ThisTimeNextDoor (35 page)

“No, no,” John said, striding over to her. “I’ll make you a martini. Where—”

Mark pointed at the small standalone bar along the wall. “It should be stocked. Olives in the fridge.”

“I can make it,” Rose said. “It’s not like I’ve got anything to do.”

John caught her in his arms and guided her to the sofa, a move that brought a growl to the back of Mark’s throat.
 

“Sit,” John said, still holding her. “Enjoy yourself. That’s what I always liked about you. You’re a woman who always knows how to have a good time.”

The knife slipped, lopped a sliver of skin off of Mark’s index finger.
 

Cool it. Stay calm.

“What can I get you, Blair?” he said tightly, eyeing his finger for signs of blood.
 
“How about wine? Red or white?” He remembered the way she’d watched him drink his wine months ago when she was pregnant and couldn’t have any.

“Whatever’s open is fine.” Eyes downcast, she climbed up on a bar stool at the kitchen counter across from him. Sighed again.

Mark opened both bottles and set them in front of her with a glass. “Your pick.”

She looked up, glanced behind her again, smiled mischievously. “Thanks.”

He finished making the sauce, mixed the spinach, egg, and ricotta with his hands, then got out the lasagna pan.

“I can tell you’re a good cook,” Blair said, sipping her wine.

“Hardly. I only know how to make this because they print the recipe right on the box. If the store had stopped carrying this brand of pasta, we’d be eating Cheerios tonight.”

“It’s more than that. You made the sauce from scratch.”

“I just added a little extra garlic.”

“Improvisation is the sign of a born chef.” She saluted him with her glass.

“Do you cook?”

“I love to cook.”

He nodded, glanced over at Rose and John, laughing with each other.

Now he was the depressed one.

“I used to think about going to culinary school,” Blair said.

“Used to?” He wondered if Rose had ever told John to take it slow. The bastard—what was he doing now? Sitting right next to her when there was a perfectly good chair on the other side of the coffee table?

“Yeah, you know, before,” Blair said.

Mark stared, confused for a moment because he’d forgotten what they were talking about. “Before,” he repeated.

“Getting pregnant, moving out here, everything.”

“There are lots of cooking schools around San Francisco. Not that I’m an expert, but I’ve enjoyed eating at them. So they can’t totally suck, assuming they cooked the food I ate.” He wiped his hands and slipped the lasagna into the oven, wishing he’d just ordered a pizza. Because of his jealous distraction, he had half the ricotta left over and the pan was overflowing with tomato sauce; who knows what else he’d screwed up while John cozied up to Rose.

Blair sighed. “Do you think I could ever—forget it. I don’t have any experience. It’s a crazy idea.”

He leaned against the counter, picked up his beer. “I’d never be able to work in a restaurant myself—too many people yelling at each other.”

“I don’t mind yelling. Or people.” She smiled.

“Then you should look into it.”

“Thanks. I will.” She put down her glass, climbed off of the stool. “God, it’s great to come up here. I was totally dreading—” Seeming to remember how depressed she was supposed to be, she slapped her hand over her mouth, peeked over her shoulder.

The chatty, sociable couple was still having a great time together on the couch. Two extroverts, well-dressed and fun-loving, strident, confident. John said something that made Rose throw her head back and laugh, her blond hair flying. Grinning, John waited, watching her, then said something else that set her off again.

Now Mark was the one to sigh.

Apparently sensing something was amiss, Rose broke away from her handsome, amusing companion and came back over to the breakfast counter. “Everything okay?”

Blair sipped her wine, offered her a weak smile. “You know, it is. I’m so glad I came.”

Rose beamed.

“When’s chowtime?” John asked, rejoining them. As though he couldn’t bear to be left out for a second. And did he have to stand so close to Rose?

“About a half hour. Unless it’s really bad, in which case you’ll have to add on the time for the pizza to get here,” Mark said.

The dogs began barking furiously. Zeus in front, they tore across the living room floor and clattered down the stairs. Exclaiming so loudly her voice carried upstairs, his mother sounded as thrilled with the reunion as her dogs.

Now it was really time for the show to begin.

Chapter 27

ROSE WATCHED MARK TENSE UP as the sounds of his family arriving filtered up the stairs.

