Takes Two to Tackle Page 11

  “I like the combo of blue and gold—brings to mind blue ribbons and gold medals—but I don’t think that will work.” She nodded toward Stephen’s rookie Bobcats jersey—which his mom had framed and given him. Mags had found it lurking in a back closet during an organizing spree and hung it up. As Stephen hadn’t complained, she assumed it was fine. “It seems like, since the Bobcats will hopefully be providing a large portion of my customer base, I’m trying to tie myself in officially with the team. And I definitely don’t want that.”

  “Agreed.” He held out a hand, and she slapped the notebook in his palm with a cheeky pop. He drew out a rectangle to indicate a business card, wrote a few things down, a couple of arrows, and handed it back. “Maybe that.”

  “This is . . .” She cocked her head and furrowed her brow. He wanted to kiss that little wrinkle between her brows. “I’m confused. Help me out.”

  “Business card. The card would be through-and-through black, nice and thick. None of that junky, flimsy black-on-one-side stuff.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched, but she made the go on motion while she kept analyzing the sketch.

  “Use silver writing in really basic font, nothing too swirly or fancy. Nice and simple, almost stark. I know it’s expensive, the silver-and-black combo, but worth it.”

  “Black and silver,” she murmured, one fingertip tracing around the lopsided rectangle he’d drawn. “Seems a little . . . unnoticeable. Like it might blend in. Isn’t that why companies pick bright colors? So they are the ones being seen, standing out?”

  “Normally, sure. And any average maid service is going to be doing just that. It’s volume, volume, volume. More customers add to their bottom line. But from what you’ve said on your business proposal, you’re looking to clean fewer houses, and charge more. You want the cream of the crop. You don’t want to stand out. You’re a trade secret.”

  “Trade secret.” She nodded, but he could tell she needed a bit more.

  “Your business name is passed around board rooms and locker rooms, because guys trust you and they’ll tell their friends. You don’t have to advertise in the white pages, or online. You will be elite enough that you might have to turn customers away, because you’re busy providing top-notch service—at a premium, of course—to the ones you’ve got.”

  “Okay.” She let the notebook fall to the couch cushion and threw her hands in the air. “I give up. Where the hell did all this come from?”

  “I was a business major.” When she stared at him, blank-faced, he added, “You know, at college? That thing some people go to after high school but before getting jobs? I did pretty well, actually. My mom was not having the Me footballer, me no go to class junk, so I actually graduated with a three-point-eight.”

  “Wow.” She sounded impressed, which annoyed him just a little. Usually he got a kick out of proving people wrong about the dumb-jock stereotype. But he’d hoped she had expected more from him, thought more highly of him.

  Of course, he’d graduated, joined the NFL, and completely lost his shit and developed a drinking problem . . . so maybe expecting her to think highly of him was a stretch.

  “I’m impressed. A three-point-eight isn’t easy for just anyone, and you had to be hella busy as a student athlete.” She smiled, and some of the tension in his belly eased. “Now what do I do? Maybe I should revisit the idea of taking some business classes . . .”

  “You could. I don’t think it’s required, but you could. There are online courses you could take, or maybe just do some reading, follow some blogs. A one-day business seminar could work as a jumping-off point.”

  She brightened at that. And he vowed then and there that he’d do whatever he needed to in order to make sure this dream of hers came true. If he had to answer the damn phone for her and play administrative assistant, he’d do it.

  “Another Friends, or move on to something else?”

  “How about a movie?” She reached for the remote, and he dangled it just out of reach. She inched over, and he continued the dance, until she lunged for it and landed belly-down on his lap with the remote in hand. “Ha!”

  Ha, indeed. She was about five seconds from feeling, very intimately, an erection poking her in the stomach. He debated a moment, then rolled and pivoted until her back was pressed to his stomach, and a pillow covered his crotch between them.

  “This is different.” She glanced behind her, at the pillow. “What’s that doing?”

  “Lumbar support,” he managed to choke out. “Trainer is always going on about lumbar support. So, you know, there it is.”

