Dream of You (12 page)

Kristin arrived at Rob's a few minutes late,
because she went home to wash the coffee smell out of her hair and
change into sexier clothes. Ready, she rang the doorbell.

He opened the door, delicious in his dress
shirt with its sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned at the collar. He
smiled at her, looking her over in a way that sent tingles up and
down her body. "Come in."

Her goal had been a sperm donor—she hadn't
been optimistic about finding anyone to share her life. Even if she
set aside the fact that she had too much money, she wasn't an easy
person to live with. She'd been on her own too long—she was too set
in her ways.

But there was something about Rob. With him,
she felt like it could work, and her gut reactions had never led
her astray.

The puppy ran up to greet her. Kneeling,
Kristin scratched it in all usual places. "Hey there, Chanel."

The dog woofed once and then trotted away,
obviously satisfied with the attention.

"What did the vet say?"

"He gave her a clean bill of health," Rob
assured her. "He was impressed, given she was a stray."

"She's an impressive dog."

"I think so. Come this way." Rob led her down
the hall.

She started to tell him she remembered the
way to the study, but then he veered and led her into the dining
room. She paused in the doorway, not liking the room for its
coldness and formality. She wanted to ask him if they could move to
the floor in his study, but all the documents on the table confused
her. "What is all this?"

"What I wanted to talk to you about. Sit." He
pulled out a chair for her and then took the one across from
her.

Too far away. She almost moved to the seat
next to him, but then a database schema on the table right in front
of her caught her eye. Picking it up, she slowly sat down. "This is
for one of your stock databases?"

"Yes. It doesn't perform the way we'd
optimally like, and I haven't found the right person to fix it. But
I have a feeling you might be the right person."

Frowning, she stared at the paper. "In what
way?"

He began to describe what he used the
database for and how it fell short of what he needed. The
augmentations he wanted were a piece of cake—a junior database
admin could accomplish them.

Except he was asking her to do them.

She liked that he thought she was The One,
but she'd have preferred if it wasn't because of her tech
knowledge. She'd left that world behind.

But it wouldn't take much to do what he
wanted. It was easy for her, and it'd benefit him. She'd look at
this like a test. If she passed it, she was in. He was trusting her
with his business, and she knew for a man like him that meant a
lot. He didn't think their worlds were compatible, and this was her
chance to show how well-matched they really were.

So she focused and asked him a few more
questions about how he and his team used the database.

At first, Rob looked startled but then he
answered her eagerly.

She made some notes and then considered the
work. It wasn't hard, but she'd have to work on it at night, after
her shifts at Grounds for Thought. And she wanted to add a couple
customizable features to the interface that Rob needed in the long
run. She pursed her lips, estimating. "It'll take me two weeks,
maybe three."

He stared at her. "You really can do it."

"Well, yeah. I'm perfect for this. I'd have
to be stupid to say I'd do it if I couldn't."

"Then why are you working at the café? There
are countless tech jobs these days, especially for someone
good."

"Maybe no one will hire me," she said
blithely, looking down at her notes.

"You were hired at the café."

"Eve has low standards," she lied. "So are
you going to feed me any time soon? Because I didn't eat
lunch."

He frowned at her as he stood up. "You need
to eat more regularly."

"Yes, sir." She rolled her eyes and followed
him to the kitchen.

He glanced at her as he opened the
refrigerator door. "I'm serious."

"I've made it thirty-eight years without
major mishap. I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself."

He froze and gawked at her. "You're
thirty-eight
?"

"Yeah." She arched her brow as she hopped
onto the counter. "You didn't seriously think I was eighteen or
something."

"Not quite, but close." He studied her face
as though searching for signs of age.

She shrugged, feeling self-conscious. "It's
only genes. My mom is sixty-nine and looks like she's barely forty.
How old are you?"

"Forty."

"And you're single?" She tsked. "Some people
would wonder what's wrong with you."

"Aren't you single?"

"Yes, but everyone knows what's wrong with
me."

"And what's that?" he asked as he set a tray
of lasagna in the microwave.

"I do my own thing. Men can't handle
that."

"Some men can."

She didn't care about some men—she cared
about him. "You like independent women?"

"Yes." He leaned against the counter. "I work
a lot of hours, and most women don't understand that. They want
someone who'll be around more."

"Are you planning to work as much when you
have a family?"

"I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get to
it."

"If we had a family together, you'd have to
be available."

"Since when are we having a family
together?"

Since always. "It's non-negotiable, by the
way. Our kid doesn't need an absentee father."

"I wouldn't be an absentee father." He
checked on the lasagna, taking it out of the microwave and setting
it on the counter. "My dad was always around. I know how important
that is."

"My dad was always around too." She opened a
drawers until she found the silverware. Taking two forks, she
handed one to Rob before leaning on the counter and digging
straight into the pan. Why dirty dishes if you didn't have to?

She knew Rob stared at her, but then he
followed her lead.

"For the record," she said around a hot bite
of pasta, "I'm staying at home once the kids are born."

"Kids?"

"Homer and Ulysses." She shrugged at his
questioning look. "Start them off on a great note, don't you
think?"

"Or else spend a fortune on therapy when
they're picked on constantly in school."

She fed him a nicely crusted piece. "I know
it's very un-PC to be a stay-at-home mom, but I don't want to miss
any part of them growing up."

"I'll miss seeing your face in the mornings
at the café," he admitted.

"You won't miss my face, because I'll be
waking up with you every morning." She grinned at him. "You'll see
more than my face."

He shook his head. "You need to stop talking
like that."

"Like what?" She batted her eyelashes
innocently.

