Dishing It Out. Molly O'KeefeЧитать онлайн книгу.
were bad.
You need to help him. Fix this. You cannot ignore him. You’re all he has. This is your responsibility.
But she didn’t want it anymore. For once in her life she wanted to make a decision not based on her father’s fragile mental state.
Forgetting the rest of her usual stretches, she pushed inside the building. She felt too raw to have Marc’s scrutinizing eyes around.
“No wonder you’re in such great shape,” he muttered, and she had a feeling she was not meant to hear that, as she was inside when he’d uttered it. Which managed to cheer her a little. Pathetic, yes, but, hey, she deserved a little pathetic.
She glanced back at Marc following her, and though he tried to hide it, he’d very obviously been staring at her ass.
Pathetic isn’t all you deserve.
No. No, no, no cops. Not some arbitrary edict. It was necessary for career survival. So Marc could stare at her ass and be nice and hot and whatever. Her reputation was way more important than some guy.
Regardless of the size of that guy’s shoulders. Or thighs. Or biceps. Mmm. Biceps. Get a grip, Camden.
She reached the top of the stairs, probably only a few feet from her tired legs giving out completely. “Well, thanks for the company. I needed it.” She looked at her door, dreading facing the phone on the other side. Dreading the weakness inside her that would grow, fester, until she’d give up and go over there. Until she’d lose at convincing herself she couldn’t help him.
“I’m buying a chair,” Marc said out of nowhere. “Maybe a table. You...”
She turned to stare at him. “I?”
“If you’re looking for something to do.” He shrugged those big yummy shoulders she really needed to distance herself from. “I could use some help. I’ve never picked out furniture before.”
Tess’s throat got tight, but she swallowed through it. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a marshmallow?”
“No,” he said, so seriously, so disgustedly, she had to laugh despite the warmth of gratitude clogging behind her eyes as tears.
“Well, you are, and I appreciate it. I’ll even buy you lunch.”
“Look, to be clear...”
Tess had a feeling she knew where this was going, and if she were noble she might have saved him the discomfort, but a mess of a girl needed a little something to make her feel a pinch in charge of her life. “Clear about?”
“It’s not...it’s not a date. That’s not what I’m... Friends. We should be friends. Not dating...things.”
“God, you’re cute.”
“Tess.”
“No worries. I don’t date cops, even if I want to. So you’re safe no matter how much you’re nice to me.” Though she couldn’t resist one little flirt. “Or how many lusty vibes crop up.”
“I’m really starting to hate that word,” he grumbled. “Noon. I’ll meet you at my truck.”
Tess nodded and did her best not to saunter to her apartment door, not to swing her hips or bounce her steps, no matter how tired her legs were, but she could feel his eyes on her, so it was hard.
Well, welcome to life. Hard.
* * *
“PIVOT.”
Tess started giggling, which was not pivoting so they could get the damn couch up the stairs. A couch she’d somehow talked him into. He didn’t plan on having company. It was just him. Why would he need a couch? A chair would have sufficed.
“Why are you laughing?” Marc grumbled, the bulk of the weight of the couch resting on his shoulder. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, that run this morning had kicked his ass—physically and emotionally and whatever feeling was ignoring your hot neighbor/coworker’s hotness.
Something akin to wanting to crawl out of one’s skin. Or sex. Sex would be good.
He gritted his teeth and Tess got a better grip on the couch. “I take it from the grumpiness you never watched Friends. You know, Ross yelling at everyone to pivot in the stairwell?”
“No, I’ve never seen it.”
“How is that even possible? I’m not sure I can trust someone who’s never seen Friends.”
“I’m not big on TV.”
“Strike two, Santino. Next up you’ll tell me you don’t like dessert and I’ll be forced to hate you forever.”
“Depends on the dessert.” Which was not sexual innuendo. And it didn’t sound like it, either. Not to her. Not to him. Nope.
“Okay, so what’s your favorite?” They got the couch around the stairwell turn.
Sexual innuendo? Oh, no, dessert. “Cannoli.”
They reached the top and Tess dropped her end. “Ooh, Santino. Cannoli. Italian. Is your family in the mafia? The Minnesota mafia. And you’re a dirty cop!”
“No. Apparently you watch too much TV.”
“No fun.”
No, he wasn’t. But she was. He’d pity invited her on this shopping outing, one he’d mostly been dreading since picking out crap and spending money were two of his least favorite things, and she’d made it fun. He’d laughed.
He was so inherently screwed.
He unlocked his door, twin urges surging through him. One was the one he should listen to. The one to tell her she’d helped, and now she could leave, because he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t dying.
The other was to ignore that urge. Let her come in. Comment on his apartment again. Infiltrate on some crazy chance they both knew they couldn’t let happen.
“Thinking awfully hard there for a door opening.”
“Just thinking about how I was swindled,” he lied, poorly. Ill-advisedly.
Tess laughed, picking up her end of the couch again. “Oh, my God, you did not just say swindled. Are you living on the prairie?”
“It’s a legitimate word,” Marc grumbled. He didn’t need her help to get it in the apartment, but he didn’t say anything. Except, “I could make my own damn chair for half the amount of this stupid couch you talked me into.”
Tess snorted. “Sure, Ron Swanson.”
“Huh?”
“You, sir, need an education. Friends, Parks and Rec, The Office.”
“I prefer reading, thanks.”
“Strike three. You’re out,” she puffed out as they maneuvered the couch into the apartment. They dropped it in the general area in front of the TV. “Besides, if you prefer to read, why do you have a TV?”
“Sports.”
Tess rolled her eyes. “Oh, be a little less stereotypical.”
“My e-reader is full of romances.”
Her eyes got comically wide. “Really?”
“No. I actually prefer nonfiction. Biographies and stuff like that, but that’s probably stereotypical.”
She collapsed onto the couch, throwing her arm dramatically over her forehead. “Oh, and here I got all excited you had some secret poetic side to you.” She peered out from under her arm. “You know, I should hate you for not paying the delivery fee and making me help.”
“I should