All I Want Is You (5 page)

“If we meet guys without dates going to see Phantom, they're gay, so it doesn't matter. Now come on, let's get dressed!”

A
S
Jack painted dark wood stain onto the new section of door frame two evenings after kicking down the attached door, he realized why he liked working with his hands so much. It required focus, and it was the perfect distraction. From whatever a guy needed distraction from at any particular moment. And right now, what he needed distraction from was the cute blonde upstairs. The one with all the problems he had no interest in getting involved in. Other than door repair. Door repair he could handle. Why on earth was she on his mind
that
way?

The sound of Aerosmith echoed from somewhere up the street as he worked, Steven Tyler's gravelly voice singing about being jaded. The weather was fair and came with a breeze, which was good since the door would need to stay propped open until the new wood dried. But otherwise, the job was quick—­the one-­step stain he'd selected covered easily in a single coat and matched the older part of the frame well.

When he was done, he stood back to admire his handiwork. At a glance, most ­people wouldn't notice the door had ever been damaged. And he'd definitely made it stronger—­he hadn't wanted to point this out to his pretty little neighbor, but the fact that he'd busted in the door so easily meant that pretty much anyone could. So at least there was an upside to all this, which was that she and her roommate would be safer now.

“Hey Alice,” he called up the stairs, “I'm done. Just need to leave the door open a few hours so this can dry.”

She appeared at the top of the stairs, smiling. “Thank you again, Jack. This is so nice of you.” Then she glanced over her shoulder and pointed vaguely behind her. “Would you like a glass of iced tea? I just made it.”

Jack weighed his options. He liked iced tea. But he probably should just go. “Thanks, but—­”

“If you say no, I'll feel bad.” Her face took on an adorable pout he found surprisingly sexy. “It's really the only way I have to thank you.”

Aw hell. He held in a sigh and said, “Okay, sure, I'll have a glass.”

And her smile returned—­just before she disappeared from the landing, the words, “Great, come on up,” echoing down to him.

This time he let
out
the sigh since she wasn't there to see—­then stooped to balance the brush he'd just dipped in a jar of paint thinner atop the closed can of stain before climbing the stairs.

He stepped into the living room where he'd been a ­couple of nights ago, and while he waited, he took in details about the room he hadn't caught the first time. Furniture that had seen better days. A colorful cityscape painting on the mantel that topped an old, no-­longer-­functional fireplace, signed by Bethany Wills, who he guessed might be the roommate, especially since an easel and some blank canvases stood in one corner. Near the mantel sat an analog television set with a converter box on top. And on the couch, a velvety sort of tray that held a bunch of loose pearls and crystally-­looking beads. Next to it, some old necklaces that made him think of his grandmother lay stretched across one cushion, for some reason drawing his attention more than the other things in the room.

So much that when Alice came back in with two tall glasses of iced tea, he pointed down at the jewelry. “Those look like things my grandma used to wear.”

She nodded easily, replying, “And I'm going to turn them into things that girls
my
age want to wear.”

Curious, he met her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“I upcycle old jewelry. You know, take something old and make it new again, give it a new life.” He must have looked perplexed—­and he kind of was—­since she went on to say, “Here, I'll show you what I mean,” and lowered her glass to the coffee table before starting across the room toward some shelves.

A moment later, she'd opened an old multi-­tiered jewelry box and returned carrying more jewelry. But only as she stretched out the necklaces, then extracted one from the rest, could he see what she'd created. She'd taken a bunch of glass beads and fake pearls and strung them together on three strands that twisted slightly around one another to make a thick necklace that, even to his uneducated eye, looked much more modern and stylish than the original pieces could have.

His first thought: He was mildly surprised to discover a deeper, more creative side to the sweet but money-­driven Alice. His second? Remembering her watching him work and telling him she liked seeing things come together. That made more sense to him now. And almost led him to think they might have a little something in common.

“That's really cool,” he told her. Then wondered aloud, “What made you think to start doing that, taking old jewelry apart and making new stuff from it?”

