Takes Two to Tackle Page 10

  With nods of agreement, the guys waited for him to dismiss them, then began to stand and slowly head out.

  He caught Trey’s eye and motioned him over to an alcove to let the rest of the guys pass. In a low voice, he asked, “Did you know?”

  “Yeah.” His best friend wiped his hands on his jeans. “Cassie warned me. We debated telling you guys”—he didn’t have to specify who the you guys were—“but we just thought it was best everyone heard at once.”

  “Hell of a way to jump-start your engagement. Sorry ’bout that.”

  Trey rolled his eyes and lifted one shoulder in a What can ya do? gesture. They started to head back, and ran into Mags, Cassie, and Aileen not in the party with the others, but in the kitchen with Mrs. Talbin. The older woman, who had been flustered or harried the majority of the time before now, seemed calm, relaxed and ready to party with a glass of wine in her hands. Cassie’s eyes lit up as Trey walked around her, scooped her into his body from behind, and kissed her cheek. Killian pulled Aileen off to the side with a smile Stephen rarely saw away from his lady love, with a “Freckles will be right back.”

  “Freckles?” Mrs. Talbin asked, confused.

  “It’s their own thing,” Cassie explained.

  Speaking of their own thing . . . Stephen walked up beside Mags. “Hey.”

  She looked up at him, curiosity and concern in her face. “So, what was that all about?”

  He nuzzled at her temple and whispered, “We’ll talk later,” before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her tight against him.

  She relaxed instantly, as if she’d only been waiting for him to come over and do that. Her natural reaction to his touch only made him more determined.

  The lie had to stop. He’d hoped he could admit his mistake to the coaches today, wash his hands of the façade, and move on from there with a clean slate and a chance to win Mags over on his own.

  ***

  As Margaret dumped five pounds of ground turkey into an oversized pan to brown, she realized this past month was the most she had cooked in her life. Living alone, she relied mostly on sandwiches or cereal. The few times she did cook, making a normal-sized meal meant she had enough food for four days. But Stephen ate at least twice as much as a typical human, and needed something more than cereal or sandwiches to continue each day’s training. And he liked variety, unlike her, which meant she spent at least half an hour each day flitting around the Internet looking for new recipes that met his daily nutritional requirements. Never before had she devoted this much time and energy into food.

  Small price to pay, she thought as she caught sight of the notebook she’d been doodling on earlier. Little wisps of ideas for her future business had finally started trickling in, and she’d let her mind wander for an hour, dreaming and documenting. Maybe a lot of it was nonsense, or impractical, or simply impossible . . . but it felt good to make some sort of step forward. For weeks, she’d been telling herself she had to actually start making plans. But Stephen made his home too comfortable. She found herself dawdling on laundry or in the grocery shopping, barely completing her work before Stephen arrived home. More often than not, he talked her into doing something with him, instead of breaking away and doing his own thing.

  He liked company. Stephen was, at the core of it, a social creature. It baffled her he hadn’t had a long-term girlfriend before now. Despite his carefree attitude, she could tell he respected women—his weekly FaceTime calls home confirmed that for her—and was pure relationship material, whether he believed it or not.

  Not that she should even begin to imagine herself in that position, she warned herself, and used a long-handled spoon to move the turkey around the pan. In another, smaller pan, she scrambled a dozen eggs and let those start cooking while she began slicing peppers and onions. She was getting the benefit of living in his gorgeous house rent-free, and had time to work on her business plan. Plus, she was getting paid. Mixing the two—money and emotions—would be a mistake.

  Which didn’t seem to make a single bit of difference to her heart, as it lurched when she heard the garage door go up, signaling Stephen was home.

  “Down, girl,” she muttered as the door opened and closed. She kept her eyes on the two pans, finishing up the scrambled eggs and moving them to a cold burner while the meat continued to brown. She grabbed the cutting board and scraped the onions into the meat. The sizzle made her smile.

  “Hey.” She heard Stephen drop his bag on the floor. “Something smells great.”

  “Probably the meat,” she said, moving the spoon around to mix the two together. “And I just added . . .” Her voice trailed off as Stephen’s body pressed against hers from behind. He didn’t make any demands on her, didn’t push her against the stove or wrap his arm around her . . . more’s the pity. But his simple presence there had her pulse pounding. “Just added the onions.”

  But it wasn’t the onions and meat she smelled. He’d showered at the gym, apparently, because she caught the hint of his shower gel—a scent she knew by heart from cleaning his showers for two years—alongside that indescribable addition of damp male yumminess.

  “What’s the plan?” His voice was low, and she nearly felt the vibration in his chest.

  “Burritos. Hand me those tortillas,” she said, waving a hand in the general vicinity of the pantry. “Large, not small.”

  “Large tortillas,” he muttered and went off in search. Not that she actually needed them at the moment, but the breathing room was paramount for her emotional health.

  “What kind of burrito has scrambled eggs in it, anyway?” he asked, letting the heavy bag of tortillas plop onto the island counter and sitting down. “Sounds wrong.”

