The Perfect Neighbor (19 page)

Now it was.

She pressed a hand to her heart, felt it thud in hard, excited beats. Heard herself giggle. Now it was very real, and she couldn’t wait to tell everyone.

Maybe she’d have a party to celebrate. A loud, silly, joyful bash of a party.

Champagne and balloons. Pizza and caviar.

As if preparing for it, she danced up the steps. She had to call her parents, her family, to grab Jody so they could squeal at each other.

But first, she had to tell Preston.

She used the knuckles of both fists, rapping a cheerful tattoo on his door. He’d be working, she thought, but this couldn’t wait. He’d understand.

They had to celebrate. Glug champagne in the middle of the afternoon, get a little drunk and stupid and make crazy love.

When he opened the door she was shining like a sunbeam.

“Hi! I just got back. You won’t believe it.”

He was rumpled, unshaven, and resented the fact that one look at her could yank his mind right out of his play. Just one look. “I’m working, Cybil.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I’m going to burst if I don’t tell somebody.” She lifted her hands to his face, rubbed them over the stubble. “You look like you could use a quick break anyway.”

“I’m in the middle of things,” he began, but she was already breezing in.

“I bet you haven’t eaten lunch. I just had the most incredible lunch at this new hot spot uptown. Why don’t I fix you a sandwich and we’ll—”

“I don’t want a sandwich.” He heard the edgy snap to his voice, didn’t bother to soften it as he stalked to the stove to pour coffee that had been ripening for hours. “And I don’t have time for one. I want to work.”

“You have to eat.” She had her head inside his fridge, then brought it out again when she heard him go upstairs. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She blew out a breath, rolled her eyes and started up after him.

“Okay, forget the sandwich. I just have to tell you how I spent my day. God, McQuinn, it’s dark as a tomb in here.” Instinctively, she marched to the window, started to throw open the drapes.

“Leave them alone. Damn it, Cybil.”

Her hand froze, then dropped away, as slowly, as completely, as her mood. He was already at the
keyboard, she noted, already closed off from her, just as he closed himself off from the life that surged and pulsed outside his curtained window.

He worked with lamplight and stale coffee. And with his back to her.

Nothing that was inside her, that had been bubbling like a geyser, mattered to him.

“It’s so easy for you to ignore me,” she murmured. “To dismiss me.”

There was no mistaking the hurt in her voice. He braced himself against it, refused to feel guilty. “It’s not easy, but right now it’s necessary.”

“Yes, you’re working, and I’ve got some nerve, don’t I, interrupting genius, interfering with such a grand enterprise. One I couldn’t possibly understand.”

Irritated, he flicked a glance at her. “You can work with people hovering. I can’t.”

“Then again,” she continued, “it’s easy for you to ignore and dismiss me at other times, too, when work has nothing to do with it.”

He pushed away from the keyboard, shifted toward her. “I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

“And, of course, it always comes down to your moods. If you’re in the mood to be with me or be alone. To talk to me or be quiet. To touch me or turn away.”

There was a hint of finality in her tone that had panic skating up his spine. “If that didn’t suit you, you should have said so.”

“You’re right. Absolutely. Exactly right. And just now it doesn’t suit me, Preston, to be treated like a mild annoyance easily swatted aside, then picked up again when you have a moment. It doesn’t suit me to have what matters to me shrugged off as unimportant.”

“You want me to stop work and listen to how you spent the day shopping and having lunch?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, but not before one small sound of hurt had escaped.

“I’m sorry.” Furious with himself, he got to his feet. She looked as if he’d slapped her. “I’m streaming toward the end of this, and I’m distracted, nasty.” He dragged his hands through his hair because she hadn’t moved, hadn’t stopped staring at him with those wide, wounded eyes. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“No, I have to go.” Because she could feel ridiculous tears stirring in her throat, burning there. “I have some calls to make, and I have a headache,” she said, lifting a hand to rub at her throbbing temple. “It makes me irritable. I think I need some aspirin and a nap.”

She started out, stopping when he laid a hand on her arm. He felt her tremble and absorbed a hard wash of shame. “Cybil—”

“I don’t feel well, Preston. I’m going home to lie down.”

