Up to Date (Better Date than Never Book 8) (8 page)

The idea made me sick to my stomach.

But I had no choice. I needed to impress Jenna like never before. Gritting my teeth, I picked up my phone and drafted a text to Greg:
Mind if I come up and paint? I have your key if you’re not home.

I shut my eyes and held my breath. He was probably out with some gorgeous doctor from work, who was gainfully employed, and couldn’t wait to pop out a dozen of his babies. I wondered if The Skipper would like her. . . .

Ping! Ping!

Squeezing one eye open, I slid my finger across the screen:
Not a problem. I’m here and the door’s unlocked.

I let out the breath I’d been holding, then typed back:
Thanks. I’ll be right up.

I pulled my long hair back into a ponytail, then changed into my painting clothes—a white tank and old black yoga pants. Then a terrible thought occurred to me. Just because Greg was home didn’t mean he was alone.

Chapter Six

Ten minutes later, I trudged upstairs to Greg’s condo. What were the odds that a gorgeous, single doctor would be home
alone
on a Friday night? Oh, so slim. Seeing him with another woman would be torture. Why did Greg have to win my auction item? Was the universe exercising a sick sense of humor at my expense?

At least Greg was quieter than my previous upstairs neighbor. I supposed that should count for something.

I stepped onto the “welcome” doormat that I’d picked out—a gorgeous camel-brown straw rectangle with chocolate-brown script and green bay leaves that reminded me of Greg. Actually, the leaves reminded me of a dream I’d had about the two of us running together on a forest trail at sunset, smiling and happy. Clearly, the mat represented my inability to accept what was healthy for me.

Greg had said the door was unlocked, but I knocked anyway. I mean, did I want to walk in and find him cuddling on the couch with some random woman? Um, no.

The front door opened and there he stood, looking incredibly hot in gray, athletic shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Not exactly date-wear. Maybe he’d been working out? Hopefully alone. . . .

Sucking in a breath, I forced a smile. “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself.” He held the door wide, so I could slip past him. “The door was unlocked.”

“Was it?” I used my most innocent tone as I moseyed inside, and he shut the door behind me. I scanned his living room for any sign of a date. No woman’s jacket hanging on the antique coat rack I’d brought over yesterday. No lipstick-stained wineglass. No heady perfume. And, most importantly, no woman. “Are you alone?” I finally blurted, the suspense tormenting me.

“No.” He smirked, seeming pleased by my question. “The Skipper’s here.”

Whew
. Only The Skipper. That was a load off. Even though Greg deserved to find a nice woman to settle down with, I sure didn’t need to catch the show.

As if recognizing his name, the little gray kitten came prancing into the living room, then hooked his neck around my ankle.
Mew. Mew.

“Hey, boy.” I bent down, then scratched behind his ear. He made a purring sound that vibrated against my hand, and he seemed happy to see me. “Aw, you love that. Don’t you?”

Greg watched us for a moment, then slid his hands into his pockets. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“No, thanks.” I stood, snuggling the sweet kitten, who kept burrowing his soft cheek against the back of my hand. “After the day I’ve had, it might put me to sleep.”

His brows came together. “Everything all right?”

“I got fired,” I blurted, before I had time to consider keeping such personal information to myself. Whatever. Not like my being canned was a big secret or anything.

“Oh, man.” He came toward me, lifted my hand, and held it in his own. “What happened?”

“Laid off, actually. Cost cutting, I think.” Butterflies danced in my belly from the feel of his skin against mine, dimming the horror of losing my job slightly. His thumb caressed the back of my hand, shooting tingles up my arms, and my breath caught in my throat. “They combined my position with someone else’s.”

“I’m sorry.” He gazed at me, wearing a concerned expression. Then his brows rose, and he gestured toward the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want that glass of wine?”

Alarms exploded in my head. My gaze whipped to his, searching. Was drinking how he dealt with stress? Did he have bottles of Scotch on hand to get through his demanding job? Or was I being majorly paranoid? So many possibilities and, sadly, none of them were shiny bright beacons of light.

I shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have a ton of painting to get through.” I slipped my hand away from his, immediately missing the warmth of his touch. “I’d better get started. I’ll already be up late as it is.”

The crease between his brows remained. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

I nodded, then ambled down the hallway, setting The Skipper on the carpet outside the bathroom door. “I’m going to start prepping to paint,” I called out, then stepped into the bathroom. When I flipped on the lights, my gaze darted around the room, and my mouth dropped open. “What the . . .?”

When I’d left earlier today, the bathroom had been a generic white. Now, every inch was covered with the rich, olive-green paint I’d left here.

“Surprise.” Greg leaned against the doorjamb, watching my stunned expression with a satisfied look on his face.

I fought to close my mouth, which felt like a ten-ton rock. “You painted this yourself?”

“Yep.” He crossed one ankle over the other. “It was a good distraction from the pain of your earlier rejection.”

I almost blurted out that I’d felt the pain of my earlier rejection, too. I still did.

“Greg, I . . .” I hugged my belly, dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe he’d taken the time to do my job for me. “I’m speechless.”

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth turning up. “You haven’t even seen the other bathroom yet.”

I gaped at him a moment, then darted through the master bedroom, and into the master bathroom. Olive green. The entire room. Unbelievable. I heard him come up behind me and I spun around. “Why did you paint the bathrooms yourself?”

“To make you happy.” He tilted his head, giving me a side-glance that sent shivers through me. “Wish I could bottle your expression. I’d love to see that smile every day.”

I shook my head, unable to believe what he’d done. For me. Especially when he’d thought I was going out with another guy tonight. It made no sense. “You’re crazy.”

“Must be.” He stepped forward, that crease reappearing between his brows. “What happened to your date tonight?”

I backed up against the counter, then averted my eyes. “I canceled.”

He stopped in front of me, lifting my chin until my gaze met his. “Why?”

Staring up at him, with only inches between us, I said, “It didn’t feel right, so I didn’t want to lead him on.”

His fingertips brushed my jawline. “No man could accuse you of leading him on.”

“I don’t know about that,” I whispered. After all, I’d kissed him this afternoon, and that was pretty much all I wanted to do right now.

His gaze dropped to my lips, as if he were thinking the same thing I was. His mouth lingered only inches away and invisible force tugged at me, drawing me toward him. Unable to resist, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us.

As soon as my mouth met his, my heart raced, and my worries disappeared. All that remained was Greg and me, in this moment. Olive-green walls closed around me, holding me like comforting arms, and the world felt warmer. Fuller. When his mouth opened, his tongue tasted mine, sending electric darts rippling through me. Oh, my. . . All I could think of was
more
.

Our mouths melted together in deep, endless kisses, and endorphins coursed through me like they did during a long run at sunset. My fingers skimmed over his muscular shoulders, up his neck, then threaded into his soft hair, and I pulled him even closer—unable to get enough. My legs turned liquid, but Greg held me steady against him. He trailed soft kisses along my jawline, then paused close to my ear, and whispered, “Sunshine . . .”

Tingles raced through me. The connection between us gripped every cell in my body. I breathed in his scent, fresh soap mixed with paint fumes. The stringent paint smell suddenly yanked me from the heavenly haze, bringing back the stress of bills, finding income, and all that rode on this decorating project. And, of course, my certainty that Greg and I could never be together.

I angled back, lightheaded, and blinked up at him.

Breathing hard, he brushed his fingers along my cheek, then leaned his forehead against mine. “Remind me to paint for you more often.”

I wanted to smile, but pressure mounted inside me like a volcano ready to erupt. “This was really sweet of you, but I need keep working. I have a lot more to do. If this article doesn’t go well, if I don’t get this advertisement for my business . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Then let’s get to it.” He pressed his mouth to my temple, then laced his fingers through mine and led me into the hallway. “What’s next on the agenda?”

Biting my lip, I had to admit the offer was tempting. “Furniture shopping. But you’re not getting the way this works. You’re the client so I’m supposed to do the work for you.”

Instead of relenting, he flashed a grin. “We both know it’s customary to keep the client happy. What makes me happy is being with you. Looks like you’re not getting rid of me.”