“My love of old jewelry stretches back to my childhood, to time spent with my
own
grandma. She wore that kind of jewelry, too,” she added with a cute wink. “Grandma Livvy let me play with her jewelry when I was little, and then she started giving me older pieces she didn't want anymore, and as I grew up, reworking them became a hobby.”

“Do you give some of the new pieces to Grandma Livvy?” he asked.

“I used to,” she said. “She died right after I graduated from high school.”

Damn—­how quickly he'd forgotten that she had no family except her grandpa. Or maybe he'd
chosen
to forget. That she was alone. And that, really, she seemed pretty darn brave. Well, brave if he forgot about her trying to bag a rich man. “Sorry,” he said, feeling sorry for far more than just his forgetting, or her loss.

“I wish she could see the pieces I'm turning out now—­I've gotten better at it over time and I like to think she'd be impressed.”

“I'm sure she would,” he replied. “What do you do with the pieces you make now?”

She lowered her chin, her expression going surprisingly timid. “So far I give them to friends. I'd love to be able to sell them someday, but . . .”

“But?”

She sighed, then turned away, walking back to the jewelry chest and lowering the pieces inside. As she closed the lid, he got the odd sensation that she was closing
herself
up at the same time. She still faced away from him as she said, “I guess I haven't had the time or energy to pursue that since my parents died. I'm not even sure how I'd go about it.”

Jack suffered the urge to respond in lots of different ways. He wanted to tell her to
make
the time, and to follow her dreams. He wanted to tell her about the dreams
he'd
followed. He wanted to ask how her parents had died. And he also kind of wanted to give her a hug. But he didn't do any of those things. Because he barely knew her, after all. And she wasn't the only one who could close herself up. In fact, for him it probably came even easier.

Though he wished she'd stop seeming so damn sweet now. Resisting his attraction to her had felt simpler back when she'd seemed crazy and reckless. But maybe this would get back to being simpler if he returned his focus to the one thing about her that still silently said: Keep away! “So . . . you still on the quest to find a rich dude?”

Although—­shit—­it was a pretty inappropriate, not to mention harsh, response to what she'd last said, and he regretted the question as soon as it spilled out of his mouth.

When she turned back toward him, her eyes had taken on the look of a kicked puppy. Or hell, maybe it was shame he saw there. His chest tightened.
But don't beat yourself up. She's the one who admitted what she was doing.

“Um . . . yes,” she said softly, the sound a gentle hiss. “I mean, I guess. Because I don't know what else to do right now. The thing is, my grandpa is going to get kicked out of his rest home in six months if he can't come up with the money to stay there. And he has health issues and they take good care of him there. It's important.”

Aw hell. “Um, what happened to you not explaining this to me because it's none of my business?”

“I felt criticized by your question,” she answered bluntly.

And he sighed. Fair enough. It had been a lousy thing to ask. And he wasn't even sure why he had. Knee-­jerk reaction maybe. Old wounds. But he shook it off.

None of this matters. You can be friendly with her, be her helpful neighbor, without getting anymore involved here.

It was a damn shame, though, in ways. Because as he stood there scrambling for a reply, he found himself even more aware than usual of her simple beauty—­straight silky blond hair fell to the middle of her back, those hazel eyes lit up her face, and he finally understood what the term heart-­shaped lips meant. But shit. Stop thinking about her like that. “Sorry,” he finally managed. “I, uh, hope you figure out a way to help your grandpa.” And then he looked away, to the painting on the mantel, just to make sure she couldn't see the attraction that might be lurking in his eyes. “As for how you do it, like I said the other night, it's none of my business. I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“I'm not a bad person,” she insisted quietly. And that tugged at his heart, made him feel as if he'd been mean. But he shoved the spark of emotion away.

“I'm sure you're not. But for what it's worth,” he added, still focusing on the painting, “I think you could do something with that jewelry of yours. I think you could sell it if you tried.”

“Maybe eventually,” she said, her tone rife with doubt. “But not enough of it, not fast enough. And I could never make the kind of money I need to help my grandpa.”

