Did you need ketchup?” Rachel asked the man as she put a cheeseburger and waffle fries in front of him.
“Naw, sweetheart. Just another Bud.” He winked and her smile turned saccharine. The youngish guy was in jeans and a button-down, had blond hair and eyes that didn’t open all the way, and had been hitting on her all evening. And he was laying it on thick.
She walked by Bree, who was cashing out another bar patron.
“Bud bottle to seat six for me,” she mumbled.
“Sure thing.” Bree gave a quick nod.
Neither of them questioned when the other one asked for a favor. Usually the patron took the hint if they double-teamed him.
So to speak.
The rest of the evening flew, and both Bree and Rachel considered themselves lucky they’d escaped without swatting too many guys away. Almost everyone was on their best behavior. No crazy rush (beyond the usual), so Andromeda hit a lull at midnight. Late for a first cut, but Bree could definitely handle the crowd if she left.
“What a night,” she said to Bree as she counted and separated the tips.
“I know! This weekend has been nuts. Don’t people know it’s February? They should stay home where it’s warm and binge Netflix.”
Rachel spun the bills in her hand so they were facing the same way and put the stack on the counter. She kept her back to the bar while she did, even though she wasn’t worried about being robbed. There was muscle at the door in the form of Lex, a college student earning tips while he went to CSU. He was nice, though. Had a girlfriend who lived in Iowa, and from what Rachel had seen, he was completely loyal to her.
Maybe there were a few good guys left on the planet.
“Hey, I didn’t tell you,” Rachel said as Breanna poured and delivered a draft beer to seat 12. “This guy who lives upstairs from Oliver stopped by at the butt crack of dawn this morning.” Ones stacked in her hand, she smiled at her friend. “I thought he was the dog walker and gave him a leash and poop bag.”
Bree laughed, a rich sound matching her mahogany hair. “Tell me you didn’t call it a ‘poop bag.’”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.” Rachel scrunched her face, realizing how ridiculous her reaction was to the guy.
Yes, sure, he was attractive in a completely unique way. And yes, she had looked like a pajama-clad hobo and offered him a poop bag, but really, who cared? She wasn’t looking, and he clearly wasn’t interested.
“He lives upstairs from Oliver, and Oliver’s apartment is ritzy,” Rachel continued explaining. Oliver’s neighbor had been on her mind all day. “This guy didn’t look like a guy who lived in a ritzy penthouse.”
“Well, what did he look like?”
Rachel decided to leave out the attractive qualities lest Bree take it as an invitation to imaginarily set her up with Mr. Tall, Tan, and Sexy.
“He was uh…” Built like a brick shithouse, as hard as a brick shithouse. “He was a big guy, probably a few years older than we are.” There. That sounded generic. “And he wasn’t friendly. I stumbled into him because Adonis is the size of a horse, and I had a hold of the leash. You should have seen the guy’s face when I body-slammed him. He looked severely angry.”
And kissable.
“So you went rubbing against Oliver’s unfriendly upstairs neighbor?”
“Basically.”
“Oh, no. Embarrassing.” Bree’s face melted into a mask of sympathy. But for Rachel, the moment hadn’t been that bad. Aside from worrying about her morning breath. Which, if the guy was as bland as Rachel had made him sound, wouldn’t have been embarrassing at all. Okay-looking guys were easy to relax around.
Back in Ohio, Rachel’s 140-year-old dentist had retired and a youngish doctor had replaced him. A guy so attractive, she could barely think when she went in for a checkup. Dr. Moore. Purr.
“I take it by your frown you’re not over it?” Bree asked. “Try to relax. The guy probably thought you were cute and was envious of Oliver’s superior taste in women.”
Rachel laughed dismissively, split the tips, and put her cash into a pocket. Then she paused, Bree’s words wending around her brain until she practically heard them click into place.
“Bree.”
“Yeah?” Bree answered, distractedly folding her three hundred dollars in tips and shoving it into her front pocket.
