She faced him. “No. But I’m not hungry.”
“You had one piece of pizza last night. Not enough to sustain you.” He walked into the kitchen and pulled a griddle from a lower cabinet. “I’m making pancakes.”
Himself? She almost smiled. “Where’s your maid?”
“She went with the penthouse.”
“You lost your penthouse and maid? Was it a bet? A poker game?”
“I sold the penthouse and she chose to stay with the new owner. Which is only right because there’s not a whole hell of a lot of housecleaning to do around here. This condo’s tiny.”
She liked his apartment, but she wouldn’t trade a penthouse for it. “Why did you sell your penthouse?”
He spared her a glance. “I didn’t need that much space.” He paused and pulled in a breath before he added, “I also wanted to be alone.”
She didn’t have to be a mind reader to conclude that he’d sold his penthouse and gotten rid of his maid after his tragedy. This was as close as he’d ever come to telling her something personal. So she appreciated the gesture, sort of a peace offering, and said, “Well, this is nice. Modern. Kind of bacheloresque.”
“Bacheloresque?”
“I made it up. It’s a word meaning like something a bachelor would own.”
He laughed as he gathered milk and eggs from the stainless steel refrigerator.
“You’re making pancakes from scratch?”
“No. I’ve got a box mix, but it allows me to add fresh ingredients so they taste better.”
It made sense to her, and she totally agreed a short while later when she took her first bite. “These are great.”
He smiled, and they ate their pancakes amid sporadic conversation about the food, the condo and the cold. She wanted to ask him so many things, especially because he knew so much about her. But now that they were back to being congenial acquaintances with a mission, she knew better than to breach boundaries, poke or prod. She wanted a job. He wanted to help her find one. And her Christmas mission? He seemed to like her best when she wasn’t trying to make him happy. So maybe it was time to scrap that.
He cleaned up, rinsing the dirty dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. Then they took mugs of coffee into the room he called his den.
Obviously designed to be a second bedroom, the small space barely had room for the big table with the huge computer system with three oversize screens, two keyboards and three printers. “Wow.”
“I design games and think up extraspecial search engines,” he said as he hit the button that turned everything on. Lights blinked, screens flashed, small motors hummed. “Did you bring your résumé?”
She pulled the folded sheet out of her jeans pocket.
He frowned. “I hope you don’t send it out like that?”
The implication that she wasn’t smart enough to send a neat résumé sent anger rumbling through her again. But looking around and remembering some of his conversations with his peers, she finally realized he might be one of those guys who was so intelligent he didn’t think before he spoke.
Still, she wasn’t going to let him get away with dissing her. “I’m not a dingbat. I print a fresh one every time I answer a classified ad or get a lead.”
He sat at the desk, scanned her résumé and brought it up on a screen. He read for a few seconds, then said, “I think your first mistake is that you emphasize the secretarial aspects of your temp jobs.” He faced her. “You’d be better off to list the jobs without giving too much explanation of what you actually do. That way you’re accounting for the time, proving that you’re working and not a slacker, but taking the emphasis off those skills, so people realize you’re looking for a job that uses your degree.”
She nodded.
Without asking for input, he revised her résumé, making it incredibly short, but also focusing on the skills she’d acquired while earning her degree.
Then he wrote a generic email introducing her and sent the email off to four friends with a copy of her updated résumé attached.
“These guys all owe me a favor. Your résumé will go directly to them.”
Blissful hope ricocheted through her. “That’ll get me a job?”
“Trust me. Two of them owe me favors big enough that if they can find you a job in your field within their companies, you’ll get it. Hiring a friend of someone you owe is an easy way to pay off big favors.”
Her heart lifted. But in the room filled with technology, he looked alone. She studied his solemn eyes, wishing she could fulfill her private vow to make him happy. But ever since she’d decided to make his Christmas wonderful, they’d actually become tenser around each other. They’d even fought.
Of course, he’d also sent her flowers and made her pancakes. And now he was trying in earnest to get her a job. To fulfill his part of the bargain. Early in the morning, as if he’d been so upset with himself he hadn’t slept.
Something prickled inside her heart. A nudge or a hint that she shouldn’t give up. A nice guy was inside him somewhere, a guy who had obviously been hurt. A guy who deserved a happy Christmas.
Deciding it was smarter not to wreck their current peace, she rose from the chair beside his. “Thanks.”
He stood, too. “You’re welcome.”
Ridiculous silence enveloped them again. They weren’t really dating. Technically, they weren’t even friends. Hell, if she was going to get technical, they didn’t actually know each other. So a vacuum existed. A couple saying goodbye would kiss. Friends saying goodbye might hug. People who were nothing to each other had nothing to do but be awkward.
She picked up her mug, chugged the now-cold coffee and grimaced. “Ugh.”
He sniffed a laugh. “Cold coffee is disgusting.”
“I know, but I was looking for one last swallow of warmth before I went outside.”
He frowned. “I have more coffee. Or if you want, I can make you a cup of cocoa before you go.”
She’d turned to leave, but the offer surprised her so much that she stopped. She knew that deep down inside Ricky Langley was a nice guy. And maybe he’d offered her cocoa because he didn’t want her to go. Maybe, if she stayed, he’d open up to her.
She faced him with a cautious smile. “I like cocoa.”
“Good.”
He led her to his compact kitchen and pressed a button. The appliance garage door rose and a shiny stainless steel one-cup coffeemaker appeared. She sighed with appreciation. “It’s beautiful.”
He laughed. “And I happen to have some of the very best cocoa.” He glanced back. “From Switzerland.”
She peered over his shoulder. “Yum.”
The cocoa took seconds to brew. He handed her the mug, then made a cup for himself.
Drink in hand, he pointed toward the seating area in the living room. “No sense standing while we drink this.”
As she followed him, nerves settled in. They’d been going to parties for two weeks, barely speaking except in a crowd of his friends and only discussing general topics. Unless he decided to open up immediately, they had nothing to talk about. No small talk to ease him into confiding.
Sitting on the chair, she noticed that some of the casual sculptures on his end tables and mantel weren’t exactly as “casual” as he displayed them. And most were works from some of Olivia’s clients.
She