She broke free, rushed out. He winced as he heard the slam of the door. “You stupid son of a bitch,” he muttered, rubbing his fingers against his eyes. “Why didn’t you just kick her a couple of times while you were at it?”

Disgusted with himself, he paced the room, shoving his hands in his pockets, then pulling them out again to yank at the drapes.

The sun was brilliant, streaming through the glass, making him narrow his eyes in defense. Maybe he did close himself off from what was on the other side, he thought. He worked better that way. And he didn’t have to justify or explain his work habits to anyone.

He didn’t have to hurt her that way.

But damn it, she’d burst in on him at the worst possible time. He was entitled to his privacy, to his space when the work and the words were racing through him.

He didn’t dismiss her. He didn’t ignore her. How the hell did you ignore someone who wouldn’t get out of your mind no matter what else was sharing the space with her?

But he’d been trying to, hadn’t he? Very deliberately trying to do both, ever since the little session with Daniel MacGregor in his tower office in Hyannis Port.

Because the clever, canny, meddling old man was right.

He was already in love with her.

If he ignored it, dismissed it, kept pushing it just a little further out of reach, it might go away before it got a good, firm grip on him.

He wasn’t risking love again, not when he knew exactly what it could do to twist heart and soul, to wring every drop of blood out of them. He wasn’t going to allow himself to become that vulnerable to her.

He’d get over it, he told himself, and pulled the curtains shut again. He’d put things back on balance and they’d both be happier.

And as far as his insufferable behavior of the last few days, he’d make it up to her. She hadn’t done anything to deserve it, except exist. She’d done nothing but give, he thought. He’d done nothing but take.

Knowing work was out of the question, he went downstairs. He considered going across the hall, knocking, leading in with the apology he owed her. But she was entitled to her privacy, as well, he decided. He’d give it to her and take a walk.

He didn’t think about buying her flowers until he saw them, bright and sunny in an outdoor cart. Not roses, he mused. Too formal. Not the daisies—they were cheerful but ordinary. He settled on tulips in butter yellow and creamy white.

The minute they were in his hand, he felt lighter.

He kept walking, realizing he’d gone on too long without taking the time to really let his mind clear. As it did, he thought more about what she’d said in that brief, dark scene in his room.

Just how often had she nudged aside her own moods, her own needs, to accommodate his? The MacGregor had hit that one, as well. It was her nature to think about the needs of those she cared about before her own.

He’d never known anyone as selfless, generous or unfailingly happy in her own skin. He’d stopped being all those things, except when he was with her. When he let himself really
be
with her.

She’d been so excited when she’d burst into his apartment. He’d become so used to seeing her that way he hadn’t considered it might have been something special that had put that shine in her eyes.

He’d taken care of that quickly enough, he thought viciously.

And he’d taken her for granted, he realized, almost from the first moment.

He could change that. And would. He’d give her back as much as he took, put them on equal ground. So when the time came to step back from each other—and it would—they might have a chance to do so as friends.

He simply couldn’t imagine his life without her as part of it any longer.

He stayed out the rest of the afternoon, into early evening. When he went to her door with flowers he didn’t feel foolish. He felt settled. And when she opened it, he felt right.

“Did you get some rest?”

“Yes.” She’d dived into sleep the way a rabbit dives into a thicket. To hide. “Thanks.”

“Feel like company?” He brought the tulips up into her line of sight. And when she stared at them, he recognized simple shock. “And tulips?”

“Ah … sure. They’re wonderful. I’ll get a vase.”

Just how much had he left out, he wondered, if his bringing her a handful of flowers stunned her? “I’m sorry about this afternoon.”

“Oh.” So the flowers were an apology, she thought, as she took a blue glass vase from a cupboard. She shook off me vague disappointment that they hadn’t been for no reason at all and turned to smile. “It doesn’t matter. It’s what you get when you disturb a bear in his den.”

“It matters.” He laid a hand on hers over the tulips. “And I’m sorry.”

“All right.”

