Dreams of Her Own (8 page)

“Well, that’s good news, right?”

“Yes.” Ian hesitated. “I’m really sorry about the delay in the renovation.”

“Stop.” Josh waved, forestalling the rest of Ian’s apology. “You’re where you need to be. The nursery will get done. Now, what can I do for you?”

“When Ruby leaves the hospital she’s going to need to be in a rehab facility for a week or so before she goes home. The insurance issues, the bills, well, they’re a little overwhelming at the moment. After three days in ICU, I’m not sure how she can afford it, and at this point I’m not sure where to turn.” Ian had tried reading her secondary insurance policy—the backup to Medicare—but even without the dyslexia, he might as well have been reading Greek.

“I’m happy to help. I can take a look at her policy and see what’s covered and the facility should be able to give you a good estimate of what her out-of-pocket might be.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Ian took the papers out of his backpack and handed them to Josh.

“Ian, I hesitate to bring this up, but does Ruby have an estate plan? Does she have an advanced directive, a durable power of attorney?”

“Yes. I know she has a will, and I’m her medical decision-maker and I have durable power of attorney over her affairs.”

“Good.” Josh nodded. “That’s one less worry.”

“When the time comes,” Ian continued, his throat tight, “would you . . . handle the estate?”

“It’s that bad, then?”

“Stage four lung cancer.”

“I see.” Josh hung his head, and then lifted it to look Ian in the eye. “Ian, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“I appreciate it. I’d better get back to the hospital. I’m meeting with the oncologist about a clinical trial.”

Millie hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but her office sat right off the living room, so she’d heard every wor
d. She wondered who Ruby was. Not Ian’s mother, since Josh referred to her as a friend. His girlfriend? Or an ex-wife?

Clearly, it was someone who meant a lot to him.

So, that’s where he’d been the last few days.

She set aside the manuscript and gazed out the window at the snow-covered ground. It would be Christmas soon. A bad time of year to be sick. And a bad time of year to lose a loved one. Not that she’d ever experienced that kind of loss.

That a tough guy like Ian could show so much caring and compassion gave her a new perspective on him. A twinge of guilt poked her. Not for eavesdropping, but for doing to Ian what people did to her: judging a book by its cover.

There was clearly more to Ian Brand than met the eye.

Chapter 10

Climbing the stairs to the third floor, Millie hoped to avoid an Ian encounter. She’d managed to stay out of his airspace since he’d returned to the job, which in turn meant she’d avoided embarrassing herself in front of him. Telling herself not to look, she tiptoed past the room where he was working.

Hamlet and Ophelia!
Not only had she looked, but she’d stopped.

Spotting his open backpack sitting on the worktable with a book inside, and unable to help herself, she stepped into the room and found it empty. Curiosity drew her to the backpack like a force field. Whatever the book was, it was a weighty tome. Probably some construction manual.

She peered into the backpack and
gasped. Immanuel Kant’s
Three Critiques
! What the—? Then she spotted an audiobook CD case of the same work.

“Can I help you?”

“Gah!” Millie jumped like she’d been electrocuted, and her heart pounded like a jackhammer in her chest. She spun to find Ian leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, that tool belt around his hips. How did such a big guy, who wore work boots and a clanking tool belt sneak up on her? His tousled hair softened the scowl currently gracing his face.

“I’m sorry. I saw your book . . .” She trailed off, pointing lamely in the direction of his backpack.

“Do you often go through another’s belongings?” Ian asked as he pushed off the doorjamb.

“I— No.” Seeking a change of subject, she said, “I’m sorry about your friend.” God, how she wished she could hit rewind. She hadn’t meant to say anything.

Ian’s scowl deepened. “How do you know about my friend?”

“I, uh, I overheard your conversation with Josh.” Before he could respond she thought another subject change was in order. “Kant’s
Three Critiques
are considered by some as his most influential works primarily because they are so accessible.”

He lifted a brow. “So you’ve read them.”

“I’ve read all of Kant’s works. His
Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals
is my personal favorite.”

“I see.” He stepped close. Not quite in her space, but only a breath away, and her heart jolted into double time. “This is my first experience with his critiques, but I’m a fan of his
Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime.”

Stunned, Millie didn’t know what to say. That hammer-wielding, death-machine-riding, tattoo-sporting Ian Brand read Kant took her completely by surprise. First Beethoven, now Kant. What else did he have up his sleeve?

She jerked to attention when he raised his hand toward her, and she stepped back.

“You, uh, you have something sticking out of your sweater.”

Turning her head she followed his gaze in the direction of her shoulder. Then closed her eyes. Oh, for the love of Shakespeare, could she just once,
just once
, have an encounter with him that didn’t end in her looking like a fool? Was it too much to ask? Apparently so.

