Wayward Dreams (17 page)

“You know, your brother and my sister went to a lot of trouble to get us together.”

Harry ran a slow finger along the back of her hand. “But where do we go from here?”

Her fingers fluttered and she tried to shut out Julia's voice, but the words slipped through, anyway:
The best way to get over an old man is to get under a new one
.

“I know where my sister thinks we should wind up.”

“Probably the same place my brother thinks we should wind up.”

“I don't think that's a good idea. You've already seen I've got a little baggage.”

Willing to take a chance, Harry shrugged. “Who doesn't?”

“I don't know. There's a child over at that table.” She pointed toward a family, obviously on an after-church outing. Sitting between two larger children and wearing a red bowtie, the little boy smiled brightly and waved to her. “He's probably baggage-free.”

“I don't know, he looks shifty to me.” Harry grinned.

“Where are we going with this, Harry?”

Some part of his brain sounded a warning, and he clamped down on the answer he might have given her. What if he was the one who wanted more than she was prepared to give? He looked at her in her pretty white summer dress, with her hair falling so soft and easy around her face and shoulders, holding his hand.
I don't have a clue where this is going
, he wanted to say.
I only know that I want to know, so, for right now, I'm going where you're going.

“I enjoyed the lunch…and I value your trust.”

My trust has value for her?

“I want to do it again…soon.” She licked her lips, the tiny sweep of her tongue leaving them moist and inviting. “Harry, I'm going to feel like the biggest fool in the world if you don't say something.”

Harry had no clue where the rest of the afternoon would lead, but he knew he was willing to follow this woman long enough to find out. Holding her hand, feeling her heat, he finally said, “I want to get to know you better, so we're going to do this and a lot more. Together. Soon. Often.”

“Promise?”

A little pod of desire burst in him. “I promise, but let's finish this day together.”

Her smile was like a wash of light when she stood and followed him out of the restaurant.

CHAPTER 11

“I think he was tempted to just let lunch just be lunch, but I figured that if I pushed hard enough, he would call her again.” Kemi dropped the newspaper to the wrought-iron table and set his coffee mug beside it.

“And it worked. Man, I am so glad you guys don't follow some stupid man rule about calling after a first date.”

“I don't know about any of that, but I do know that they've been talking all week, sometimes a couple of times a day.”

“I know more than that—she took him to Vive la Reine to see the work she's done on it.”

“Really? When?”

“Wednesday or Thursday night. I think he was going to help her hang some wallpaper, or something.”

“Got to say I'm impressed,” Kemi said, unfurling the yoga mat and giving it a snap to straighten it before dropping it to the terrace floor.

“What's all that noise? Are you getting ready to work out?”

“Yeah.” Talking with Julia and stretching had become a morning routine, and he had to admit that he looked forward to the conversation. The regular check-ins with Bianca's sister were preferable, by far, to his morning encounters with Paisley Denham and her giant puppy.

“Got to give it to you, that last call was genius.” Julia licked at the foam topping her latté as she fumbled with her car remote. She was glad she'd taken a different route from the one her trainer usually took. Glenda would wear her butt out if she knew about the stop for coffee, especially since Julia had gotten it fully loaded: whole milk, sugar, the works. “Whatever you said to Harry pretty much lit a fire under him.”

“And set your sister on slow burn.”

“Slow burn is better than no burn,” she said, defensive against the pride she heard in Kemi's voice. “And I think that getting from lunches to dinners is definite progress.”

“It is, but don't you think that breakfast would mark even more progress?”

“Ask your brother.”

“I would, except I think he went off without his phone. My calls have gone straight to voicemail. It wouldn't do that if he had it with him. Wonder where he is?”

“Where do you think he is?”

“With any luck, maybe your sister knows.”

“At ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, if she knows for the reason we're hoping for…well, she won't be answering the phone…”

* * *

Stepping off the elevator, Harry slapped at his pockets. He found his phone and was glad, not that he was anticipating an emergency; carrying it was simply a habit—a habit he'd begun to rethink since meeting Bianca Coltrane. She was interesting enough to make a man rethink a lot of old habits.

Like sleeping alone.

He still couldn't believe they were neighbors, but they were and there was no reason not to take advantage of it. He punched in her number and listened for her voice. The worst thing she could say was no, but he hoped she wouldn't.

“Hello?”

Her voice, languid and dreamy, excited him at the same time.

“Good morning, Bianca. This is…”

“I know who you are, Harry. Good morning.”