He only shrugged, drank his tea. It was actually the first sip he'd taken and it was cool and sweet in his throat, a pleasant distraction from the awkward conversation.

“Mind if I ask,” she said when he didn't respond, “what you do for a living that makes my dating choices an issue for you?”

He couldn't help being happy about the change in topic—­though in another way, not so much. “It's not an issue for me at all,” he assured her, then answered, “and you're looking at it.” He opened his arms slightly to draw attention to his thin flannel shirt and the tool belt fastened around his hips. “Just your general handyman and fix-­it guy.”

But he still didn't let his gaze connect with hers. Since it was probably the biggest lie he'd ever told.

 

“Where do you come from?” said the

Red Queen. “And where are you going?”

Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking Glass

Chapter 4

“W
ELL, THEN
guess that makes it extra nice of you to help me out for free,” she said.

“And I flip houses on the side,” he heard himself add. Maybe because that part was a lot truer and saying it made him feel better.

“Yeah?” she asked, sounding interested.

He nodded. “I buy one, live in it while I fix it up, and then I sell it for a good profit.”

“That's kind of cool,” she replied.

And, that fast, he knew she meant it. Because of how she liked watching things come together. Plus he could just see it in her eyes. There was something real there, something open—­something he wouldn't have expected from the kind of girl who went after a guy for money.

And maybe that openness—­if he hadn't known better he might even have described it as a type of innocence—­was why he felt like a piece of shit. Because he didn't want her to know the truth—­which was that he had exactly what she was looking for in a man. Probably just as much as Jared in the Jaguar—­or more.

“Thanks,” he said, though it came out quick and low. Because she wouldn't be so quick to compliment him if she knew the rest of his story.

Jack had earned a bachelor's degree in finance with a minor in business from the University of Pennsylvania, which happened to rank first in the nation for both curriculums. After coming home to Cincinnati and spending a year doing the suit-­and-­tie thing as a junior investment advisor at a downtown firm, he'd thrown caution to the wind and started his own investment advisory company online at the age of twenty-­three—­and he'd been making a killing at it ever since, for seven years now. As CEO of The DuVall Group, he employed advisors all over the country, all of whose analysis and customer interaction took place via the Internet. As someone who'd tried the corporate life and didn't like the atmosphere, it worked for him—­turned out you could be a whiz at investing and still be a down to earth guy who lived casually, liked simple things, and didn't feel the need to flaunt his wealth. Part of his success could be attributed to the low overhead—­no offices, no suits, no wining and dining the clients—­and the rest to the fact that Jack was just damn good at what he did.

But he didn't want Alice to find out about any of that. Though he hadn't quite known that until he'd actually heard himself lying about it, holding back. Another sign of those old wounds, he guessed.

“Are you flipping the house you live in now?” she asked him.

“That's the plan. Was in rough shape when I bought it, but I use my free time to fix it up, bit by bit.” He didn't
have
to refurbish old homes, of course—­to the contrary, he could easily afford to buy a large, lavish house anywhere in the city—­but his parents had taught him a strong work ethic, and like his dad, he enjoyed working with his hands. His father had been a carpenter his whole life and taught Jack everything he knew. Now Jack was fortunate enough to be able to help his parents out financially. His dad still insisted on working, but at least the lean winters in the construction trade didn't hurt as much anymore.

The topic of renovating the house reminded him to ask Christy, “Did you call the landlord?”

“Yes,” she said, “I left him a message and he didn't call me back. But that's his usual way and I'm pretty sure it means he's happy to let you patch it up without dragging him into it.”

“Did he fix everything he was supposed to the other day?” he inquired, remembering she'd thought it unlikely.

And she sighed. “No. He managed to repair a leaky faucet and replace a light fixture that had broken, but the toilet still isn't working right, and there's some drywall falling down in my bedroom. Oh, and there's a damaged baseboard where I think mice are getting in.” She shuddered. “We've caught two so far. It's horrible. Poor little mice. But we can't just let them run around loose, you know?”