Before she could act, he’d reached out and tugged on the offending dryer sheet. As he did, his hand brushed her neck, and the warmth sent a shiver through her. He gently tugged the dryer sheet out of her sweater, the scent of Bounce Outdoor Fresh filling the space around them.

She should be mortified, but instead, she could only stand completely still, not even breathing, hoping the moment would never end. He’d yet to step back, and heat, testosterone, and pheromones radiated from his body leaving her weak. His mouth was inches from her hair, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear he’d just inhaled.

Ian inhaled Millie’s fres
h, clean scent—Bounce?—so different from the heavy, spicy scent so many women preferred. He felt the warmth from her body, even though they weren’t touching, and inexplicably wanted to lean down and take her mouth with his. Her tongue flicked nervously across her bottom lip. The one he wanted to sink his teeth into. How this awkward, brainy, woman appealed to him, he couldn’t say. But appealed to him, she did. Even if she did snoop. And eavesdrop.

The realization hit him like a sledgehammer. He wanted her.

Her breath became shallow and her pupils dilated. Clearly, he appealed to her too. It might have been a while, but he hadn’t forgotten how a woman reacted when she was attracted to him.

So close. Just another inch and he could put his tongue on the sweet spot below her ear. “Millie,” he whispered, and bent to do just that.

“Millie, where are you?” Darcy called before walking past the door.

He and Millie parted like the Red Sea.

“Oh! There you are.” Darcy narrowed her eyes, her gaze alternating between the two of them. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” they said in unison.

“That’s funny,” Darcy said, “because it feels like something.”

Jesus.
Hell yeah, it felt like something, all right. “Millie just had, a, er, dryer sheet . . .” Ian finished lamely.

“I see.” Darcy didn’t appear convinced. “Millie, Gloria emailed me the ARC for
Lawyers in Love
, so you can forward it on to the reviewer at
USA Today
.”

Millie nodded. “I’ll do that right away.”

“Thanks.” Darcy started to leave then stopped short. “Oh, while I’m here, I need a million-dollar word for charmed.”

“Ensnared,” Millie blurted.

“Transfixed,” Ian offered.

“Transfixed. I like it. Thanks, Ian,” she said over her shoulder as she left the room, giving Millie a knowing look.

Millie stared at him, mouth open. Clearly, she thought him just another Neanderthal construction worker. Not that he could blame her. That’s what he would think of himself if he were in her position. Either that, or she was trying to recover from her boss interrupting an almost-kiss. What the hell had he been thinking?
He
hadn’t. His dick had.

Her brow furrowed and she glanced away, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. “You listen to Beethoven and you read Kant.”

Well, ‘read’ might be a bit of a stretch. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

Her flush deepened as she paced the room, running her hand over the smooth wood of the bookshelves he’d built and installed. “No. It just seems so . . . incongruous.” She stopped, then looked up at him biting her lip.

He yearned to bite that lip, too. Her comment should have been insulting, but it wasn’t. He understood why she would see him that way. After all, that’s the image he cultivated.

“So, why are you in construction?”

Ian shrugged. “Because I like uncovering and preserving the beauty in an old building. And I like seeing the results of my labors.” This was the longest, most coherent conversation he’d had with her thus far.

She nodded. “I can see that. There is something to be said for preserving history. I suppose like art and literature, buildings deserve to be treasured too.” The silence stretched, and she appeared to be finished with her end of the conversation. “And you like philosophy,” she blurted.

“Yes.”

She nodded once more. “I’m sorry I invaded your privacy.” Before she walked out, she stopped short at the door. “Have you read Descartes?” she asked without turning around.

“His
Meditations on First Philosophy
or his
Principles of Philosophy
?”

This time she turned in his direction. “Both?”

“Yes.”

“And his
Discourse on the Method
?”

Ian lifted the sleeve of his flannel shirt to reveal the tattoo around his bicep: ‘
Cogito ergo sum
.’

“Okay, then.” And she left.

Ian tugged his shirtsleeve back down and shook his head at the mystery that was Millie.

Millie rushed headlong down the stairs to the r
elative refuge of her office. She needed to process this new information about Ian.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and it had little to do with the exertion of her descent.

“I think therefore I am,” she muttered, recalling Ian’s tattoo.

First, she finds Kant in his backpack.

Next, she might be completely inexperienced but she could have sworn he was going to kiss her. That is, until Darcy interrupted. She didn’t know whether to be thankful or resentful.

Then, she learns that he not only reads Descartes, but has one of his most famous quotes tattooed on his bicep.