Oh, man. He’d beat me by using the most basic rule in customer service.

“Whatever the client says.” I relented, then glanced down at my paint-splattered outfit. “But I have to change first.”

“That’s approved.” He opened the door but, before I could slip out, he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me until my knees turned to noodles. Once. Twice. Three times. “I’ll be down to pick you up shortly.”

I lifted my lashes, feeling dazed. “Okay.”

As I hurried down the stairs, I had to hold the railing to keep steady. I knew I’d messed up again by kissing Greg. And I should have stood firm and not let him come furniture shopping. I really did know all of this. But, right now, I felt too freaking amazing to care.

****

As I swept my paintbrush down one corner of Greg’s living room walls Sunday afternoon, I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I was awake. I’d always maintained that help was overrated. But, after this weekend, I’d gained a new perspective.

With Greg, everything I needed to get done for the condo had been accomplished faster and had been more fun. Thinking about our war over picking out the new sofa and loveseat had my belly doing somersaults. I’d brought a list of sofa options to the furniture store that would work visually with the space, but he refused to listen to my researched ratings on customer feedback. Instead, he’d bounced from couch to couch, insisting on picking whichever sofa he could best imagine “watching a Ben Stiller movie on.”

So
not
rational.

But, Greg had won the argument—he was the client, after all—and I’d somehow promised to watch some movie called
Zoolander
with him even though I hadn’t looked up the reviews yet. In my defense, his delicious kisses had made my brain fuzzy again.

Another exciting revelation occurred when my muse returned last night. For my logo, I’d sketched a simple, white, antique chair with a paintbrush hovering over the seat’s cushion, turning it red like a magic wand. A splash of angel dust exploded around the paint bristles, finishing the logo off. I also purchased the domain name for my upcoming website, assigned an email address, and printed five hundred business cards. Nothing was going to stop me now.

Ping! Ping!

“Your phone’s beeping in the den.” Greg entered from the hallway, then picked up a paintbrush to join me.

“Thanks.” I considered ignoring the phone call, but climbed down the ladder and hurried to the den. I didn’t want to worry my friends by not answering. I’d already received calls from Jill, Kaitlin, Rach, Ellen, Kristen, and a handful of others checking to make sure I wasn’t going off the deep end after being handed my walking papers from Woodward Systems Corporation. Who was even left to phone me now? The new janitorial staff?

My cell screen showed four new text messages from Mary Ann, one missed call from my mother, and another missed call from a Sacramento number I didn’t recognize. I scanned my texts first.

Mary Ann:
You know how you got the boot at work? That wasn’t top secret, right?

Mary Ann:
Mom is sort of freaking out. You need to call and reassure her you’ve got a plan. You do have a plan, right? We need something and it’s called money.

Mary Ann:
Are you ignoring me? I’m starting to get that impression. I may have told Mom, Dad, Liam, and the guy who edges the plants out front that you got terminated, but only cuz I have nobody else to vent to. Why won’t you call me? I’m so upset I almost canceled my facial.

Mary Ann:
Don’t misdirect your anger. Your boss is the dodo brain. Not me. Dig?

My jaw tightened. Unbelievable. Why didn’t Mary Ann just broadcast my dismissal on the news? And how does she have money for a facial, but not rent? So not logical. I mean, I could use a facial right about now. Not to mention a manicure. Painting sure wreaked havoc on the nails.

I tapped the voicemail icon on my phone, then dialed my password:
Ginger, this is your mother. Mary Ann told me you were fired on Friday and we’re disappointed you didn’t call us right away and that we had to find out through your sister, who is completely distraught. You know how sensitive she is. I’ve gone through the job listings in the paper and you’ll be pleased to know there are opportunities for an office manager. With your degree and experience, you’re a qualified candidate. We’ll send out your résumés on Monday and hope they don’t ask too many questions about why you were let go. I hope it didn’t have anything to do with the new signature procedure for the office supplies, which you were complaining to me about earlier in the week. You know, there’s a logical reason behind every business decision. Either way, setbacks are only stepping stones—as long as you don’t dawdle and apply for a new position right away. Call me when you get this. Bye.