Sweet and appealing, the sound of her voice was totally arousing. Harry wondered what she slept in, and desire nipped at him. How long had it been since he'd said ‘good morning' to a woman before breakfast, and in a non-business context? “I was wondering what you have planned for this morning?”

“Are you trying to make a date with me?”

Flustered, Harry pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it.
How did she do that? I am the owner of a Fortune 500 company and this woman has me stammering like a kid.
Trying to man up, he cleared his throat and moved the phone back to his ear. “I thought that since we're neighbors…”

“Since we're neighbors and it's almost ten on a Saturday morning, would you like to have breakfast with me?” She was in bed; he knew it when he heard the covers rustling.

“I'm not much of a cook, but if scrambled eggs, toast, juice, and coffee tickle your fancy, I can manage it.”

“You're a mind reader.”

“No, I just remember that you said you liked breakfast. Twenty minutes?”

“Is that enough time?”

“If you give me thirty, I'll look cuter.”

Thirty minutes later, he stood in front of her door debating whether he should have run to the store and picked up some flowers. No, maybe a small fruit basket, something to show that he appreciated her invitation. Still undecided, his knuckles hit the door; the gourmet coffee would have to do. He looked down at the elegant one-pound bag his assistant had insisted on ordering. Rene said he should save it for a time when he could slow down and enjoy it.

The coffee, decked out as a gift, seemed like a silly indulgence when he found it in his pantry. But Rene had insisted he keep it, promising he would enjoy it when he had time. This morning, he had both time and a reason for good coffee. He reminded himself to give Rene a raise, and stood a little taller when he heard the locks click before Bianca swung the door open.

Her whole face, especially her eyes, welcomed him. True to her word, thirty minutes had given her time for the touches that made women cute, and she had pulled them all together with a soft yellow sleeveless top that stopped at the sweet curve of her waist, inches above the flat band of her sleek jeans. He didn't know if she was one of those pretty women who just woke up that way, or if she had to help nature out a bit. This morning, casual in jeans and flat shoes, she looked natural with her gold-threaded hair pulled back into a ponytail and the burnished gold of her skin glowing without makeup.

At her invitation, Harry stepped forward, thinking that good morning and an invitation to enter was as good as it got, so he wasn't prepared for what came next. She stood on her toes and wrapped a bare arm around his neck, hugging him close. Pressing her cool cheek to his was nice, her lips pressed to his cheek was nicer, but he thought he would remember the firm curves of her body mated to his own when she leaned into him.

Surprised, he moved his free arm to her waist, his hand meeting warm skin at the juncture of her shirt and low-cut jeans. Feeling dizzy, he had to remind himself not to stray past that damned waistband. Determined to do the right thing, to go no further than invited, he let his hand rest at the crest of her hip.

Lowering herself, separating slowly, she asked, “Hungry?”

He didn't speak for a minute, because he could have sworn she struck him dumb. Being mute didn't include his sense of touch, though. His fingers rose to her face, gently memorizing the rise of her cheekbones, her tender skin, and the lips he found himself making plans for.

At her chin, she took his hand and she led him across her threshold, and into the condo. He remembered the coffee still tucked in its little gift bag.

“For you.”

She peeked into the bag, then looked up at him. “When did you have time to pick this up? Or did you just have it on hand, waiting for a good excuse?”

“Would you believe a little of both? My assistant picked it up and I thought it would be a nice addition to breakfast.”

“Works for me.” She took his hand and headed for her kitchen.

Trying to keep his thoughts away from the curve of her jeans, Harry noticed differences between her eighth-floor unit and his penthouse. Her view was nice, but his was better. Her kitchen had a window; his had a wall of windows, but there was no need to mention it.

“It's been a long time since a man watched me cook.” She set the coffee on the counter and turned in a small circle. Fumbling with a pair of drawers, she didn't seem to find what she wanted. She opened the pantry and slammed a few cabinets. She finally looked at Harry and said, “To tell the truth, I don't really cook all that often.”

“Then maybe you'd better let me help.”

“You?”

“Yes, me,” he said with a smile.

Bianca folded her arms under her breasts and leaned against the counter, not knowing whether to believe him or not. When he opened his hands to her, she pulled open a small drawer, found aprons, and handed one to Harry.

“Where's the omelet pan?”

“The what?”

“Little skillet, about so big?” he said, using his fingers to frame the size.