  “Huh.” She wriggled, as if testing the accuracy of his bullshit—oh, God, please stop, Mags—and nodded. “Not bad. Thanks.” Then she started flipping through his instant queue—which had turned into their instant queue, as she’d started adding movies and shows on his account—and chose a movie to play.

  He was so busy mentally fighting his hard-on, it didn’t dawn on him until a third of the way through the movie it was a chick flick and he hadn’t put up even a token protest.

  So be it.

  ***

  Margaret’s eyelids felt like sandpaper against her eyeballs. Sandpaper weighted down with sandbags. And her neck felt like the time she’d been rear-ended and had whiplash. God, what was wrong with her?

  After breathing a moment with her eyes still closed, taking in her surroundings, she decided she was still on the couch, with Stephen and his lumbar-supporting pillow behind her. One heavy arm was draped over the back of the couch, which was what her head rested against. The other arm wrapped tightly around her waist. And his snoring sounded like a chain saw. The TV’s screen was dark, turned off.

  They’d fallen asleep watching the movie, she realized. A quick glance behind her confirmed he was just as out of it as she had been. His neck was contorted at an angle he’d be screaming about when he woke up, and his mouth gaped open in the most unattractive way.

  Which only made it funny, which made it relatable, which made him appealing all over again.

  Damn the man.

  She shouldn’t complain, though. He’d spent so much time with her, going over the brief sketches she’d made, listening to her ideas for marketing, providing ones of his own. And never once had he mocked her ideas as being naïve or too simple. Just made tweaks, suggestions, or asked questions that she knew were leading, but still gave her the option to get to the new idea in her own time.

  He possessed a sharp business mind. He was the kind of athlete that wouldn’t retire with nothing in the bank.

  She shifted, ever so slightly, and his arm tightened around her waist. He rolled a bit, trapping her against the back of the couch and his body. Other than being extremely warm, it wasn’t too bad.

  Comfortable, actually.

  Okay, fine, it was wonderful.

  She closed her eyes, told herself sternly she shouldn’t get used to it, and fell back asleep.

  ***

  The moment he felt her relax in his arms again, he breathed a sigh of relief. Holding her tight like this had been something he hadn’t realized he’d needed. But more than a massage, a hot tub, or ibuprofen, his body responded to her weight. His entire muscle system seemed to release the tension he’d been holding as she sank against him. With every little movement, every tiny shift in her sleep, his arms tensed, then relaxed, releasing endorphins and creating a happy bubble of contentment.

  When she rolled until they were nearly front to front, he felt his cock stir to life. Not a good time.

  Her hands landed against his shoulders, her head cradled in the center of his chest. Her breathing deepened, trusting him in her sleep to keep her safe. It was, he knew, the most perfect moment he had experienced since . . . he couldn’t remember when.

  She shifted again, her knee coming perilously close to squashing the family jewels. Since kids were in his “someday” plan, he did his best to shift her without disturbing her body too much.

  Which failed, as she blinked up at h
im sleepily just as he managed to get her knee back down and locked with his thigh.

  “Hmm?” With a yawn, she looked to the left, then right, then straight up at him. “How’d I get like this?”

  “Some shifting, some rolling.” He grinned down at her. “You’re not a very restful bedmate.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked embarrassed but didn’t move off of him. “I’m the kid who usually rolled off her bed in the middle of the night. After a while, my parents stopped bothering to investigate the strange thumps coming from my room. They assumed if it woke me up, I’d get back in bed. If it didn’t, well, don’t wake the sleeping child.”

  He tightened his arm around her, pulling her up just a little so she rested more comfortably against him. “Sounds reasonable.” When she shifted with him and kept her body pressed against his, he took that as a good sign. He lifted one hand and smoothed it over her hair. Her eyes closed, so he did it again. And when her head tilted back, he wasn’t sure if that was because of the gentle tug along her hair or because she was angling for something more.

  He went with something more.

