Seducing Her Brother's Best Friend Page 5

  But still…

  He’d obviously not intended to blurt out all that amazing stuff about her, details that showed he really saw her, really paid attention, really saw her for who she was.

  And then he’d touched her face. A shiver ran down her spine at the memory.

  His eyes had been strangely alive, strangely hungry, like it would have only taken the slightest nudge to push him into kissing her.

  For a moment she’d thought he would.

  He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. But she still felt more hope than she ever had before.

  And the day wasn’t over yet.

  Maybe he’d stay and eat dinner.

  Maybe something would happen before he left.

  Maybe everything was about to change.

  She had to rein in her excitement so she wouldn’t hug herself like an idiot and give away how she was feeling. Patrick was quiet on the drive back, but he was often quiet.

  She didn’t mind quiet.

  She liked that he was deep. She liked that he always seemed to be thinking things through, working things out, wrapping his mind around issues and questions and problems and situations.

  She wanted to be one of the things he wrapped his mind around.

  And she wouldn’t say no if he wrapped other parts of his body around her too.

  She’d like that a lot.

  When he turned in to her parking lot, she smiled at him and said, “Thanks for going shopping with me. I know it wasn’t at the top of your wish list of things to do.”

  He gave her a quick look. “It was fine. I didn’t mind.”

  “Really? Because it sounded like you got kind of annoyed with the whole enterprise.”

  His mouth turned up slightly as he pulled into a guest parking space. “Uh, yeah. Sorry if I was kind of crabby.”

  “Kind of?” She was still feeling jittery excitement, and she suspected her eyes might be dancing—just a little.

  His expression softened. “A lot,” he amended. “A lot crabby. Sorry about that.”

  She gave a little shrug. “I appreciated the effort even if it was begrudging.” Suddenly afraid he was waiting for her to get out so he could drive away, she asked, “Did you want to come up and get your apple pie?”

  “Hell, yeah. I didn’t know if you were serious about the pie.”

  “I was. I made one for you this morning.” She giggled as they got out, and she had to remind herself yet again not to get ahead of herself.

  He’d always liked her pies—and cakes and pastries and everything else she made. He would have come up to get one, if she was offering, even if he had absolutely no interest in her in any other way.

  She opened her apartment, pleased that she’d had the foresight to clean it up that morning. Her place was in a new apartment complex on the edge of town—a nice one-bedroom with tall ceilings, a large bathroom, and a big main room, open to the kitchen.

  She put down her purse and shopping bag and headed to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to pull out the pie.

  No.

  That wasn’t a good idea.

  If she handed him the pie right now, then he would leave.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, still staring into her refrigerator. “I can make something real quick.”

  “Oh. Uh, yeah. It’s no big deal.”

  Well, that didn’t sound super-enthusiastic, but at least it wasn’t an immediate rejection. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll fix something easy.” She peered at the full shelves until her eyes landed on a package she’d picked up from the deli the day before. “Oh, I’ve got some pancetta. I can make carbonara.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a pasta dish. It takes less than ten minutes. There’s nothing weird in it. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Sounds good to me.”

  The buzzing in her head was getting more intense. It felt like her excitement was coming out of her ears, pushing against her eyes.

  Patrick was here, in her apartment, sliding his saddlebag onto the floor and sitting on a stool at her kitchen counter as she pulled items out of the pantry and refrigerator and then set a pot of water to boil on the stove.

  “How’s everything at work this week?” she asked, trying her best to sound casual and friendly and not like she was shaking with nerves and exhilaration. “Are you all still overloaded?”

  “Yeah. It just gets worse and worse.” When Carol set a bottle of red wine and two glasses in front of Patrick with a corkscrew, he picked it up automatically and started to open the bottle.

  “Emma said you’re going to hire?”

  “We are. We need at least four more people.”

  “That’s great then. Do you think you’ll have any trouble finding good people?”

  “It’s easy enough to find good people but not always in this area. With Tech here, we’re better off than we would be, but it’s not like we’re in a big city or anywhere close to one.”

  “Still. It’s a nice place to live. Maybe people would want to move here if they got a job.”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m counting on.” He got up to bring her the glass of wine he’d poured for her. “Can I do something?”

  She’d finished chopping up the pancetta into small pieces. “If that water is bowling, you can put the pasta in.” She pulled out a handful of dried spaghetti and handed it to him. “Add some salt too.”

  “How much?” He was frowning as he put the pasta into the water and seemed troubled by the fact that part of it was sticking out.

  She chuckled and used a wooden spoon to poke at the pasta until it was all submerged, and then she added a pinch of salt to the pot.

  He stared from her to the pot. “How do you know how to do that?”

  She tried not to giggle. She really did. “Surely you know how to make pasta, Patrick. You just put it in boiling water.”

  “Well, yeah. I could if I needed to.”

  She stared at him again. “You do… cook for yourself sometimes, don’t you?”

