her cheek behind her ear. “Ellen mentioned she had mailed the contract to you.”

“I’ve already signed it. You’re wasting your time.”

His stomach dropped. “You mailed it?”

She closed her eyes, hesitating, and he felt the breath seep back into his lungs. There was still a chance.

“There’s nothing you can say to change my mind,” she said, then walked over to the door and pulled it open for him. “You might was well go.”

“I’ll pay you more.”

She paused, pulled the door open wider. “I’m sure you could. That’s not the point.”

“It’s not?”

“Ellen deserves it. It’s time for my family to move on.”

“Ellen? Deserves?” He was confused. Buying time, he went over and reached above her head to push the door shut again, inadvertently getting close enough to smell a hint of lemon. Nothing bottled or distilled, just nice. He stepped back away from her, even more confused by the rushing of his blood.

“I need a drink,” she said. “Stay, go, whatever. I don’t care.”

Glad she moved away from the door and out of scent range, Liam walked into the living room and sat on the red leather couch. The cat didn’t move.

“No thanks, I drove here,” he said when she returned with a highboy.

“It’s Diet Coke.”

He glanced down at it.

“Let me guess, you don’t drink Diet Coke?” she said.

“It’s fine.” He brought it to his lips and watched her over the rim.

“Liar.”

He sipped. “Mmmm.”

To his satisfaction, her scowl melted away. She was trying to bite back a smile. “Cut it out. I’ll get you something else.”

“Don’t bother—”

“I bet you’re the Brita pitcher type,” she continued, “so you’re in luck. My brother got me one for Christmas, and I even set it up.”

As soon as she was out of sight, Liam set the soda on a bamboo coaster, irritated with himself for not hiding his tastes better. He didn’t want to give her any reason to turn away from him until she’d agreed to his deal.

“Drinking water is a type?” he asked when she returned.

“Admit it. You have a special pitcher and you change the filters in it every month instead of every two, just in case.”

“You’re supposed to change them more frequently depending on rate of use.”

She laughed, triumphant, and he was momentarily stunned by the transformation in her face. Nothing special, he repeated to himself. Ellen had the same supernatural complexion, the impossibly blue eyes. But Ellen never glowed like that, like she was filled with something bright and warm.

“Well, drink up with confidence, then,” she said. “My rate of use is low.”

He drank, willing himself to hide any disgust with the stale taste. But the water was fine. “Your brother works in Hollywood, right?”

“And my father.” She set her drink down and leaned over to pick up the cat. Limp and unresponsive, the animal sagged in Bev’s arms and didn’t complain when she sat down across from Liam and pulled it tight against her chest like a fur breastplate.