  “Mags?” he said softly, not wanting to jolt her out of whatever trance she seemed to be slipping into.

  “Mmm,” she replied, but her lashes fluttered and her hand flexed against his chest, so he knew she wasn’t asleep.

  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  “’Kay,” she said on a sigh, and inched forward just a bit to meet him. That was all the assent he needed.

  Just a kiss, he promised himself. Keeping it clean. Nothing too heavy.

  Pressing his lips to hers, he angled the kiss immediately so that he could seal them together. His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, and she opened willingly with a little moan that had him giving up on fighting the erection he’d been battling all evening.

  She scrambled against his body, as if wanting to crawl closer but unable to gain traction. His big hands simply gripped under her ass and hauled her up until she could wrap her knees around his waist and really hold on. As her legs parted fully to hold him, her core settled against his stomach. And damn if it wasn’t hotter than the fourth of July.

  If she was wearing underwear beneath her yoga pants, he’d be shocked.

  That thought really didn’t help him keep it PG-13.

  Gone was the sleepy kitten curled up against him. She ground down against his abs while pressing more into the kiss. Her hands were everywhere: behind his head, through his hair, down his chest, over his arms . . . He could barely keep track of their movement.

  His phone rang on the coffee table, and he cursed. What the hell . . . Who the hell would dare interrupt him now?

  He did his best to break it off, but it was as if Mags hadn’t heard the phone at all. She seemed content to continue the exploration, kissing along his jaw, below his ear, down his neck while her hands . . . Whoa, boy. He gripped her wrist as she started to pull up his shirt. That would definitely not end well.

  “Mags,” he said, his voice strained. “We’ve got to stop.”

  She shook her head, then pulled back, a surprised look on her face. “Oh my God. What were we doing?”

  He started to answer, then realized his phone had stopped ringing. He’d check it later. “We were kissing.”

  “I know, but . . .” Looking down, as if just now realizing she’d straddled him, she hopped off so fast her foot caught on the rug and she landed on her butt. He was by her in an instant.

  “You okay? Did you hit the coffee table on the way down?”

  “I’m fine. Just my ego is bruised.” She shoved at her hair and glared at him. “What were we doing, Stephen?”

  “I thought we already covered this. Kissing.” Was she concussed?

  “I mean here, alone, where nobody can see us.” She gestured to the dark, empty room. “What was that, practice?”

  “Practice?” She thought . . . she didn’t understand . . . He bit back a growl. But when he started to correct her assumption, his phone rang again. Grabbing it, he glanced at the readout, prepared to silence it.

  But it was his little sister Caitlyn. And it was late in Maine. If she was calling this late . . . He didn’t hesitate.

  “Caitlyn?” he answered. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  Mags was immediately by his side, listening in. He adored that about her. She could drop her anger in an instant when family was involved.

  “Stephen,” his sister wailed. “He broke up with me!”

  “He . . . huh?” He blinked, then looked at Margaret. She was watching him with a blank expression, as if not wanting to give him any hints. “Who?”

  “Jeremy!” she shrieked, so loud he held the phone out, away from his ear.

  “You had a Jeremy?” he asked, and Margaret groaned softly and slapped a hand over her eyes. Clearly, he had made a huge tactical error.

  “How do you not remember? Jeremy is my life!” Caitlyn sobbed.

  Okay, first off, he was definitely not thrilled to hear about his little sister, who was barely out of middle school, considering any guy her whole life. But secondly, had he actually missed this part of her existence?

  “Maybe Mom would be the one to—”

  Margaret shook her head, eyes wide, just as Caitlyn gasped in outrage.

  “Mom? Stephen! Mom! Seriously?”

  “Then Jessica,” he said, mentally apologizing to his other sister for throwing her under the bus.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, in a quiet voice that broke him. “Plus, Jessica’s being a major bitch right now.”

  Sisters. An entire continent away, they still manage to do something to your insides.

  “Hold on,” he said, and held the phone down by his leg. “I have no clue what to do here. Help me.”