What had he and Blair been talking about?
She’d
certainly perked up. And until the dogs had started barking, Mark had been talking to her without stammering, blushing, tripping, or gawking.

She studied the olive at the bottom of her martini. How nice for them they could be so happy together.

Very, very nice.

She opened the top button of her sweater, tugged the neckline down another inch, and downed the rest of her drink.

Liam was the first to appear, his cheeks flushed from the cold, a grocery bag in his arms. “Mark said he made dinner. I don’t believe it.”

“It looks really good,” Blair said. Mark smiled at her.

Rose tugged her sweater a little lower. Leaned forward, propped her elbows on the counter.

Mark glanced over, smile freezing in place. His eyelids dropped. She saw the motion of his throat as he swallowed, watching her.

“We brought some bread and sandwich fixings if it’s inedible,” Liam said.

Mark barely glanced at him, not seeming to register what he’d said.

Bev walked up from behind Liam, her straight black hair hanging loose around her face. Like her fiancé’s, her cheeks were splotched with color. “Oh, my God, I’m freezing. Did you guys get caught in the storm? I lost my hat in the driveway. Look—my fingers are like little popsicles.” She held them out.

“‘Freezing.’ I used to swim in water colder than this,” Liam said.

“And look how manly it made you,” Bev said, patting his chest. Then she saw Blair sitting behind the counter and her smile faltered. “Blair. It’s nice to see you again.”

Rose forced herself to look away from Mark, fearing an outpouring a pity that would make Blair uncomfortable; but Bev only offered her hand for a quick shake before muttering something about coffee as she dug into the cabinets.

Trixie arrived, still wearing her coat, leading to more hugs among the family. Rose stepped back to watch. Though Bev and John were first cousins, she didn’t see much resemblance, and their body language suggested they weren’t very close.

“Where’s April?” Mark asked.

“Not coming until tomorrow,” Liam said. “She said she had to work today, didn’t want to drive in the dark with all the snow.”

Mark frowned. “She had to work?”

With a shrug, Liam got himself a beer. “I know, huh?”

“Doing what?”

“Drawing or something. I have no idea,” Liam said. “I thought she was just shacking up with some guy, but apparently she’s devoting herself to the arts. Or something.”

“Huh. I didn’t know she had any devoting in her,” Mark said.

“Be quiet, you two. She’s just a late bloomer, that’s all,” Trixie said. “I’m going to take the dogs out for a walk. I’ll try to find your hat, Bev, but if my little guys get to it first, you might want to save up for a new one. They love peeing on new things.”

“Isn’t it too cold to go out?” Bev asked.

Liam snorted, caught Rose’s eye. “Southern California girls are such wimps.”

Trixie poked him in the shoulder. “She’s absolutely right. They need to wear their new outfits.” She pulled a miniature orange sweatshirt out of her coat pocket and held it up, a big grin on her face. “The latest and greatest from Fite Fitness!”

Liam groaned and turned away.

“Is that reflective piping?” Rose asked, studying the tiny garment. A silver FITE FITNESS logo filled one short sleeve.

“Safety first,” Trixie said. With a wave, she left them, passing Mark at the top of the stairs.

Bev smiled at Rose. “Our first canine fashion line at Fite Fitness comes out next fall. Fite Dog. Isn’t it great?”

“The things we do for love,” Liam said, kissing Bev on the lips.

Mark snaked around them, checked his creation inside the oven, then scowled at the crowd in his kitchen. “Why is everyone in here when there’s a perfectly nice living room right over there?”

Liam bumped him roughly as he got a bag of corn chips out of the cupboard. “Parties always end up where the food is. You should’ve bought a house with a bigger kitchen.”

He
should’ve? Rose frowned at the brothers. “I thought your family had been coming up here since you were kids.”

“I was already working at Fite, I think, the first time I was here,” Liam said. “Hard to remember, we rented different ones over the years, all around the lake. What year was it you bought this place, Mark?”

Not even Blair looked surprised at the news that the house belonged to Mark and not his mother. Rose stared at him, amazed to see him turn an odd, mottled red color.

“I—I—a while ago,” he said, unblinking eyes on her.