  He met her gaze with an almost challenging look. “I make sandwiches. And I heat up soup.”

  She had to bite her lip not to laugh. “Do you grill?”

  “Nah. That’s Ryan’s thing.”

  “It could be your thing too, you know.”

  The corner of his mouth was twitching just a little. “I usually get something out.”

  She laughed out loud as she added the pancetta to a hot pan. “Cooking isn’t that hard. I’m sure you could do it if you tried.”

  “I don’t know. It all seems kind of mysterious to me.” He stepped over to watch her work. “See, how do you know to do that?”

  “I just put it in a pan.”

  “But you didn’t even need a recipe.”

  “I’ve made this pasta a hundred times. I don’t need a recipe. It’s not rocket science.”

  He seemed so genuinely interested and impressed that she experienced a wave of fondness. She reached out to touch his chest without even thinking. “You’re so smart you could probably do rocket science if you wanted. I’m sure you could master cooking if you tried. You’re the smartest person I know.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, and he was breathing more heavily. She could see it in his chest, feel it as his shoulders rose and fell.

  It felt significant. So significant that she was suddenly aware that her hand was still pressed against his shirt. She let it drop, turning to focus again on her pan before she let the pancetta burn.

  She licked her lips and wondered suddenly if he was going to say something, do something.

  She felt close to him, closer than she’d felt to almost anyone.

  “Being smart isn’t everything,” he said at last, the words muttered as if he were feeling uncomfortable.

  “No,” she agreed. “But it’s something.” She gave him a little smile and took a very big risk. “I like that you’re smart.”

  He leaned against the counter, his eyes resting on
her face with a strange intensity. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She was too nervous to even look at him. She added a few ingredients to the pan, which fortunately she knew by heart. “That one time when I was a senior and you were in college, you helped me study for that horrible chemistry exam for most of the night. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  His voice sounded a little thicker than normal, and she had to turn to check his expression. He was still gazing at her, still looking deep and thoughtful and full of something she couldn’t quite identify.

  But it excited her. A lot.

  “You always grumbled about it, to show that you didn’t really want to do it, but you still helped me whenever I needed it. Most guys wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not?”

  She blinked at him, stirring the pan absently. “What do mean, why not? Most guys that age weren’t too sensitive or generous, and they were all focused on the pretty, popular girls. Most guys wouldn’t have helped me. But you did.”

  He cleared his throat. “Oh, yeah. I guess. Well, the pretty, popular girls didn’t even look twice at me.”

  Carol knew that was true, and she’d always thought it was ludicrous. He was better-looking now than he’d been in high school, but even back then he’d been so cute and smart and sweet beneath his gruffness. Girls had to be blind not to have seen it.

  “I always thought you were one of the pretty girls,” Patrick added, staring down at the pan.

  Carol sucked in a breath and checked his face, but he didn’t raise his eyes. “Oh. I definitely wasn’t.” When he looked like he was going to object, she continued, “Not that I was ugly or anything. I just wasn’t one of the popular girls. Ginny was always really popular. Guys would always fall all over themselves to ask her out. I was never like her.”

  He shook his head and opened his mouth like he would say something, but no words came out.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Carol opened her carton of eggs and started cracking.

  The sauce came together quickly, and it was ready as soon as the pasta was done. She added the drained pasta to the pan, mixed it up, and then dished it out onto two plates, adding some parmesan to the top of both.

  She handed one plate to Patrick. “Done.”

  “Wow,” he said, looking genuinely amazed. “How the hell did you do that?”

  “It’s an easy dish.”

  “I couldn’t have done it.” They sat at her counter to eat, and Patrick kept making moaning noises as he ate, so she assumed that meant he liked the food.

  He’d always liked her food.

  Just because they were eating together right now—in the evening, in her apartment—didn’t mean he was thinking this was anything different, anything important.

  He’d said he thought she was one of the pretty girls.

  And he’d really seemed to mean it.

  As they ate, Carol managed to land on a good topic of conversation—their friends’ upcoming weddings—and they laughed together over Carol’s story of the search for bridesmaids’ dresses and Patrick’s recital of all the places Noah was considering for a honeymoon.

  Carol had a really good time. And Patrick seemed to too. He’d relaxed a lot and didn’t appear to be holding back the way he so often seemed to be doing.

  They sat for a while after they were finished, just talking, and Carol was so happy she felt like she might melt from it. She was sure her cheeks were red, and it felt like her hair might have gotten frizzy, but she didn’t even really care.

  Patrick seemed to like what he saw when he looked at her. At least his eyes were resting on her face an awful lot.

  After a while though, he seemed to stiffen—for no particular reason, just out of the blue—and then he looked down at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

  It wasn’t that late, but she knew a hint when she heard one. “Okay,” she said with a smile. “Thanks for staying for dinner.”

  “Thanks for making it. It was really good.” He got off his stool and carried his plate to the sink, and she followed him with hers.

