For Better or Worse (4 page)

Josh sighed. “I'll run to the bodega.”

“Nonsense. Just ask Mrs. Calvin for some. That's what neighbors are for.”

“Moved out,” Josh said, drinking the last swallow of his coffee. “Wanted to be closer to her family.”

“Well, that's too bad. She was a nice lady. And deaf, which meant she didn't have to suffer through the late-night band practice.”

“You too, huh?” he asked, heading toward the bedroom for shoes.

“Me too what?”

“The new girl in 4C's all in a tizzy because of my music.”

It had been a week since she'd banged on his door, and he'd played his music just a little too loud nearly every night since then in hopes she'd come over for a repeat of that kiss. For a short, shut-her-up kind of kiss, it had been surprisingly hot. He wouldn't mind a repeat, followed by something a little more naked than kissing.

“A band member's hardly the ideal neighbor, dear,” his mother said.

“Yeah, she let me know that in no uncertain
terms,” he muttered, flashing back to the way the curly-haired firecracker all but ripped him a new one. Hideous, uptight creature.

Hot though. Definitely hot.

Inspiration struck, and Josh halted on his way to the bedroom, instead turning left toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” Sue asked.

“I think you're right, Mom. Borrowing milk is
exactly
what neighbors are for.”

Chapter Four

J
OSH
T
ANNER
'
S HANDS WERE
all over her, and oh
God
they were good hands. Brooke and Alexis had been onto something with the hot musician thing, because he played her every bit as well as he played the guitar.

His palms skimmed up her sides, his fingers dragging over her rib cage teasingly before gliding over her breasts, circling her nipples teasingly while he sucked at a deliciously sensitive part of her neck. Heather shifted beneath him, spreading her thighs and moaning in need when he settled between them, rubbing his erection where she was wet and throbbing.

Her hands found his ass, grabbing greedily as she tilted up to him, suddenly aware that they had on too many clothes, aware of—

A rude knocking on her door.

Heather's eyes snapped open, unsure which was more horrifying. The fact that someone was knocking on her door at seven thirty on a Sunday or the fact
that she'd been having a dirty dream about her annoying neighbor.

It was a definite toss-up, but when she rolled out of bed, shuffled grumpily to the front door, and looked out the peephole, it was decided for her:

The neighbor was the more annoying part.

“Are you kidding me with this?” she muttered, resting her forehead against the door.

“Heather,
darling
, it's me. 4A.”

As if she could forget the abs. And the face. And the voice. And the hands. The really
skilled
hands.

Although the abs were covered up today with a T-shirt, she noticed with just the slightest pang of disappointment. A tight, nicely fitting T-shirt, but still. She'd barely gotten over the six-pack hangover from the last time she'd seen her horrible neighbor shirtless.

“What. Do. You. Want.” She didn't lift her head, much less open the door.

“Are you wearing those cute little pajamas again?” he asked.

“Tell me that's not why you came over to wake me up.”

“Oh, were you asleep?”

His voice was all innocence, and Heather narrowed her eyes in suspicion, raising her face to the peephole once more, only to squeak in surprise when she saw his eye right there staring back at her.

“Damn it,” she said, jerking the door open so suddenly he nearly fell inside. “Who does that above the age of seven?”

He looked her up and down before a slow grin slid over his face. “Nice.”

Heather couldn't help taking a quick glance down to affirm no strap had accidentally fallen. Nope. Technically she was covered, but she liked to sleep with her windows open to keep her bedroom cool, which meant she had a little headlight situation happening.

“Can I borrow some milk?” he asked.

She looked back at him. “Milk.”

“Yeah. You know, white, creamy, delicious, comes from teats . . .”

His gaze dropped to her chest again, and Heather cursed, reaching for the gray zippered hoodie on the hook by the door and pulling it around her.

“I don't know if I have any milk,” she said.

But he was already moving past her, entering her apartment uninvited. “Cute,” he said, glancing around.