"I meant it when I said that I don't fool
around with people who work for me."

Kristin dropped her fork. "You mean that
while I'm revamping your database, there's not going to be any
monkey business?"

"Exactly."

"You're going to miss kissing me, you
know."

His gaze fell to her lips, which she licked
to punctuate her point. "Most likely," he conceded.

"You're going to miss touching me, too." She
set her fork down and trapped him against the counter, pressing
herself flush against him. "We feel perfect, touching body-to-body
like this. You can't deny that."

"No, I can't." He held her close, his fingers
running up her back.

Sighing, she arched into his caress. If only
he'd do more, or slide his hands under her shirt. "But you still
insist on this no fraternization policy?"

"Yes." He sounded torn, like he could be
swayed.

Maybe she should get someone else to do the
work for him. She knew plenty of people who were qualified. She
could pass it along and manage the job to make sure it was done
properly.

But she wanted to show him that she was on
his side, that he could trust her—what better way than showing him
she understood what he needed? The moratorium on their relationship
would only incentivize her to get the work done sooner. Everyone
would come out ahead in the end.

"Okay." She stepped away and stuck her hand
out. "Deal."

He blinked as though startled and stared at
her hand like he didn't understand what it meant. Then he shook his
head and took her hand. "Good."

The warm glide of his palm against hers made
her shiver, and she vowed this was going to be the shortest term
consulting gig in the history of tech, because she wanted to feel
that palm slide all over her body and she wasn't taking no for an
answer.

Lola hunched over her laptop, tapping
furiously at the keyboard. After all those fits and false starts,
the book was shaping up. The words were literally pouring out of
her in an unstoppable whirlwind.

She usually worried about the quality of her
writing, but she had a giddy feeling that this was the best thing
she'd ever written. The pacing was brisk, the dialogue was snappy,
and the characters were awesome. Louise and Sawyer fairly sizzled
on the page.

Not as much as she and Sam sizzled in real
life, but it was close.

Of course, she didn't write
everything
she and Sam did. No one would believe how great the reality
was.

Her gaze drifted out the window as she
remembered the private after-party they'd had the night of the
benefit. They'd eventually made it back to her apartment where
they'd stayed up all night talking—and other stuff—finally falling
asleep in the early morning hours. He'd stayed Saturday, leaving
Sunday morning only because he was scheduled to pick up his
daughter.

She sighed happily. It'd been a
nice
weekend.

Lola usually didn't like having someone
around while she was working. Kevin used to disrupt her writing all
the time, asking her questions and generally demanding her
attention.

Sam went out to the car to get his gym bag
and came back with a latte for her. A couple hours later, when she
came up for air, he made her a salad and sent her off to work more,
sitting on the couch in her living room and reading.

Clarification: reading
her
book.

When she'd noticed it, she stalled for a
moment, oddly touched. She'd never cared if anyone she knew read
her work as long as they bought a copy to support her. Romance
wasn't everyone's cup of tea, especially a manly man like Touchdown
Taylor.

But she'd watched him as he read it, and she
could tell he enjoyed it by the little smile on his face. Every now
and then he'd burst out laughing, and her heart turned over.

It did a lot of that around him.

Her phone rang. Speak of the devil, she
thought when she looked at the screen. She answered it.

"I need a huge favor," he said without
preamble. "My ex-wife decided to drop Madison off without warning,
so I don't have a babysitter lined up for her, but I have to go to
work. I know you've got to write, but do you think you could come
over and do it here?"

"You want me to take care of Madison?"

"I know. It's asking a lot."

"No, I'm just surprised because I got the
impression you don't trust her with just anyone."

"That's why I called you."

Her heart did that funny flopping thing
again. "When do you need me over?"

"Five minutes ago."

She chuckled. "I'm on my way."

Scribbling down the address he gave her, she
packed up her laptop and notes and went to rescue him.

The address belonged to a large flat in the
lower Haight. The outside of the building was a bit rundown. She
rang the doorbell and a moment later she heard heavy footsteps
jogging down stairs and the door opened.

"Thank you," he said fervently, drawing her
inside and kissing her quickly. "I owe you. Big time. I'm sorry. I
need to go. I'm late."

"Go. We'll be fine," she said, even though
she didn't have the slightest idea of what to do with an eleven
year old. Being an only child, she'd never had to babysit.

He kissed her again. "I'll be home after ten.
Madison should be in bed by nine."

"Go." She smiled after him as he ran out and
then closed the door. Walking up the flight of stairs to the flat,
she called out, "Madison?"

"In here," came her little voice from the
front of the apartment.

She headed toward it, peeking into the
various rooms along the way. She'd expected a man cave—all dark
colors and messy. It wasn't obsessively clean, but neither was it
slovenly. She'd call it homey, with lived in furniture and photos
of Madison all over as well as pictures of various other people she
decided were relatives based on their resemblances.

In the living room, Madison sat on the floor
at the coffee table, frowning at a blank piece of paper. She looked
up, her expression sour. "I hate writing essays."

"What do you have to write about?" She sat on
the floor across from the girl.

"Christopher Columbus. I have to explain how
his explorations affected the new world."

Lola made a face. "Yuck."

"I know."

She thought about it for a moment. If she had
to write it, she'd do it in narrative instead of essay form. "Do
you like stories?"

"I love to read."

"Then why don't you write a story instead of
a strict essay? If it were me, I'd write from the point of view of
an indigenous person who was invaded by Columbus and his men. Make
sure you include the points you're supposed to address."

Madison blinked. "You think that'd be
okay?"

She shrugged. "It depends on your teacher,
but if you don't take a chance, you won't know. You could get extra
points for creativity."