  “Sounds delicious,” she corrected. “Breakfast burritos. I’m gonna make a big batch of these and then you can just grab one, pop it in the oven for a few minutes, and there ya go. Instant healthy breakfast.”

  “Nice. I applaud your thinking.”

  The compliment, however simple, made her flush. She fanned herself, as if getting too warm from the heat of the stove. “How was practice?”

  “Weight training, but good. The damn man has me close to dead before calling it quits. But it’s working.” When she turned to give him a raised eyebrow in question, he grinned. “I’m up almost fifteen pounds.”

  “Woo hoo!” She raised her non-spoon-holding fist in the air. “And I feel weird celebrating weight gain. That’s probably a first for me.”

  “When the weight gain came from almost six weeks spending hours at the gym and a damn lot of vegetables, and no beer, hell yeah, it’s something to celebrate.” He looked at the fridge. “I might even splurge on some sherbet tonight.”

  “Who says I’ll share my stash of sherbet?” At his look of longing, she laughed. “Fine, fine. But I get to pick tonight’s movie.”

  Stephen watched as she started to drain the meat. “What’s this?”

  “Hmm?” She focused on the meat, not wanting to splash her hands with the hot grease . . . again. “What’s what?”

  “Elite Clean,” he said, and she gasped and whipped around. The pan clattered to the bottom of the industrial-sized stainless steel sink, jarring Stephen’s attention away from the notebook he was looking through.

  “You okay?” He was up and out of his seat before she could blink. Big hands circled her wrists gently, twisting her arms around so he could inspect her hands and forearms. “Any burns? Anything hurt? Did you sprain something?”

  “No,” she stammered, not wanting him to let go just yet. “No, just . . . clumsy, I guess.”

  His eyes narrowed on hers, but he didn’t release her yet. His thumbs stroked over her wrists, and she wondered if he could feel her pulse pounding there.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

  He stepped away, and she bit back a sigh. Of relief? Of resignation? Who knew? Clearly she didn’t.

  “So you’re going with Elite Clean, huh? Goo
d name.”

  The reminder of what had startled her in the first place jolted her out of her momentary stupor. “Clean what?”

  He smiled and pulled away, picking up the notebook and patting it against his open palm. “Says here you’re thinking of the name Elite Clean for your business.”

  The business. Right. Stay on track, girl. “I thought it worked with the image I’m going for.”

  “Which is?”

  “I . . .” She paused and looked at him a moment. “You don’t actually want to go over this, do you?”

  “I do. I’m curious about what you’re up to. I want to help.” His voice was so sincere she couldn’t help but believe him. “I feel like I’m walking this journey with you, so I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay, well . . . I want to charge more than an average cleaning service.” When he raised a brow, she went on. “Because the clients are paying for more than just scrubbed toilets. Anyone can scrub a toilet.”

  “Not everyone wants to,” he pointed out.

  “That’s true, but most people will also just hire a big-box company maid to come in. Or make their kids do it,” she added with a grin.

  “God knows my mom made me clean enough bathrooms. I’m intimately familiar with the smell of 409.”

  That made her laugh. “Those aren’t who I’m catering to, though. I want to hit the elite professionals, either in business or athletics. The ones that don’t just need someone to clean their toilet, but need someone who they can trust to do that and not steal their Rolex, take off with confidential paperwork from their home office, or mention the fact that one of the biggest badasses on whatever sports team is applicable likes to wear ladies’ underwear under his workout gear.”

  Stephen’s mouth dropped open at that.

  That made her blush a little. “Oh, come on. Like that doesn’t happen.”

  “It probably does,” he admitted. “Just wasn’t thinking in terms of that being something to consider.”

  “They’re paying not only for a clean house, but for discretion and professionalism. The ability to trust someone in their home who won’t abuse it. I think that’s why I was always so requested among the Bobcats. Guys learned I was trustworthy, and they recommended me to their teammates. It’s how you found me.”

  “True. Word of mouth is powerful.” He sat back and crossed his arms, watching her as she started to build the burritos. Each one was wrapped separately in foil, ready to take out of the fridge and pop in the oven. “Those look good. So tell me more.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She was all things brightness and light.

  It was the only thing he could think of as he watched Margaret flit around the kitchen, putting together healthy breakfast burritos and talking about ideas for her cleaning business. She was so bright and animated . . . he half expected cartoon woodland creatures to start coming in through the window to help her clean the dishes to complete the image.

  As she set the kitchen to rights, he waited for her to finish up and then took her wrist. He examined her arm once more, just to make sure he hadn’t missed any signs of a grease burn. No pinkening skin, nothing that looked blistered. When he looked in her eyes, they were a bit wide with surprise.

  “Wha—what are you doing?”

  He liked that he could make her nervous. She was so friendly, so easy around him that he feared he would slip back into that client role for her. She’d boxed him in so that she could work and keep a professional distance from him . . . but that was over.

