He and Lucy murmured goodbyes to their three new friends, then headed for the door. As they approached him, the doorman offered Lucy a conspiratorial wink, as if he agreed with the other residents’ opinion of her ex. Which was nice, but probably had to be making Lucy feel even worse about ever having dated the fart-weasel in 6C.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
She sucked in a surprised breath, and stopped halfway across the lobby. Looking up at him, she appeared shocked that he’d been able to figure out what she’d been thinking.
“He’s a con artist, Luce,” Ross said with a simple shrug. “He became what you wanted him to be.”
“Yes, he did,” she murmured. “But how did you know?”
“Guys do it all the time, especially with girls who won’t, uh… .” He didn’t want to be crass enough to say put out, though that was what he meant.
“Gotcha,” she said. “And thanks for not telling me I was a complete idiot for not seeing it sooner.”
“You did see it,” he told her, not liking that self-recrimination in her voice. “Which is probably why you wouldn’t, uh…”
This time, during the pregnant pause while they both mentally filled in the blank, Lucy actually laughed. “You really are a nice guy, aren’t you?”
“I have a few ex-girlfriends who would disagree, but my parents like to think so.”
“I think I’ll have to side with your folks on that one.”
“I’ll be sure to tell them that,” he said with a grin.
She grinned back, then, without another word, slipped her hand into his and turned again toward the exit.
As her soft fingers entwined with his, Ross’s heart jolted. He’d kissed her, touched her…but this was a little bit more. It wasn’t just a simple touch. That clasped hand was so easy and relaxed, like she already trusted him, as if they’d known each other for weeks rather than hours.
He honestly wasn’t sure what was going to happen when they walked out of this building. He’d done what he’d set out to do—escorted her to her ex’s place to retrieve her present. But now what? They’d made no other plans. It was the day before Christmas Eve, the streets were a madhouse, he had a million things to do. But as they walked into the bracing December day, alive with the thrum of city life, laughter, and energy, all he could think was that the very last thing he wanted was to say goodbye to her.
Now
Chicago, December 23, 2011
THOUGH HE KNEW Stella had the checks for the subcontractors ready, Ross was hoping it would take a while for her to find Lucy’s. While there were still people in the building, it would be far too easy for her to slip away. The longer it took, the better the chances were that she wouldn’t be able to avoid him on her way out.
Yet somehow, she nearly pulled it off. He didn’t even realize she was leaving until he spotted a thick head of dark hair—topped by a merry green, feathered elf cap—getting onto the elevator. “Damn it,” he muttered.
“What?”
Seeing the surprised expression on the face of one of his project managers, who’d stopped to chat after Mr. Whitaker departed, Ross mumbled, “I’m sorry, I just remembered something I forgot to take care of.”
Like getting Lucy’s address, phone number and her promise to get together very soon so they could talk. Exactly what they’d talk about, he didn’t know. Six years seemed like a long time for a how’ve-you-been type of conversation. So maybe they’d skip how’ve-you-beens in favor of what-happens-now?
Then he remembered that Stella had hired Lucy. She had to know how to get in touch with her. Plus, Lucy had mentioned she lived here, worked here—it shouldn’t be hard to find her online.
So, yes, he could be reasonable and mature and patient about this. Could wait until after the holidays, then call her sometime in January to say hello and see if she’d like to meet.
But something—maybe the look in her eyes when she’d said he would know what she’d been up to if he’d called during the past six years—wouldn’t let him wait. He couldn’t have said it in front of anyone at the party; wasn’t sure he’d have found the words even if they’d been left alone. Still, Lucy deserved an explanation from him. Even if she thought it a lame one and decided to keep hating him, he’d feel better if he offered it.
Then he’d get to work on making her not hate him anymore.
“Thanks for the party, Mr. Marshall,” his employee said. “The kids really loved it.”
“I’m glad. Hey, you and your family have a great holiday,” Ross replied, already stepping toward the enclosed stairs that were intended for emergencies.
This was one. The elevator could have made a few stops on the way to the lobby—there were still employees on other floors, closing down for the holiday break. If he hustled, he might beat her to the bottom.
He might not be slinging a hammer and doing hard physical labor ten hours a day anymore, but Ross did keep himself busy in his off hours. So the dash down six flights of stairs didn’t really wind him. By the time he burst through the doors into the tiled lobby of the building—surprising Chip, the elderly security guard—the elevator door was just sliding open, and several people exited, some carrying boxes, bags of gifts, plates of food, files to work on at home.
One carried nothing, but wore a silly hat.
Lucy saw him and her mouth dropped. “How did you…?”
“Staircase,” he told her. “Were you really going to leave without saying goodbye?”
“Did you really stalk me down six flights of stairs?”
He rolled his eyes. “Stalking? That’s a little dramatic.”
“You’re breathing hard and sweating,” she accused him, stepping close and frowning. “Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t run every step of the way.”
He couldn’t contain a small grin. “Busted.”
“The question is, why?”
“Here’s a better one. Why’d you leave without saying goodbye?”
“We said our goodbyes a long time ago,” she retorted.
He whistled.
“What?”
“You’re still really mad at me.”
Those slim shoulders straightened and her chin went up. “That’s ridiculous.”
Lucy was obviously trying for a withering look, but with that silly hat and the droopy feather hanging by her cheek, she only managed freaking adorable. He couldn’t resist lifting a hand and nudging the feather back into place, his fingertips brushing against the soft skin of her cheek.
She flinched as if touched with a hot iron. “Don’t.”
“Jesus, Lucy, do you hate me?” he whispered, realizing for the first time that this might not be mere bravado. Was it possible that over the past six years, while he’d been feeling miserable even as he congratulated himself on doing the right—the mature—thing, she’d been hating his guts?
“Of course I don’t hate you,” she said, sounding huffy. As if she was telling the truth, but wasn’t exactly happy about that fact.
So