And what a bicep it was. Her mouth had gone dry when he’d flexed it.

Nothing about Ian Brand fit.

From his appearance, she’d be afraid of running into him in a dark alley. Then, Beethoven, Kant, Descartes . . . and tattoos that weren’t the usual skull and cross bones, daggers or serpents.

What was Ian’s story?

Opening the laptop on the desk, it dawned on her that she’d just had a conversation with him. And she’d been reasonably coherent and articulate. Smiling, she pulled up Darcy’s email account to send the ARC to the
USA Today
reviewer.

Then she reached into her pocket, picked up her pencil, and wrote: ‘Coherent conversation with a sexy man.’

“Check.”

Ian sank into his desk chair hoping the strains of Bach’s “Cello Suite Number One in G” would release the tension behind his eyes. Even if he hadn’t walked through Yardley Mansion, Ian knew he could perform the renovation work. He glanced up at the computer screen where the PDF of the RFI and its instructions taunted him with its jumble of letters. With Ruby ill, he’d have to tackle this beast himself.

The owners had changed tack, and preceded the RFP with a Request for Information or RFI, which had a two-week turn-around time.

But
twenty
pages of instructions for a ten-page RFI. “Shit.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. What the hell was he thinking?

With the dyseidetic, or visual form of dyslexia, Ian had a difficult time with whole word recognition and spelling. The letters ‘b’ and ‘d’ and ‘p’ and ‘q’ got mixed up with one another, and he had difficulty associating the sounds with the letters. It was better now than when we was in middle school or even high school. Ruby’s techniques, like listening to audiobooks while reading along improved his word recognition, pronunciation, and visualization skills. Use of open-source font for dyslexics helped too.

His handwriting was practically illegible, so he typed everything. Autocorrect, though not always perfect, helped immeasurably, and the proliferation of email and text messaging were a godsend for him, as was the voice to text software program on his computer. And the bookkeeper he’d hired when he’d started his business seven years ago made sure his invoices were correct and his bills were paid.

But who the hell was going to help him with this? The RFI would help narrow down the pool of vendors eligible to submit the RFP. Ian knew it was important to take great care in responding to the RFI because it would be used to develop the final RFP, possibly influencing the solicitation in his favor.

He groaned. He couldn’t even tackle a ten-page RFI. He’d have about as much chance of completing what could be a five hundred page RFP as a he had of getting through a New York winter without snow. His dyslexia was the one secret he kept from Caleb, otherwise he’d ask for his help. He snorted. No. No, he wouldn’t, because he didn’t ask for help from anyone but Ruby.

Closing his eyes, he remembered Ruby’s admonition—one bite at a time. So, he started with the first question and focused only on that.

The next day, Ian stood scratching his head at the wiring he’d uncovered in the
bathroom remodel.
WTF?
Darcy had been lucky the house hadn’t burned down. Probably because this bathroom didn’t get much use.

Well, it would now, and this had to be fixed. Unfortunately, it was out of his wheelhouse. Fortunately, he had a friend whose wheelhouse it fit squarely in.

Taking out his phone, he gave Caleb a call.

“Montgomery.”

“Got a bit of an electrical clusterfuck. You have some time to come by the Ryan job in Park Slope and lend me a hand?”

“A clusterfuck, huh? You sure it’s not a SNAFU? Or maybe it’s FUBAR.”

“You free later, or not?”

Caleb snorted on the other end of the phone. “Want me to send out an APB?”

“What for?”

“Your sense of humor. It seems to be missing.”

“Never mind.” Ian started to hang up.

“I’ll be there in thirty.”

Ian ended the call wondering how Caleb managed such a successful business with a jokester personality like his. Jillie, of course.

Forty-five minutes later, Ian heard Millie talking to Caleb, telling him where to find Ian. Caleb’s heavy work boots clomped up the stairs. Apparently he’d abandoned the metrosexual look. At least for the day.

“What’s with the woman in brown?” he asked without preamble.

Ignoring the question, Ian glanced at his watch. “You stop for a coffee break on the way over?” Ian cringed at his own grumpiness. Between the stress of the RFI, Ruby’s illness, and his current jobs, his patience was so thin, it was practically nonexistent.

“Traffic,” Caleb muttered. “What we got?”

Ian took him into the bathroom and indicated the spaghetti tangle of wiring.

Caleb let out a whistle. “That, my friend, is definitely a clusterfuck.”

“Can you fix it without rewiring the whole house?”

“How’s the wiring in the nursery?”

“Kosher.”

Caleb poked around and got a shock for his trouble. “Fuck!” He shook his finger. “Yeah. I’ll get my stuff.”