“Uh…pots and pans…” It took her a minute to remember where she'd tucked the box and pull it free. Never used, the omelet pan rested in a careful nest of wrapping paper. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Exactly,” he said, taking the pan. “Now, what are we going to put in this omelet?”

“I don't know. I was going to scramble the eggs, remember?”

“Just about anything can go into an omelet.” He looked to the refrigerator, then back to her. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

Harry pulled the door open and smiled. Clearly, she'd just gone grocery shopping—and judging from what he found, she liked grocery shopping. Opening the cooling drawers, he found what he was looking for—avocados, cheese, eggs, and assorted vegetables.

“This is going to be great,” he announced, rubbing his hands together.

“If you say so.” Bianca collected bowls from a cabinet and set them on the counter in front of him. He seemed to know what he was doing, so she got out of his way. When he set her wooden cutting board in front of her, she reached for a paring knife and tried to look like she knew what to do with it.

Harry pushed vegetables across the counter. “If you clean and chop, I'll handle the cooking.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Bianca went to work following his instructions. Finished, she asked, “Now, what?”

Harry went back to the refrigerator and pulled out two bananas. The bright yellow fruit she'd taken so much care to select on her last trip to the store was now dark and cold-withered.

Bianca frowned and shook her head. “We can't use those. I don't know why they always turn brown so fast.”

“It's because you put them in the refrigerator. The cold does it. How about salvaging them and making a little quick bread?”

“Quick bread?” Bianca pulled a high wicker-seated stool from the wall to the counter and sat. “Who does that? And how do you know anything about making it?”

“I learned from my grandmother. There was no way Patti-cake was going to let me grow up in the South and not know my way around a kitchen.”

“You call your grandmother Patti-cake?” Bianca snickered. “That must be the, uh, African-American grandmother.”

“What gave it away?”

“Patti-cake.”

“That's what she wanted to be called, so that's what we call her.” Harry quickly peeled and mashed the bananas. He didn't bother with measuring cups and spoons as he poured and stirred ingredients. In the kitchen with Bianca, using his grandmother's recipe and making a meal on a Saturday morning felt like the most natural thing on Earth, and it made him smile.

“Bet you're her pride and joy. Can't believe you cook. I would never have figured you for a mama's boy.”

He stopped and looked at her. “What would you have figured me for?”

She eyed him closely, debating how much to tell him and how much of herself she would be giving away if she told him what she really thought.

“A jock,” she finally said. “If I didn't know you cook and sing old Motown, I would figure you for a…” she stopped and looked at him closely. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long powerful legs and arms, he looked like a man who might play football. Looking at the crockery bowl and wooden spoon in his big capable hands, she thought they were the hands of a man who would never drop anything entrusted to him.

She played with the ends of her ponytail, curling the hair around a single finger. “If I didn't know anything else about you, and I just happened to meet you on the street, I would figure you for a football player; a receiver.”

“Close.” His lips lifted and he handed her the greased pan for the bread batter.

“How close?”

“College,” he replied, moving the omelet pan to the range. Pouring the egg mixture into the hot skillet, he directed her to pour the batter into the loaf pan.

“College?” Bianca prompted.

“Yeah, and you're right. I played wide receiver; did pretty well, too. I just didn't see football as my future.”

Yeah, I would have known you at first glance, if you had.
Considering her past and the football players who had passed through her life, the thought was disconcerting and more than a little embarrassing. Her hand trembled slightly when she finally turned the batter into the loaf pan. “So you walked away from football?”

“More like I didn't get a choice. I was good, not great, and pro football is a game that demands great.” He shrugged and reached for her wrist, his fingers touching the band of the watch she'd just gotten back last night and the contact, slight as it was, seemed to charge the watchband with electricity. Surprised, she caught her breath.

It was the watch AJ had given her, the one she had pawned when life slammed her face down to the bottom of the barrel. When she'd walked into the pawn shop last night, the man at the counter looked a little surprised, probably thinking that down-on-their-luck women pawned their jewelry and never looked back.

But he was wrong.
Bianca came back and felt hope in her heart when she turned in the pawn ticket and repaid the loan. It felt like redemption when the man slid the watch across the counter and into her hands. Fastening the watch on her wrist made her feel more like herself. Her property was back where it belonged.

Paying off that loan had done more than just redeem her watch; it had set a bar for her, one she promised herself she would never fall beneath again.
W
hen Harry's hand moved from her wrist to her hand and her pulse bumped, she remembered her promise again. “Everybody is not meant for great,” she said thoughtfully, “but everybody is meant for something. Where did your decision lead you?”