My stomach did one of those dropping-off-a-cliff numbers.
Slater.
I took a deep breath, felt beads of sweat form on my forehead, and silently agreed that Cullen Slater was an idea worth pondering. Not to mention a goal worth reaching.
Cullen Slater. The consummate bad boy.
Slater. And me. Me and Slater.
In bed.
In me.
Oh my.
MIKE PETERSON COULDN’T concentrate on his book, even though he usually glommed on to anything and everything by Stephen King. Today, even a reread of the horrors that plagued poor Derry, Maine, couldn’t compare to what he’d just heard as he’d been walking past the laundry room toward the pool.
Mattie Brown was looking to ratchet up her sex life.
He gripped the book a little bit tighter as an image of Mattie slipped into his mind. Her quick smile. The friendly waves as they passed on the stairs. The way she tossed her hair when she scanned her mail.
Get a grip, man.
The truth was, he’d fallen hard for her the first day he’d met her. Fifteen days ago, actually, when she’d blown off grocery shopping to help him schlep boxes from the U-Haul up to his brand-new apartment. She’d been wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that boldly exclaimed that A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle. When he’d commented on it, she’d blushed and explained that she’d bought the T-shirt a few months before, after a breakup with her longtime boyfriend.
He could still remember the little surge of relief—both that she was unattached and that the shirt didn’t necessarily reflect her overall opinion of the male of the species.
Ever since that first encounter, he’d been intending to ask her out. Coffee at one of the little shops down on Ventura Boulevard. Maybe a movie. Even pizza by the pool. But damned if work hadn’t kept him booked solid for the past two weeks. Not that he could complain. Getting the Menagerie gig had been a huge coup, and he was more than willing to work his tail off for as long as MonkeyShines, Inc. was willing to pay him.
He’d worked in the computer gaming industry for years, but this was the first time he’d headed up a project since he’d gone freelance eighteen months ago. The fact that he’d scored the job at the same time he’d moved from Austin to Los Angeles had made life a little more hectic, but it had also satisfied that niggling fear that he wouldn’t be able to pay the bills.
Bottom line: the job came first. Women—even women as tempting as Mattie, whose scent alone had driven him nuts—were off-limits until the project was well under control.
He smiled a little to himself, wondering if Grandma Jo had been right—he really did have a guardian angel. Because how else could he explain the fortuitous convergence of events? Him finishing up Phase One of the Menagerie project right as Mattie was looking to add a little more spice to her life? And—more importantly—him being in the right place at the right time to hear about Mattie’s New Year’s resolution.
He took another swig of beer, casually wishing that he could have heard the rest of their conversation. He’d heard the first part only by happenstance, since he’d come the back way to the pool, circling around the laundry room because he’d gone to the parking garage first to get the Stephen King novel from his car. Their voices hadn’t been high so much as urgent. At least, Mattie’s had.
As soon as he’d recognized her voice, he’d slowed his pace, hoping to find an opening where he could pop into the laundry room. Maybe say hi. Casually suggest a coffee sometime.
But as soon as he’d realized the topic of their discussion, he’d known that any interruption would not only embarrass the heck out of Mattie, it would also kill any chance he’d ever have of taking her out on a proper date.
What he should have done was leave. Right then. That instant. But his guardian angel had sprouted horns and a tail, and he’d hung around, then overheard the delicious, decadent New Year’s resolution that Mattie had proposed.
Mike had been tempted to loiter and learn exactly what Mattie had in mind, but the devil on his shoulder had turned angelic again, and urged him to get out of there. Perfect timing, too, because not thirty seconds later, he heard Carla’s high-pitched voice followed by Mattie’s squeal and the appearance of her head around the door frame, as she scoped out the area, clearly looking for eavesdroppers.
He’d kept his eyes down, aimed at his book, and hoped that Mattie couldn’t tell that he’d not only heard her state her goal, but that he was looking forward to helping her reach it.
Which, of course, raised the question of exactly how he was going to convince Mattie that he could provide invaluable assistance with her quest.
That, however, was the kind of academic problem he thrived on. He might have to flowchart it, script it, program it and then debug it…but somehow, someway, he was going to come up with the perfect plan. After all, he didn’t have degrees from Stanford and MIT for nothing.
It was time to put his education to work. And he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d rather score an A+ in than the seduction of Mattie Brown.
2
HERE IS MY PROBLEM with the do-it-yourself culture we now live in: We’re expected to do all this stuff that professionals used to do, but no one has bothered to either a) train us, or b) give us the right freaking equipment.
Self-serve gas stations, for example. Okay, yes, sure. It’s nice not to have to wait for—or chat with—Tommy Tune Up, but Tommy’s absence from my life has caused me to burn oil on more than one occasion. I can fill up my car just fine, but those oil dipsticks are designed to be entirely unreadable by anyone lacking a Ph.D. in auto mechanics. It’s true! It’s like a nationwide conspiracy.
And furniture…Don’t even get me started on furniture.
I have vivid memories of wonderful wooden pieces being delivered to my parents’ house when I was a kid, hauled in on rolling dollies—fully assembled, mind you—by strapping young men working their way through college.
So why had those buff Adonises not delivered my furniture? I’ll tell you why: Because some genius somewhere decided that they could draw a picture, include an Allen wrench and make me do it myself.
Honestly, it’s enough to make a girl never want to have kids. Assemble toys on Christmas Eve? No thank you very much!
My future progeny notwithstanding, at the moment I had two shelves and a filing cabinet to assemble, and no Adonis to help with the project. Oh well. I’m a self-sufficient female, right? Absent any other options, I figured I could handle it myself.
I figured wrong.
An hour later, I’d manage to assemble only the bare frame of the first bookshelf, and that after having to remove and reinsert the first set of screws and little connector thingamabobs. Had the instructions been in English, perhaps I would have had better luck. Instead, the manufacturer had included only poorly drawn pictures of the various steps. And I’m ashamed to say I don’t know how to translate hieroglyphics.
Frustrated, I tossed the Allen wrench, then made a rude sound when it skittered over the battered wood floor to rest under the couch. That, I figured, was a signal that it was time for a break. Or to call in reinforcements. Or both.
Buoyed by the thought of something cool and refreshing, I headed to the kitchen. I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge, popped the top, then took a sip before I called Carla. True, she’d just left an hour ago, but she only lived a stone’s throw away. She’d gone home to put away her laundry and catch