Heather didn't bother to say thank you. She already knew it was cute. Had deliberately made it so, with endless hours searching Pinterest for inspiration followed by
more
endless hours searching every vintage furniture shop in the city. She'd wanted a combination of minimalist and Bohemian chic, and she'd nailed it, if she did say so herself.

The walls were painted a dark teal, with plenty of original and slightly beat-up-looking canvas prints adding contrast. The area rugs were bright and slightly tattered, and intentionally so. The white couch was kept from looking stark by a handful of bold throw pillows, and a bunch of stubby pillar candles in varying heights covered her coffee table, end tables, and the windowsill.

But the real crown of the room was her window
seat. An actual window seat with a view of Central Park.

Hell. Yes.

“Mrs. Calvin used to love sitting here,” he said, running a finger over the purple cushion. “Although she had an ugly yellow pad.”

“Insisted on taking it with her,” Heather said dryly.

“I'm sure you were
crushed
. You have no idea how many times I watched her drop a glob of cottage cheese onto the cushion before the Chihuahua gobbled it up.”

Heather refused to engage or be charmed. “I don't think I have any milk.”

“Now, now, neighbor,” he said, turning to face her. “You didn't even look.”

“Fine. If it'll get you to leave . . .”

She stomped into the kitchen to look for milk.

“The other night when you were so cranky, I thought for sure you must be a morning person.” He followed her into the kitchen and leaned his forearms on her counter as she jerked open the fridge door. “I see now that that this irritable thing you have going on is more of a twenty-four/seven thing.”

“Since you remember last weekend so well, I don't suppose you also remember that I mentioned that I'm a wedding planner, with Saturdays being my biggest days?”

“Today's Sunday.”

“I know it's Sunday,” she said, yanking out a carton of milk and slamming the door shut as she turned to face him. “I know it's Sunday because I spent all of
yesterday on my feet, trying to pry champagne out of drunken teenagers' hands before they could get into a car, and then got felt up by the bride's drunken uncle.”

He studied her for several moments, his eyes searching her face, before he rapped his palm lightly on the counter and stood up. “You know what you need, 4C?”

“Yes. Sleep.”

“Pancakes,” he countered.

“Pancakes?”

“Exactly.” He came toward her and plucked the milk from her hand, glancing down at it. “Nonfat. Not my usual jam, but I think Mom can make this work.”

“Mom?”

Before Heather could register what was happening, Josh had placed a big warm hand on the small of her back and was ushering her toward the front door of her own apartment.

“I don't want pancakes,” she said through gritted teeth as she tried to push herself backward against his hand, to no avail. Jesus, those muscles didn't lie—the guy was strong as an ox.

“Everybody wants pancakes, 4C.”

And apparently, just as stubborn.

“Heather. My name is Heather.”

“That's way too pretty a name for someone as snippy as you.”

“I'm not snippy, I'm
tired
,” she said, meaning it. She knew she was sort of a bitch around this guy, and she wasn't loving herself right now, but he really did have the worst timing.

Heather just wanted one good night's sleep before she faced him again, and then maybe she could find her smile, find something nice to say, maybe even flirt.

But because she was exhausted, neither her brain nor her legs were working as well as usual, and before she knew it, she'd let herself be ushered toward 4A.

Josh shoved the door open and nudged her inside. “Mom, I brought you something sour,” he called out.

“The milk was no good?” came a female voice from the other room.

“The milk was fine,” Josh told the older lady who entered the living room. “It's 4C here who's a bit curdled.”

“I'm not curdled,” Heather muttered.

She wanted nothing more than to run for the door, but then the other woman was coming toward her with a wide smile. “You must be the nice girl that moved into Mrs. Calvin's place! Oh my, aren't you pretty.”

Heather did find a smile for that, because, well, who wouldn't?

“Don't get excited,” Josh said in a loud whisper as he headed toward his kitchen. “She says that to all the girls.”

“I do,” Josh's mom said with a wide smile. “But I don't always mean it. Today I do.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” Heather said, lifting a self-conscious hand to her hair and trying to wrap it into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She liked her curls most of the time. Early morning before they'd seen shampoo or hair product was not one of those times.