  She hadn’t intended to stand so close behind him, but she was evidently closer than he realized. When he turned around, he gave a little jerk to discover they were face-to-face, only a few inches apart.

  Her lips parted as her body was swept with a sudden wave of absolute longing. There was no other word for it. She wanted him. Patrick. With his dark, deep eyes and his five-o’clock shadow and his hair that kinked up just over his left temple and his lovely masculine shoulders and the warmth that always radiated from his body.

  She wanted him.

  So much.

  “Patrick,” she heard herself whisper, swaying toward him unconsciously.

  He lifted a hand to brush his fingers down her cheek the way he had in the store, the light touches sending tingles of pleasure all through her.

  “Patrick,” she breathed again.

  He tilted his head down, and she knew—she knew—he was going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tension of his body.

  One of her hands lifted of its own accord and clenched in the fabric of his shirt.

  Then he made a strangled sound in his throat, and he jerked away from her, turning on his heel.

  She gasped in surprise and disappointment. She’d almost—almost—kissed him, and then he’d yanked it away from her. “Patrick? What’s the matter?”

  He didn’t turn back. He was standing completely frozen as if he were incapable of moving.

  He was so tense that it worried her, despite her disappointment. She put her hand on his shoulder and tried to turn him around. “What’s wrong, Patri—”

  “Don’t,” he burst out, taking two steps away from her, like her touch had scalded him.

  Her earlier exhilaration had suddenly transformed to a heavy knot in her stomach, and it was sinking lower by the moment, making her sick. “Patrick, what on earth is wrong?” She tried to touch him again, only to have him jerk away.

  “Damn it,” he bit out. “I’m not a dress rehearsal for your date tomorrow night, you know.”

  She stared at him, bewildered and stunned until her mind finally processed what he’d said.

  Dress rehearsal.

  For her date tomorrow night.

  He thought she was using him.

  He thought she was just practicing on him.

  He thought she was some sort of bitch who would flirt with him on purpose when she had absolutely no interest in him.

  The realization hurt so much she could barely breathe around the lump in her throat.

  He’d turned to look at her now, and he must have seen some of her reaction on her face. His features twisted. “Damn it,” he said in a harsh exhale. “I didn’t mean that.”

  But he had meant it. She knew he had.

  It never occurred to him for even a moment that she might want him for him.

  It never occurred to him for even a moment that they could be a possibility for each other.

  His only explanation had been that she was a horrible person who would use him.

  “I’m sorry, Carol,” he said, looking more like himself now. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean that. I was—”

  He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, but it didn’t matter.

  None of it mattered.

  All of Carol’s hopes had been dashed to smithereens at her feet.

  “Carol, say something,” Patrick said, sounding concerned. His face was slightly blurry in front of her eyes. “I said I’m sorry. What do you want me to—”

  “Just leave,” she managed to bite out.

  He grew still. “What?”

  “I want you to leave,” she said, sounding more in control now, cool in a way she almost never was.

  Almost cold.

  “I don’t want to leave. You’re upset, and I said something I shouldn’t have. If you can just—”

  His concern and obvious distress were just making it worse—
because he was a good person who would never have hurt her like this intentionally.

  Just further proof that a romantic relationship between them was something that he never once entertained as a real possibility.

  She felt like she was about to shatter, and she couldn’t do it in front of Patrick.

  She might be humiliated, but there was a limit to how far she would fall in front of him. “Patrick, get out of here right now.”

  His face twisted again. “Carol, please.”

  “No.” She suddenly found herself capable of moving, and she walked around the counter and leaned over to pick up his bag. She handed it to him. “Get out of my apartment. Right now.”

  He was still hesitating, and he looked like he was going to argue some more.

  “Right. Now.”

  “I’ll leave for now,” he said reluctantly, hoarsely. “But I’m going to call you tomorrow.”

  She didn’t want him to call, but she’d deal with that tomorrow. She stood frozen in place until he finally turned away.

  Then she remembered something. “Your pie.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “I made it for you.” Her voice sounded strange, brittle, but she managed to go to the refrigerator and pull out the pie she’d baked him. It was all wrapped up and ready to go.

  She walked over to hand it to him. He held it with both hands. “Thank you. I’m so sorry, Carol. I didn’t mean to hurt—”

  “Just leave.”

  He swallowed over whatever he wanted to say and finally got to the door. He looked back at her one more time, with something almost aching on his face, but she didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

  When he finally stepped outside and closed the door behind him, she hurried over to lock it.

  Then she leaned against the door and started to shake.

  It was hopeless.

  It had been hopeless from the beginning.

  He was never going to love her, never even going to want her.

  He was her brother’s best friend, and that was all he’d ever be.

  She’d been a fool to hope for anything else.

  Four

  The next morning, Patrick got to Tea for Two at around eight thirty—earlier than he normally did on Sunday mornings.