  “I think she wants you, not me.” Mags took a step back, palms out. “Just let her talk.”

  “Help. Me.” He was about to offer her anything—unlimited back massages, a week of catered dinners, a new car—to help him travel through this hormonal wading pool of female teenage angst, but she was backing away.

  “Stephen? Oh. My. God. Is Margaret there?”

  “Yes,” he said quickly, not at all sorry to throw her under the bus. “Do you want to talk to her?”

  Mags closed her eyes, as if he’d done something truly, painfully stupid.

  “Stephen oh my God you can’t talk to me while she’s listening she’s going to think I’m such an idiot stop it right now go away from her get somewhere private I mean it Stephen or I will hate you!”

  This was why some species let their young battle it out to the death from infancy.

  Mags picked up the remote and waved him away. Go, she mouthed, pointing toward the stairs. “Talk to her. Just let her do most of the talking, make sympathetic sounds, promise to beat him up—which we all know is just a figure of speech—and then tell her you love her and it will be okay.”

  With a heavy sigh, and one last regretful glance at Margaret’s butt as she bent over and swept crumbs off the coffee table, he trudged upstairs. “Okay, start from the beginning, baby.”

  Chapter Twelve

  He was an amazing brother, even if he had no clue how to handle an emotional female teenage crisis. But then again, who did, other than someone who had already gone through it? Thinking fast, Margaret grabbed a pad of paper from the kitchen and scribbled some talking points and tips and rushed up the stairs. She heard his deep voice making sounds—hopefully soothing to Caitlyn—through his bedroom door. She knocked softly, then waited for him to open. When he did, phone still attached to his ear, she held up the list. He took it, glanced once at it, then her, then bent down and pressed a quick but silent kiss to her mouth before closing the door again.

  The shock of the kiss kept her immobile for another few moments. That hadn’t been a heat-of-the-moment kiss, but one given naturally. His deep voice started using some of the phrases she’d suggested. From the sound of it, he was pacing, his voice coming from close to
the door and then farther away, toward the bathroom.

  She knew the outline of his master bedroom very well. She’d cleaned nearly every inch of it.

  For the first time, maybe in her adult life, she felt a pinch of unworthiness. A stupid, petty, unproductive emotion, she knew . . . but it existed. She had to acknowledge it before she could move on.

  “Caitlyn, he’s an idiot,” Stephen said, voice muffled by the door. “All guys are idiots. Yes, I know I’m a guy . . . it’s how I’m sure of this fact. Guys are idiots.”

  That made her grin. God, he was a good brother. Despite the huge age difference, and the distance, he loved those two girls so much. His mother, too. The entire family was incredibly lucky.

  Her hand crept up, fingers tracing the outline of the panels of the door for a moment before she caught it and jerked her hand back down.

  Needy much, Margaret?

  She needed some space, and this was the perfect time to take it. When he came back out—if he did—he would find her in her own room, sleeping. Not pining over him, or waiting up for his attention like a lapdog pawing at its owner’s pant leg.

  Nice image she painted of herself.

  As she closed the door to the guest room and glanced around, she felt a heaviness descend into her chest.

  “It’s just a job. It’s just a job. It’s just a job.”

  ***

  Oh, God, he wanted a beer so badly his hands shook from it.

  Listening to his sister cry with no real way of fixing her problems, and no way to help, had driven a spike straight through his resistance. He had zero doubt if there’d been any alcohol in the house, it would have been gone in under an hour. Self-medicating had become a way of life. He’d been lonely and homesick in college, and had drunk to make that end. He’d drunk to make himself fit in with the rest of his team. He’d drunk to forget about problems, or for the instant lift in spirits.

  His hand curled, as if wrapping around an ice-cold beer. He could almost feel the way the bottle, chilled, would feel against his flushed skin. The calming effects of that first sip . . .

  No. Damn it, no. He grabbed the list of talking points and headed down the hallway to see if Mags could keep him company awhile, just until the craving passed.