“I'm Sue Tanner,” the other woman said, extending a hand.

“Heather Fowler.”

The other woman looked exactly as a mom who made pancakes was supposed to look. Short, a little bit plump, her hair short and curly and graying. She was well dressed but not Manhattan trendy. The smile, though, was the best part. Wide and friendly and genuine.

“So, you're sure your last name isn't Heather Foul?” Josh asked, glancing up from where he was reheating an electric kettle.

She would have given him the finger if not for the presence of his sweet mother.

“I should go,” Heather said, ignoring Josh altogether and pasting on a smile for Sue. “You're welcome to the milk.”

Sue frowned. “You don't like pancakes?”

“I—”

“Don't fight it, 4C,” Josh said. “Coffee?”

He poured the water into a French press, the smell of dark roasty beans hitting her nostrils within seconds, and . . . damn. Heather was a sucker for a good cup of coffee, and somehow she
knew
this was going to be a good cup of coffee.

Josh caught her eye and winked. “Gotcha.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, earning a delighted laugh from Josh's mom, who led her to the kitchen table.

“Sit,” Sue said. “You sit right there, and I'm going to make you the most delicious pancakes you've ever had while you tell me all about yourself.”

“She's a wedding planner who's not a night
person, and apparently not a morning person, either,” Josh said. “She also hates music.”

“I don't hate music, I hate
you
,” Heather said.

She glanced at Josh's mom in apology for hating her son—but really, she did sort of hate him—and saw Sue giving Josh a curious look.

Josh noticed, too. “Mom. What.”

“You know what Heather does for a living,” Sue said, her eyes sparkling as she assembled a whole slew of ingredients on the counter.

“Because she told me.”

“You didn't know what April did for a living.”

“Who's April?” Heather asked, mostly because she sensed Josh was almost squirming, and it was lovely to turn the tables a bit.

“Josh's overnight guest,” Sue said.

Heather glanced around. “I thought it smelled like bachelor pad in here.”

And it really was the quintessential man-space. From the dark leather couch and the TV the size of Montana right down to the guitar in the corner.

The guitar made her remember their first meeting, and she looked around curiously. “Where are the rest of your noisemakers?”

“Second bedroom,” Sue answered, apparently understanding Heather's meaning perfectly. “Drums, more guitars, the whole deal.”

“I can't believe the landlord lets you do that,” Heather said.

Josh shrugged. “The unit below me is the community space. As long as nobody has the room reserved for something, nobody's there to hear us make noise
or care. The staircase is on the other side, and on the other side is . . .”

“Me.”

“Yup.” He plunged the coffeepot. “And I just want you to know, I'd be happy to take any requests for your favorite songs. A nice lullaby to get you to sleep, perhaps?”

“You are not playing that”—she pointed at the guitar—“while I go to sleep,” she said.

“Well now, how's that going to work, 4C? Because best I can tell, you're always just off to bed or just out of bed.”

“I've seen you exactly twice. At two a.m. on a Saturday and seven a.m. on a Sunday, and I'm—”

“A wedding planner?”

“I was going to say a light sleeper,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Huh. Your hair seems to take the whole bed thing pretty seriously. Cream and sugar?”

Heather ignored the slight on her hair. “Black, please.”

He lifted his eyebrows and walked toward her with two steaming cups in hand. Heather tried to find a way to accept the plain white mug without touching his hand, but he'd seemed to arrange his fingers to make that impossible. Deliberate, probably.

“Thank you,” she muttered, ignoring the little fissure of awareness she felt at his closeness.

“Heather, honey, do you like music?” Sue asked, glancing up from where she was alternating between watching Heather and Josh and scooping flour into a mixing bowl.

“Um, sure?”

“Liar,” Josh said, dropping into the chair beside her.

He smelled a bit like soap and coffee, and Heather tried really hard to remember that he'd just had a woman in his apartment last night. That there'd probably been a constant stream of women in this apartment, and that she didn't want to be one of them.

“I do like music,” she replied.

“Just not my music?”