“Do you think the neighbor thought I was with Oliver? Like with him?” Because even though Oliver was a super-sweet guy, he was still older and…just no. That would be wrong.
Bree shrugged it off and called, “Thanks again!” as a bar customer climbed from his seat. Then to Rachel, she said, “Possibly. It’s not uncommon for an older, rich dude to have a hot girlfriend.”
“Well, he did ask if I was Oliver’s niece.”
“Also plausible.” Bree leaned against the back counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’d you say?”
“I told him the truth. I wasn’t, and Oliver was one of my regulars.”
Bree offered a shrug; then her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. This time when she laughed, she slapped her thigh.
“What?” Rachel watched her reaction, completely perplexed.
“Your ‘regular’ what?” Bree was still grinning.
“My regular customer,” Rachel answered, making the duh face.
“Yes, honey, here the term regular makes sense.” Bree dropped a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “But in the hallway of a ritzy apartment with you looking cute and sexy-frumpy…”
“Sexy-frumpy? I don’t even know what that is.”
“He thought you were Oliver’s hot mama.”
“Eww!”
Bree laughed again. “Stranger things have happened.” She walked to the other side of the bar, but Rachel stood frozen.
Was that what he’d thought? That Oliver was one of her…clients?
Don’t blue-ball the guy…
A minute later, Rachel said goodbye to Bree, who greeted a group of guys at the bar and waved, then hailed a cab back to her temporary home.
On the ride there, she thought about Oliver’s gargantuan neighbor, how warm and hard he’d felt. How obscenely good-looking he was despite the fact he had a mane of hair. Which she did not like, by the way. Some girls had a type, and she was one of those girls. She liked guys who dressed smart, not necessarily suit-and-tie, but fashionable. She liked men who had ambition. She liked men who knew how to live the good life. Drank espresso. Cared about thread count.
As she made the mental list of qualities she liked in a man, they added up to Shaun. Which started to make her sad, then morphed to anger. Anger was a better emotion. Better to be pissed at Shaun than go down the rabbit hole of unanswered questions.
Why didn’t he put me first? Why wasn’t he sorry? Why did I ever introduce him to my parents?
Nope. No good answers lay down that route.
But she could stoke the flames of a current anger. The one where the long-haired upstairs neighbor basically assumed she was a prostitute. Just because she was staying in Oliver’s apartment and just because she kept late hours was no reason for the guy to assume the worst about her.
Who did that jerk think he was? She felt her lip curl; then an idea hit her.
She rapped on the glass separating her and the cabbie and gave him a different address. “I need to make a quick stop and then back to Crane Tower, please,” she instructed. Rachel was sure Bree wouldn’t mind if she raided her closet. It was for a good cause.
The mountain man thought she was a lady of the night?
Well, then that’s what she’d give him.
* * *
Beer in hand, Tag turned down the music and jogged for his cell phone, plugged in on the other side of his house. He loved the space, loved that he had room to move. At six-five bordering six foot six, he was used to ducking for doorways and bumping into walls in an effort to navigate in a smaller man’s world.
Here he had all the space he needed.
“Tag,” he answered, even though he’d already seen his father’s name on the caller ID.
“How’s it coming?”
His mouth twisted. Ever since the board mentioned struggling bar profits, Dad had been up his ass. Despite being retired, Alex Crane made it his business to know what was going on.
“My day?” Tag asked, playing dumb. “It’s coming along nicely. I cracked open a beer and was about to settle in and watch television.”
“Taggart.”
He ground his teeth together. Could he hate his full name any more? Not possible.
“I’m talking about the bars,” Alex said.
“I know.” Tag took a long pull from his beer bottle and glanced over at the plans he’d drawn up. He used the word plans loosely, considering he hadn’t done much more than scribble with red Sharpie on top of printed photos. Still, he had some good stuff going on. “I’ve been working on it all day, Dad. You suck at being retired, by the way.”
Alex laughed, a comforting raspy sound. “Rhona says the same thing to me all the time.”