“You’d just turned twenty-one, right? That second dotcom went public and you didn’t even tell us how much money you got,” Liam said, then frowned at Bev when she elbowed him in the ribs. “What?”

“Maybe he likes to keep that sort of thing private,” Bev said, hooking her arm through his. “Come on, let’s give the chef some room. Let us know if you want us to
 
help with anything, like a salad or whatever.”

“As if you know how to make a salad,” Liam said. “Bacon salad, maybe.”

Bev dragged him past the kitchen counter into the large living area. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t realize you’d caught the IPO wave, buddy,” John said. “What company was it?”

Mark stuck his head in the oven, mumbling something.
 

Glancing at Rose, Blair slid off her stool. “I better put my things in the loft before somebody else claims it.” She staggered a little, caught herself, and bent down to lift the bag.

Tabling his question for Mark, John strode over. “I’ll do it.” He kissed her on the cheek. “That bed better have room for two.”

Rose watched them walk across the room and up to the loft before turning back to Mark. “Why didn’t you tell me this was your place?”

He stared at her. “Didn’t I?”

Rose snorted.

The timer went off. He grabbed the oven mitts and got out the lasagna, avoiding her eyes.

“What else are you hiding?”

“Rose, this cabin, WellyNelly, some money—all come from the same period in my life. I’d done some coding for some guys—like Sylly—who I met at the hobby shop, never expecting anything to come out of it. They wanted to compensate me, I said I didn’t care. I ended up with stock options.” He slipped off the oven mitts and, staring down at them, arranged them on the counter in a straight line. “I didn’t really deserve the money. It was crazy back then. Millionaires springing up overnight.”

He really didn’t think it was a big deal. It
embarrassed
him. “That’s why you didn’t tell me? Because you thought you didn’t deserve it?”

He moved the oven mitts around until they were standing upright, leaning on each other like a house of cards. “I
didn’t
deserve it. Chris and Ben did the architecture, I just helped out when they had questions. They were stupid to give some random teenager such a big piece of the pie.”

Stupid
. He was worse than she was.

She went over to him, close enough to rest her hand on his arm. “I doubt you were just some random teenager, or that they were stupid,” she said quietly.

He gazed down at her. Something in his face shifted, opened, warmed. “You do?”

“They paid you what they thought you were worth.” Suddenly she was aware she was touching him, that he’d ducked his head closer to hers. His eyes were dark, gray-blue pools, deep, inviting. “Why are you so convinced they were wrong?” she asked.

He reached up to her cheek, traced the tender skin under her eye. “Why are you so convinced they weren’t?”

Her throat went dry. He was always throwing her off balance. Strong one minute, sweet the next. “I just am.”

“Maybe you’re biased.” His hand glided down her cheek to her chin, caressing.

“Maybe I am,” she whispered.

He smiled slowly and abruptly stepped away. “Do
you
know how to make a bacon salad? It’s almost showtime.”

Deep breath. Hand on the counter. “I’m more of a lettuce type.”

“That’ll do.”

Still unsteady, she walked slowly over to the fridge. “Just don’t say, ‘That’ll do, Pig.’ You know, like from
Babe
.”

 
“Why would I?”

She grabbed the romaine, glanced at him over her shoulder. He looked genuinely stumped.

“Because I’m a plus-sized woman.” She waved the lettuce at him to lighten the mood. “Do you have a salad spinner in this vacation home of yours?”

Frowning, he squatted down, dug around and held out a colander. “That’s all I’ve got.” He leaned against the counter and watched her tear the leaves, rinse them under the water. Finally he said, “I still don’t get it.”

She hit the tap, wishing she hadn’t said anything. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Please. I know I’m an idiot. You have to explain. I’m obsessive like that. I’ll be up half the night trying to figure it out.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, slow, deliberately suggestive. “Of course, I hope I’ll be up half the night doing other things.”

It was amazing how he could make her shivery and heated at the same time. “Your mother tried to put John in a room downstairs. By himself. Pretty sure that was for your benefit.”

“You’re trying to change the subject. Why would I say, ‘That’ll do, Pig’?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you seen
Babe
?”

“Yeah. Talking animal movie. Heartwarming. Evil cat.”