Jack shifted his weight from one work boot to the other. And even as he heard the next words leave his mouth, he thought he should have considered them more carefully. “If you want, I can take a look at that stuff.”

In response, Alice tilted her lovely blond head, her look almost skeptical. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He thought it over and was completely honest. “You seem like you could use the help. And I'm a nice guy.”

“Well . . . thank you,” she said, suddenly appearing a little bashful . . . or maybe the expression on that pretty face was more like sheepishness. And that was when he realized he was trying his damnedest to size her up, to get behind those hazel eyes and see the truth.

He didn't want to care. He didn't want to give a damn. And he still wasn't sure why he did. After all, what was it to him if she found some guy with money to bankroll her grandpa's rest home care? Maybe he just found her . . . intriguing. A gold digger with a heart of gold? Could such a thing exist?

“You're welcome,” he finally said, telling himself to forget the questions in his head. The answers didn't matter. He could look out for this girl a little without it leading anywhere. He could keep his attraction in check, a distant thing, better unexplored.

And as for those questions, he supposed it only made sense he would ask them. It was hard to avoid certain parallels, after all. But avoid them he would. Since he'd already been down that road, and it had been the worst disaster of his life.

“
A
RE
you sure you really have a roommate?” Jack asked Christy with a wink two days later when he came back to do her repairs and found her, once again, alone.

“Bethany works a lot,” she said. “And dates a lot. And she's an artist, so she's out networking a lot.”
And good Lord, she suddenly sounds so much more interesting than me, even if just as poor.
The very idea made her feel even worse than usual. Or . . . maybe it was just being with Jack and having him know her biggest problems and the possibly less-­than-­honorable way she was trying to fix them.

After all, before all that had started, she'd been stressed and poverty-­stricken, but she'd felt . . . well, at least noble about it, like someone who was out there surviving, finding ways to deal with the unpleasant circumstances that had befallen her. And now, when she thought about her big plan to catch a rich man . . . it felt a lot more like giving up, taking the coward's way out. And having a really likable—­not to mention hot—­guy know about it only seemed to heap that feeling onto her even more.

“I noticed the paintings last time,” he said, motioning to Bethany's cityscape on the mantel. “She's talented.”

“She's hoping to get a showing at one of the local galleries soon,” Christy replied.

He held up his toolbox. “So what's first on the fix-­it list?”

“Um, how about the toilet?”

He gave a short nod. “Toilets are easy. Lead the way.”

For the next hour, they made small talk while he worked—­first fixing the badly flushing toilet and then sealing up the infamous mouse hole, a repair which flooded Christy with an even bigger sense of relief than she'd expected.

Though in all honesty, she was thinking about Jack a lot more than she was thinking about mice. She was noticing the way his dark hair peeked and poked from beneath the old baseball cap he wore backwards on his head today. She was watching his hands as they labored, the way they maneuvered various tools. She thought they didn't look as hard and calloused as she might expect for a guy who made a living working with them. Which kind of made her wonder how they'd feel on
her
.

But yikes, stop.

Not that it was easy to do. She couldn't help being attracted to him, even now, despite it having been obvious the other night that it would be in her best interest to get past that.

Then he turned to look at her from where he stood on a small step stool, inspecting the drywall problem in her bedroom. “Can you hand me that little plastic tub in my toolbox?” He was pointing at the red metal box but looking at her. And wow—­she'd simply never had so much trouble maintaining eye contact with anyone as she repeatedly did with Jack. His gaze was just so blue and intense—­she made eye contact with other ­people all the time, but something about looking into
his
eyes felt . . . intimate.

Yet she knew nothing would happen between them. Because besides not meeting her current requirements, she could tell he didn't like her motives. Even if he kept claiming he didn't care.

And it was still
so
embarrassing to have anyone but Bethany know about that. But she couldn't put that ugly secret about herself back into the bottle she'd so carelessly spilled it from. All she could do was be grateful for his help—­and okay, maybe also enjoy the electrical charge she experienced in his presence, especially when they happened to touch.