A warm female voice trilled in the background and Alex laughed again. Tag’s neck prickled. Rhona had been his father’s personal assistant for years. Hell, decades, now. But lately, he’d been mentioning her more. She’d been around more.
Tag’s mom had been gone since he was eleven, but he still felt territorial over his father. He’d have to ask Reese if he’d noticed anything. No, scratch that, he’d ask his brother’s fiancée, Merina. Reese was a goose egg on figuring out people, but Mer had more intuition than all the Crane brothers put together.
“I ask because I wanted to give you Howard Schiller’s contact info.”
“Dad, I know Howard.” Howard Schiller was the architect who had designed at least a dozen of Crane’s interiors. It wasn’t as if Tag lounged at the pool when he did site and build visits. He put on a hard hat and met with developers. “I have his contact info.”
“Then why aren’t you using him?”
“How do you know I’m not?” Tag snapped, setting the beer bottle down too hard and spilling some of it from the neck onto the photos. “Shit.”
“I know because I’m your father and I like to make sure you don’t wind up penniless and homeless and…”
“Without a pot to piss in,” Tag finished for him as he cleaned the spill with a nearby napkin. “Stop being ridiculous. Go drink your Metamucil or something.” Rhona’s giggle punctuated the air and Tag added, “And take your Cialis.”
“Never, son,” Alex said, his tone bow-strong. “Never question your old man’s cock.”
On that note, a knock came at the door. A light trio of raps. “Someone’s at my door. Thanks for the advice and mind your own damn business.”
“Later, kid.” Alex chuckled and Tag found himself smiling. Cantankerous old man.
He ended the call as he approached the door. Through the peephole, he saw a woman facing away from him in a short black dress, tall black spiky boots, and blond curls trailing down her back.
“Well, well,” he muttered, reaching for the knob. He did a quick run-through of his list of curly-headed blondes and came up with a few. Tina. Margo. Oh, maybe Brittani. Although the last night he’d brought her home, she drank way too much Sour Apple Pucker and passed out on the sofa. So maybe not her. He didn’t have the energy.
Since he’d started this bar upgrade business he hadn’t gone out at all. His evenings were long and late, and peppered with Adonis’s barking—which rang out now, shrill and unwelcome.
Hearing that would be fun while trying to twist up the sheets with the blonde standing in the hallway.
He popped open the door, cranking his expression to seduction mode, and then the girl turned and the smile slipped from his face.
Blond curls, red lips, tight, tight black dress pushing her tits out, and the short skirt exposing only a few inches of bare pale legs above the boots. It was Oliver’s girlfriend. Adonis’s caregiver.
“You,” he snarled, having no luck wrangling his lust-filled thoughts into a neutral corner. Here he’d thought he was opening the door to an evening of sex and instead was faced with this one.
“Hey,” she purred, strolling toward him, eyes at half-mast, shoulders pulled forward slightly, her cleavage on parade.
He held up one hand and took a step away from her.
“What’s the matter?” Doe eyes. Pouty mouth. Another step forward.
“Listen, honey, I’m not sure what you…” She walked toward him, and he maintained his grip on the doorknob, pulling his other arm back before he had a handful of breast. And yeah, he’d thought about what that’d feel like. When she’d stumbled into him outside Oliver’s door, he’d noticed every inch of her soft body pressing against him. Braless breasts cushy against his torso, small hands clenching his pecs…
“Not sure of what?” She tipped her head back, hair falling down her back, smile widening, and—sweet Jesus. Dimples. Two of them, one on each side of her red apple of a mouth.
He swallowed around a lump of lust. He wasn’t sure what she was doing. Well, he thought he knew what she was doing, but right now thinking wasn’t easy. The blood wasn’t exactly flowing to the head on his shoulders.
Then, the diversion he needed happened. Three quick barks followed by a pathetic, high-pitched howl crept through the floor.
Rachel’s smile vanished as her top teeth stabbed her bottom lip. Suddenly she didn’t look like a tempting seductress bent on snaring a man in her web; she looked…worried.
“Is that what he does when I’m gone?” she asked, her voice small.
“Yeah.”