“That’s it? A lot of women would make a man grovel a little.”

“I don’t care for groveling much. Aren’t you lucky?”

He lifted her hand, turning it over to press his lips to the palm. “Yes. I am.” And for the second time he saw blank shock on her face.

He’d never given her tenderness, he realized, amazed at his own stupidity. Never given her the simple glow of romance. “I thought, if you’re feeling better, you might like to go out to dinner.”

She blinked. “Out?”

“If you like. Or if you’re not feeling up to it,” he continued, coming around the counter, “we can have a quiet dinner in. Whatever you want,” he murmured, cupping her face to brush his lips over her forehead.

“Who are you? And what are you doing in Preston’s body?”

He chuckled, then kissed her cheeks, one, the other. “Tell me what you want, Cybil.”

To be touched like this. Looked at like this. “I … I can just fix something here.”

“If you want to stay in, I’ll take care of dinner.”

“You?
You?
All right, that’s it. I’m calling the cops.”

He drew her into his arms, held her. “I’m not threatening to cook. We’d never survive the night that way.” He nuzzled her hair, stroked it. “I’ll order in.”

“Oh, well, all right.” He was holding her, she thought dizzily. Just holding her, as if that was enough, as if that was everything.

“You’re tight.” He murmured it, sliding his hands up to rub at the tension in her shoulders. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be knotted up. The headache still bothering you?”

“No, not much.”

“Why don’t you go up. Soak in the tub until you’re relaxed. Then you can put on one of those robes you’re so fond of and we’ll have a quiet dinner.”

“I’m fine. I can …” She trailed off as his mouth skimmed hers, retreated, then returned, softly, gently, sweetly enough to dissolve her knees.

“Go on up.” He drew her away, smiling as she stared up at him with slumberous, confused eyes. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“All right. I guess I’m a little unsteady yet.” Which might explain why she wasn’t entirely sure how to get upstairs in her own apartment. “The, ah, number for the pizza place is on the phone.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He gave her a nudge toward the steps. “Go relax.”

“Okay.” She started to the steps, up, then stopped and turned back to study him. “Preston?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you …” With a half laugh she shook her head. “Nothing. Never mind. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” he told her. It was going to require a bit of his to make certain everything was ready for her when she came back down.

If the hint of romance nearly shocked her speechless, he thought she’d have a hard time forming a single word by the time the evening he was planning was over.

He picked up the phone, punched the button on memory next to Jody’s name. “Jody? Preston McQuinn. Yeah. Listen, does Cybil have a favorite restaurant around here? No, not the diner,” he said with a laugh. “We’re moving upscale. Let’s try French and fancy.”

He had to grin at Jody’s long, three-toned “Oh,” then scribbled down the name she gave him. “I don’t suppose you’d have the number handy. You do, huh? You’re a genius. Now, let’s see if you can hit three for three. Which dessert on their menu sends her into a coma? Got it, thanks. Special?” He glanced upstairs, grinned. “No, nothing special. Just a quiet dinner in. Thanks for the tip.”

He laughed again as Jody continued to shoot out questions. “Hey, we both know she’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

He hung up, dialed the restaurant and outlined his needs. Then, metaphorically pushing up his sleeves, got down to work.

She did as he’d suggested and took her time. She needed it to adjust to this strange new mood of his. Or was it a side of him, she wondered, he just hadn’t shown her before?

How could she have known he had such sweetness in him? And how could she have predicted that his showing her, giving her that sweetness, would make it so much more difficult for her to stay in control of her own feelings?

She loved him when he was careless and cross, when he was amused and amusing, when he was hot and hungry. How much more could she love him when he was kind and caring?

He was making an effort, she thought, to apologize to her for hurting her. And he didn’t even know, not really, just what he’d done. But it mattered enough—she mattered enough—for him to want to make it right again.

How could she say no?

A quiet, casual evening at home would be good for both of them. He didn’t like crowds, and at the moment, she didn’t have the energy for them herself. So they’d eat pizza in front of the TV, be easy with each other again. They’d laugh, talk about something unimportant and make love on the sofa while an old movie flickered on the screen.