The Perfect Score. Julie Kenner
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you’ve stumbled across?’ Or ‘Gee, what lucky star were you born under?’”
“Or maybe ‘Boy, have you got your work cut out for you,’” she said, looking at him gravely.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said, wondering what had possessed her to be so negative.
She rolled her eyes. “Mike, you used to be a lot less naive. Or am I wrong about your intentions here?”
“My intentions,” he said, feeling utterly old-fashioned, “are completely honorable.”
“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it? She’s looking for a wild fling. A bit of experience between the sheets. She said her ex was a dud, right? That means she’s looking for a good time. And she’s not looking for commitment.”
He frowned; she had a point.
“And did she come on to you at the pool?” Steph pressed. Mike had to admit that she hadn’t. “Well, there you go.”
He held out his hands, hoping he demonstrated just how much he didn’t understand what she was talking about.
Steph sighed and rolled her eyes. “Straight guys are just plain dumb,” she said. “Obviously, she already has someone in mind to play stud.”
“Or she’s just not attracted to me.”
Steph shook her head. “No way,” she said, loyally. “You’re irresistible.” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. “No, the only reason our little friend wasn’t playing Flirt Girl with you is that she’s saving up for someone else. So your job, my friend, is to convince her she’s got her eye on the wrong guy.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t have been better off keeping his mouth shut. “And exactly how am I supposed to do that? Chocolate? Roses? Get her drunk and screw her brains out?”
“Not a bad plan,” Steph said, without skipping a beat. “But I think your best approach is to just ease your way into her life. Find out who she’s going after. And then make sure you’re in position to fill in the gaps if her plan stumbles.”
“And why would it stumble?” he asked.
“Who knows why these things go awry? But if she’s already in the mind frame of seduction. And if you’re already in her life. Well, then, wouldn’t her natural reaction be to turn to you?”
“You’re devious. You know that, right?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “I know. The question is, am I right?”
He thought about that. About getting close to her. About the fact that Mattie Brown was the kind of woman he’d enjoy hanging out with. Talking with. Taking long walks with. And, of course, he’d enjoy running his hands over her naked body and driving her positively wild. That was a given.
But the friendship aspect? Yeah, he wanted that, too. And if by being her friend, he could be her lover…
His fingertip slowly traced the rim of the margarita glass. “Yeah,” he said slowly, after he’d thought it all over. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
I HATE PRESSBOARD. THAT fake wood with veneer on it filled with packed sawdust that weighs umpteen million pounds.
So far, I’d managed to chip the corners of two pieces, strip the screw-hole out of a third piece, and mutilate my toe by dropping yet another piece right on it. All in the name of a lateral filing cabinet I didn’t want for a job I didn’t want.
Honestly.
And I was all the more irritated because my sister had called earlier, just to say “Hi,” she’d said. But when I’d told her about my furniture dilemma, she’d immediately launched into a narrative about how her boss had insisted she not work at home. He wants her to have a life, he said. And to make sure she was comfortable whenever she did have to work long hours at the office, he gave her an astronomical furniture budget and told her to go for it.
Even in furniture, Angie wins out. I tell you, it’s enough to drive a girl batty.
I shoved thoughts of my sister out of my head, and instead focused on the mess in front of me. What I needed was help. Immediately, an image of Mike filled my head. Nice Mike. Cute Mike. Mike with the awesome upper body.
I shook myself. Bad Mattie. Bad. Bad.
Still…I did need to get that margarita glass back. And if he asked me what I was doing—and if I told him I was having a heck of a time assembling some furniture—and if he offered to help me out…well, who was I to say no?
Having thus justified seeing him one more time, I stood and headed to the door. I paused to check my face and hair in the mirror I keep hanging there, decided I looked respectable if not awesome, and pulled open the door to reveal the man himself.
“Mike! I was just coming to see you!”
He held up my margarita glass. “Desperate to get it back?”
“No, of course not,” I said, even though that had totally been my planned excuse. “I, um, was hoping you could give me a hand.” I stepped back from the door and ushered him in.
He brushed past me, glanced around, then turned to face me directly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but did a sawmill erupt in here?”
“Very funny.” I plucked the glass out of his hand. “Will you help me if I offer to fill this back up for you?”
He flashed me a grin, charming, but with a hint of mischief. “With an offer like that, how could I refuse?”
Since I’m not a fool, I immediately slapped an Allen wrench into his open palm and pointed him toward the instructions (balled up under the television stand where I’d kicked them in a fit of pique.) He scored points by not even looking at me funny as he bent to dig them out.
I retreated to the kitchen to make the margaritas.
Not that retreated really describes it. The apartment is only about seven hundred square feet consisting of a big rectangle filled with a living area, a dining area and a kitchen area, pretty much all open to each other unless you’re standing way back by the fridge.
Between the dining area (carpeted) and the kitchen area (tiled) were two stairs leading up to a tiny bathroom on the left and a decent-size bedroom on the right. That’s it. End of grand tour.
It’s not much, but you’d think differently if you saw the check I wrote every month. Studio City doesn’t come cheap.
All of which is to say that even though I couldn’t see Mike the whole time, I could hear him. And it felt nice and cozy—and scarily domestic—to be working in the kitchen while he was shuffling pieces of wood and muttering to himself.
Since making margaritas requires little more than dumping ice and alcohol into a blender and pressing On, it didn’t take me too long to whip up a batch. Even so, in the short time that I was gone, Mike had managed to assemble an entire base section of the cabinet.
“Wow. You’re good.” I handed him his drink then sat on the floor next to him, looking at what he’d accomplished in only a few minutes, compared to the nothing I’d accomplished in hours.
“Call it a guy thing,” he said, then he flashed that grin again. I really like that grin, and I felt my stomach do one of those flip-flop numbers.
I turned away, suddenly feeling shy. “So, um, what can I do to help?”
“Just keep bringing the margaritas. I’ve got a handle on everything else.”
“And you’re sure you don’t mind?”
He looked up at me, and I felt warm and tingly all over. More, I knew that he was telling me the absolute truth when he said, “No. I don’t mind at all.”
And so that’s how it happened. He worked and I