“The entire time?” Her pale eyebrows bowed.
“Pretty much.”
She blew out a breath and with it, sent some of her curls billowing in front of her gorgeous face. He narrowed his eyes and took her in, like he was seeing her for the first time. Something was off. He realized he’d officially met her in the morning so she hadn’t been dressed to go out, but he’d also spotted her out front of the apartment building and saw how she dressed normally. Sexy, yes, and in a skirt, but this…this skintight getup wasn’t her.
“What going on?” he asked.
Her eyes went to his face. “What do you mean?”
He lifted one of her blond curls, intending to drop it, but wound the silken strands around his finger instead. When he’d met her, her hair was wavy at best, not a tornado of curls. “This. What are you doing here dressed like this?” He gave her hair a gentle tug, then dropped it, figuring there was only one of two reasons she’d be at his door dressed like a decadent dessert. Either she knew he was a Crane and was an opportunist, or she was playing it up to teach him a lesson. He narrowed his eyes in thought.
He’d bet it was the latter.
“You thought I was a hooker,” she said, her top lip curling.
Tag chuckled. “I did not.”
“You did! I said Oliver was a regular, and you thought I meant one of my tricks.” She did air quotes and everything.
His chuckle turned into a belly laugh and he had to put a hand on his stomach to catch his breath. “No, sweetheart, I thought you meant you were one of his regular girls. Girlfriends. Not that you curled his toes for money.”
Busted, she blushed, and that made him happy. Definitely she was not doing Oliver. His day was looking up.
“I hadn’t ruled out you slept with him for perks, because he’s a wealthy dude and I’m sure he sees a lot of that kind of attention, but I didn’t think you were a working woman.” He smirked.
“It’s not funny.” She’d folded her arms, which had the side effect of pushing her tits together, creating enough cleavage that he nearly lost the thread of their conversation.
He pulled himself together by looking at her boots. Patent leather, shiny, pointy-toed.
“What were you trying to prove by gussying yourself up?” He gestured at her body, but he couldn’t dismiss her. She rocked that dress, even though he’d bet it was a size smaller than what she was used to wearing. Maybe it belonged to one of her friends. Rachel had amazing curves, and they were testing the limits of her outfit…and Tag’s ability to stay on point. “What were you planning to do, anyway? Were you coming up here to seduce me?”
A not at all unpleasant idea…
“You wish.” She snorted—an honest to God snort. “I’m not the least bit attracted to…” She shrugged, which was cute. “What you have going on.”
“No?” He felt his eyebrows lift. “Because this”—he gestured to his body—“has worked for plenty of women.”
“What women? Women who want to help you brush your hair? Women who are into the whole you-Tarzan, me-Jane scenario?”
Damn. And she was funny.
“I’m not opposed to role-playing,” he teased with a grin. She flinched, and he let the comment hang. He couldn’t remember a woman ever brushing his hair, save for his mom when he was a kid, but he’d let Rachel keep poking him. Tag knew women, and this one seemed like she had no idea what she wanted. Maybe she’d known at one point, but now…now she wasn’t sure.
“Rachel Foster,” she introduced, shooting a hand out for him to shake.
A handshake? Who was this woman? He took her hand and she answered that question, too.
“Oliver is a regular at the bar where I work. He found out I was saving money to move out of my roommates’ apartment and offered me a gig house-slash-dog sitting for him.”
So, completely professional acquaintance. He should have guessed. He’d always suspected Oliver was gay. He’d never seen him with a woman. Then again, he’d never seen him with a man, either, Tag thought with a mouth shrug.
“And you are?” she asked.
Was she playing him, or did she really not know? Her eyebrows were slightly raised in an expression of genuine curiosity.
“Tag,” he answered, letting go of her hand.
“Tag? As in you’re it?”
Tag as in Taggart, but he’d die before she found out he was named after his great-great-grandfather Crane.
“Yeah. As in you’re it.” They shared a not uncomfortable silence, eyes on each other. He could swear the air between them thickened. He opened his mouth to ask if she was going to give chase when Adonis’s bark killed the opportunity.
