“A favor?”
“Yeah.” His expression was a little embarrassed, and his eyes dropped to his shoes. “Originally it was just going to be my friend and his wife and this woman I’ve been seeing, Carolyn.”
He’s seeing a woman. Disappointment punched me in the gut.
“But while I was talking to my sister earlier, she asked if she could come and I said yes without thinking. That would make five people,” he said, as if that explained the problem.
I was a little confused. “Five people?”
“I have a thing about an odd number of people at the dinner table.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I know it sounds weird, but I can’t stand it. I like an even number. That doesn’t mean I’m superstitious,” he said defensively, probably because I’d started to grin. “It just means that visually, I like all the seats filled. It’s a personal preference.”
“Of course.”
“I have plenty of food, and I know Ellen would love to see you, so it would be great if you’d join us.” He finally looked me in the eye, and said the words I wanted to hear. “I’d like you to join us.”
I felt it again—that pull between us.
“Then I will.” Truthfully, I’d have said yes even if he hadn’t told me he wanted me there, because I liked the idea of doing him a favor. “You said seven thirty?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll finish quickly.” I looked down at my muddy jeans and chest, which was smudged with dirt and shiny with sweat. “Then I’ll clean up and maybe do some laundry.”
Derek didn’t seem to know where to look—he went from my torso to my eyes to the house in the space of five seconds. “I’ll put a few more things on your bed that I think might fit, and we can throw your stuff in the wash.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He went back inside, and I finished up the lawn, cleaned up, and put the tools I’d used back exactly where I’d found them. I knew how Derek was about staying organized.
When I was done, I scooped up my sweaty T-shirt from the driveway and went up to the guest bedroom. Derek had placed a pair of jeans and two shirts on my bed, along with more new socks and underwear. I shook my head in disbelief. How much new stuff could one man possibly have on hand, the tags still attached?
I undressed, shoving all the dirty things in the bag I’d used earlier. I took a quick shower, scrubbing off the sweat and dirt of the day, and tried very hard not to imagine hands other than mine running over my skin. He’s dating a woman, remember? Not into guys, not into you, not into anything you’re thinking. So get him out of your head.
Derek had left a new towel folded on the sink, and it was slightly warm, like maybe it had just come out of the dryer. He’d also left a little travel kit packed with basics like a razor, deodorant, a comb, and a couple different hair products. He’s being so good to me. But was it only his belief in helping people out? Did he feel obligated to be this kind, or was there something more to it?
After messing with my hair a little, I hung up my towel and went into the bedroom, where I dressed in Derek’s clothes again. I was glad they belonged to him and weren’t new—it meant he’d worn them before. In fact, before I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the shirt, I found myself smelling the neck of it, looking for any trace of the man, feeling cheated when I didn’t find it. When I was dressed, I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
It pleased me that his clothing fit almost perfectly. No, it was more than that—it turned me on. I felt like we were sharing something (which we weren’t). I felt a physical closeness between us (which didn’t exist). I felt my body respond when I imagined him taking them off me, replacing them with the heat of his skin (which would never happen).
Enough.
I closed my eyes, willing the blood to stop rushing, the desire to stop building, the hum beneath my skin to go away. The insane thing was, my attraction had seemed to grow stronger since hearing that he was dating a woman. What was that about?
It’s about wanting what you can’t have, asshole. Now quit being stupid about him. He’s just a really nice guy. He’s not interested in you and never will be. Get over it.
Nothing is going to happen.
Thirteen
DEREK
I’d invited Maxim to dinner for a reason.
Beyond the fact that I couldn’t stand empty chairs at the table when I had guests, I’d hoped to prove some things to myself: That whatever confusion Maxim stirred up in me was simply displaced desire to be with someone like Carolyn, who was so perfect my subconscious probably felt she was too good for me. That seeing them together would make it abundantly clear that my attraction to Maxim wasn’t real, it was just a desperate attempt to make a connection with someone because I’d been feeling a little lonely. That God wasn’t punishing me for my sins—He was testing me.
It was my job to prove I was stronger than temptation, no matter how powerful it was. I could rise above it. I could win.
It was not going well.
“So, Maxim, did I hear earlier you’d like to be a screenwriter?” Carolyn asked.
She was seated to my right, looking beautiful in a silky red blouse that bared her shoulders and second-skin jeans with high heels. When she’d arrived, I’d greeted her with a big kiss on the lips. It had felt weird and forced, and I’d only done it because Maxim had been standing nearby. He’d looked away, and I’d been angry.
Look at me. This is who I am.
But it wasn’t. I couldn’t have cared less about her ass in her tight jeans, but I couldn’t get enough of Maxim’s in mine. I was angry about that, too.
“That’s the goal,” Maxim said, “but I need to do some studying first.” I’d seated him at the far end of the table because it was the farthest chair away from me, but of course that put us directly opposite each other, and all I’d done was stare at him all night. Even dimming the lights hadn’t helped, because that asshole looked even better by candlelight.
“Oooh, you could write Russian spy movies.” Ellen poured more wine in her glass and giggled. “Whenever I think of Russia, I think of spies. Is that terrible of me? Wait, you’re not a spy, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” He flashed her a mischievous grin I wish he’d given to me. “Not that I would tell you if I was.”
Ellen gasped playfully, then she snapped her fingers. “Damn. I thought maybe I could brag about sitting next to the KGB at dinner.”
“Does the KGB still exist?” asked Gage. He’d been my best friend since seventh grade, and I’d been the best man at his wedding to Lanie eight years ago. Now they had three kids under age six and rarely got out much socially, but he and I tried to have a beer a few times a month to keep up. “I’m kind of embarrassed I don’t know.”
“It’s sort of sad that all we know about Russians, or all they know about us, are stereotypes from movies,” said Lanie. “Why is that?”