Which was exactly what occurred when she passed him the little tub of spackle he'd asked for—­their fingers brushed, and hot sparks raced up her arm. Oh, if only he'd entered her life at some other time—­and for some different purpose other than breaking down her door so she could go on a date with a rich man. Ugh—­talk about bad timing.

The same grazing of fingertips happened again when she passed him the spackling knife he next requested. And she wondered if he felt it, too. Surely he had. How could he
not
feel so much crackling electricity?

But stop—­you can't want him. You seriously can't. Because he surely doesn't have a great impression of you, even if he's being nice.
And then there was that other more shameful reason, too. The one about him not having the important thing she really needed right now to help Grandpa Charlie. The reason that really did make her a fairly despicable girl in ways. Maybe. She was getting more confused on that by the hour. But she pushed the thoughts from her head as best she could as she watched him smudge a clay-­like goop over her wall with the straight-­edged spackling knife.

Just like when he'd been repairing her door, she enjoyed watching him work. She liked the smooth, fluid movements of his arms, the shift of his broad shoulders, the way he used his hands. Which again made her speculate about other ways he might be good with his hands, too.

It was jarring to suddenly find herself having such a strong sexual response to someone because . . . well, she usually didn't. Not this much anyway. She'd dated in high school and college; she knew what it was to tingle from a kiss or a touch and to yearn for more. And there'd been Kyle, of course, her first love, to whom she'd given her virginity. But her response to Jack was different—­stronger. And ridiculously inconvenient.
Now? My body and brain have to team up to scheme against me this way now? When it makes the least sense ever? When I can't act on it?

“We'll need to remount these brackets,” he said.

“Huh?” The sound echoed from her throat soft and confused-­sounding—­because he'd caught her off guard by speaking, because she'd been so caught up in the simple maleness of him.

And as a few more minutes passed, she discovered his butt looked all too nice in the faded blue jeans he wore. Since his back was to her, it felt safe to let herself peek. And then she wondered what his butt looked like
without
the jeans. And what kind of underwear he wore.

When he turned toward her from his spot on the step stool, she jerked her eyes upward, to his handsome face. Then she blinked, trying to look natural.

“The mudding I'm doing here is more of a cosmetic fix,” he explained. “Not really strong enough to screw something into it that's gonna hold any weight. So it'll be better if I relocate the brackets for your curtain rods a little. Just enough to make 'em hold better, but you won't even notice the difference.”

“Oh,” she replied softly, “okay.” Though she still sounded far too spacy for her own liking.

“You all right?” he asked with a slight tilt of his head.

Oh good—­she sounded spacy to him, too. “Um, yeah—­fine.” She spoke more boldly, normally, now. “I'm sure they'll look great, wherever you put them.”

After that, Jack went back to work and Christy resumed watching his hands, and his shoulders, and his butt. And then she decided it would be wise to stop watching him altogether, and she was just about to excuse herself and go find something more productive to do—­when he said, “This is gonna take more than two hands—­can you climb up here beside me and hold this in place?”

He held one of the metal brackets against the wall with one hand, wielding an electric screwdriver with the other.

And Christy heard her voice go all whispery and light again as she said, “Yeah, sure,” and stepped up beside him on the stool that was really only meant for one person. Their hips and outer thighs pressed together.

“Tight fit,” he said, his voice going a little softer, deeper. But he kept his eyes from meeting hers and that suited her just fine since every molecule of her body rippled with electricity now. Even more so when she lifted her hands over her head to hold the bracket, giving her the sensation of thrusting her breasts none too modestly in his direction.

As he reached up to twist a large screw into the wall, his arms brushed warmly against her, and their hands touched a little due to close proximity. She held very still, uncertain if what she experienced was closer to pleasure or torture. But she was pretty sure she'd never been more conscious of a man's body. Even guys she'd gotten much more personal with than this.

She grew startlingly aware of his face, the dark, unshaven stubble on his jaw, his mouth. At the same time, she felt the presence of his bigger more masculine hands near her smaller, softer fingers, the broadness of his shoulders, the hard muscles in his arms. Everything about him was just so very . . . male. So very different from everything about
her
.