She gestured at the floor, beneath which was her apartment and a very unhappy pup. “What am I going to do about him? I work second shift, so it’s not like I can be home with him in the evening. I take him out five times, day and night, snow or sunshine.”
“He has separation anxiety,” Tag said over another of Adonis’s mournful howls. “The internet suggested a few things.”
“You…you researched it?” She looked confused and a little grateful, and now that he knew she wasn’t Oliver’s girlfriend, a whole lot tempting.
“Yeah.” After he’d spoken with Fi, he’d pulled up a few websites on his phone. “I didn’t want to file a noise complaint.”
“Thanks,” she muttered quietly, followed by an even quieter, “I need this job.”
A bartender who needed a side job. This smacked of a woman who was trying to take a bite out of success in the big city and the city bit back. He wondered what her story was.
“What’d it say?” she asked.
“What did what say?”
She frowned. “The internet.”
Right. He really needed to keep his thoughts on track when she was around, or she’d assume he was some idiot with a trust fund who was living in a penthouse because he was spoiled. She wouldn’t be the first person who’d underestimated him. When he was younger, being underestimated was his shtick, but then he grew up and opted to tell the truth. He was intelligent, he’d made his own millions, though his portfolio upgraded his title to billionaire by the time he was twenty-six, and he preferred the term blessed over spoiled. He refused to apologize for living the good life.
He crooked a finger and beckoned Rachel deeper into the house. She came, which gave him an immense sense of satisfaction. She closed the front door behind her and wobbled a little in her high, high boots, and he bit back a smile. He must have burrowed under her skin if she’d gone to the trouble of putting as much of her body on display as possible in clothes that weren’t hers. When she’d stumbled into him in Oliver’s doorway the other morning, she’d slammed into him about chest high. With the boots, she was almost to his chin. He tried not to think about where else they might line up, but the images came.
Hot, sweaty, panting images.
“Front desk didn’t tell me you were on your way up, or I’d have met you at the door with this.” He picked up a large brown bag from Pup Paradise, a place on the Magnificent Mile where he’d purchased anything and everything to help with Adonis’s issue.
“The front desk was supposed to tell you when I arrived?”
Shit. Now he sounded like a stalker.
“I didn’t want to miss you.”
“Oh.” Her full lips pursed to a tempting degree.
“There are treats, toys, and something called a Kong. You’re supposed to fill it with peanut butter.”
She took the other handle of the bag and dug through the contents with him. Soft skin brushed the back of his hand and made him wonder if she was that soft everywhere. “Peanut butter?”
“You’re supposed to help him look forward to being alone,” Tag said, clearing his throat and his mind of his lecherous thoughts. “He probably thinks Oliver left him for good.”
“Adonis has had sitters before.” She pulled out a squirrel toy and squeaked it. Then traded it for a book on dog behavior and gave him a dubious look. “Really?”
“He doesn’t know you. Maybe you two should bond.”
“He sleeps in bed with me.” She dropped the book into the bag. “We’ve bonded.”
“Sounds cozy.” Forcefully, he pulled his gaze from her mouth. A mouth he’d bet tasted like candy.
“Shut up.” She snatched the bag, but there was a teasing glint in her eye. She turned for the door and he kept his eyes on her ass, realizing belatedly she’d turned around. He rerouted his gaze to her frowning face. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome, I suppose.”
She glared at him.
He grinned.
She opened and shut the door and he jogged to the peephole and watched as she waited for the elevator. She pulled out an oversized stuffed ball and sent another unsure gaze at the door.
“God, she smelled good,” he said to himself. The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. “And she likes you.”
Kind of liked him.
Or else she wouldn’t have come up here to put him in his place. Plus that electric zap that hummed in the air hadn’t only radiated from him.
He had a feeling she was fighting attraction he knew she’d felt. If she was fighting, he was willing to pull on his gloves and climb in the ring with her.
Suddenly, he was really glad he was having an issue with his downstairs neighbor.
Game on.