  “Just double-checking that you didn’t hurt yourself earlier when you dropped the pan.” He let his fingers walk up to her elbow, caressing the soft skin there under the guise of doing a thorough job. ”I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now,” she said, her voice not sounding nearly as strong as it usually did.

  “Time to let someone else have a turn taking care of you, then.” He leaned down as he spoke, and her eyes widened more.

  Fear? Anxiety? Anticipation?

  Whatever it was, he knew she expected him to kiss her. And hadn’t quite worked out in her mind how she would react if he did.

  Which was exactly why he pulled back. “How about we eat dinner on the couch tonight? I’m feeling like a sandwich.”

  “Oh.” She blinked owlishly and looked around the kitchen. “But I—”

  “Have been cooking for a while now, setting me up with breakfasts for the next week. Give yourself a break tonight and let’s just do sandwiches.”

  She shrugged and started to grab the fixings for sandwiches, but he shooed her to the seat he’d vacated. “I’m making them. You sit.”

  “But I—”

  “What you are looking for here,” he said as he guided her by the shoulders around the island to the seat, “is Yes, Stephen, thank you for your offer. I would like ham and cheese.”

  “Turkey,” she corrected as she sat. “Turkey, no cheese, extra mustard.”

  “Atta girl. Tell me about you and Mrs. McGovern.”

  Hopping up, she leaned her elbows on the counter and propped her chin on her hands. “What’s there to tell?”

  “She seems like the next-closest thing to family for you. She’s not actually related, though, right?” He gathered the sandwich stuff from the fridge and brought it over to make the sandwiches across the counter from her. If he didn’t think about it too hard, the healthy multigrain bread wasn’t terrible. A generous helping of spicy mustard helped.

  “I was living in my car—whoa!” She reached out and righted the mustard bottle he’d knocked over. “Easy, tiger.”

  “Sorry. Clumsy after a workout. Keep going.” He gritted his teeth to hold back the temper. It was her story to tell. Not his to interrupt.

  “My mom was about as nurturing as a harp seal.” When he gave her a questioning glance between swipes of the knife and mustard, she added, “They abandon their babies after twelve days. I looked up ‘shitty mothers’ one day when I was feeling sorry for myself. I should probably feel lucky I got seventeen years out of mine.”

  Tomorrow morning, Stephen was sending his mother a fruit basket.

  “Anyway,” she continued, pulling her sandwich plate over the second he finished layering on the turkey, “she decided she was done raising me when I hit what looked like a reasonable age to care for myself. I’d been cleaning houses for a while for cash, usually the same families I’d babysit for. When my mom said it was time for her to move on with the boyfriend of the month, and I wasn’t invited, I packed my car with whatever she let me take and camped out on some couches. The times I felt bad asking again to use a couch, I’d just sleep in the parking lot at school. Finished high school, and bumped cleaning up to full-time.”

  Stephen watched as she methodically removed all the turkey from the bread, then restacked it in a very precise manner.

  “I finally realized I couldn’t do it alone, so when I hit eighteen I applied for a job with an agency. Moved to the one I was with until I quit a few weeks ago. Mrs. McGovern was one of my first agency-assigned jobs. I spent more time sleeping in my car than anywhere else because I was saving up for a deposit for my own place. She liked me, and when she figured out my situation, she insisted I take the garage apartment.” She smiled, placing the top piece of bread precisely and patting it gently. “I’m sure she could charge someone else twice what she charges me. She could afford to be picky, and I was her pick. She said she liked the idea of a young person there, and another single girl.”

  “Single no more,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Of course. I think she mostly did it for the company. Her kids moved out of state, the ones still living, and her grandkids aren’t great about visiting. After her husband died, she was just too lonely. And too stubborn and independent to consider moving into a retirement community. It worked for both of us.” She sighed. “I miss her.”

  “You’re still visiting, right? You don’t have to stop going
over there. She sounds awesome.”

  “She is. Very much so. Done with your sandwich?”

  He looked down, realized he’d created his sandwich on autopilot . . . and not once had he reached for an invisible beer to accompany it. Not bad. Another corner turned. With a nod, he picked up his plate and nodded toward the family room. “Netflix time.”

  ***

  An hour later, their sandwiches consumed and two episodes of Friends watched via Netflix, they sat on the couch, the notebook between them.

  “These are some . . .” He searched for the word he was looking for. “Interesting sketches.”

  “I’m a maid, not a graphic designer.” Defensive, she grabbed the notebook and tilted it toward her. “It was just meant to be an example, not the real thing.”

  “I’m kidding,” he said, and pried the book back out of her hands. “They’re all in pencil, so what colors were you thinking?”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip, and he wanted to smooth the tension away. “I don’t know. First I thought purple, because it’s unique, but it seems a bit . . .”

  “If you’re going with girlie, I’m not sure. But it’s probably not the right color.”

  “Purple is the color of royalty,” she shot back.

  “And if you were catering to all of America’s royals, it might make sense. But you’re not. Try again.”