For Better or Worse (12 page)

Put quite simply, in a city of millions, Heather suddenly felt very much alone.

She trailed into the kitchen to rinse out her mug. Josh had stayed to help her clean up, but there was an overstuffed garbage bag that still needed to be taken out, and Heather dragged it out into the hallway toward the garbage chute at the end of the hall.

Her footsteps faltered on her way back as she saw a familiar figure outside Josh's door. “Mrs. Tanner!”

Josh's mom turned toward her, an enormous foil-covered dish in hand and a wide smile on her face. “Heather! Honey. Don't you look lovely. And please, Sue, dear. Mrs. Tanner makes me feel old, and I already have the wrinkles to do that for me.”

Heather smiled.

“I don't suppose you'd happen to know where my son is?” Sue asked hopefully.

Heather shook her head. “Haven't seen him since this morning. He's not answering?”

Sue sighed. “No. I knew I should have called first. I was just in the city visiting a friend, and I can never resist bringing him some lasagna. His favorite.”

“I can keep it in my fridge for him, if you want?”

“No, no, I have a key,” she said. “I was just giving him plenty of time to answer the door in case he was in there with a lady friend,” Sue said with a little wink.

Heather forced a smile, even though the thought of Josh and a lady friend made her want to puke or punch something.

“Hold this for me, would you, sweetie?”

Heather obliged, taking the pan of lasagna as Josh's mom rummaged around in her purse for her keys. She felt a tiny stab of jealousy and wondered if Josh knew how lucky he was to have a mom who couldn't wait to drop by and see him, even unannounced.

Heather couldn't even pay her mom to come visit.

“Here we are,” Sue said, finally pulling out a key chain with a triumphant smile before inserting it into the lock. “Bring that lasagna in here, would you, dear? Joshy, are you here? It's your mother, put some pants on!”

Good luck with that, Heather wanted to say.

But there was no sign of Josh, and Heather sent up a silent prayer that he was at the gym and not out getting laid.

“I heard it's going to snow tonight,” Sue said, humming happily as she made room in Josh's fridge. “I just love the first snow, especially when it happens before Thanksgiving. It just signals that the holidays are around the corner, you know?”

Heather swallowed her bitterness, the conversation reminding her of the chat with her mom and the realization that she'd be spending Thanksgiving alone. Again.

Sue seemed to note Heather's lack of response, and glanced over, her face softening a little. “Sweetie, do you have family in town?”

Heather shook her head. “No. It's just me and my mom in Michigan.”

“Ah. Are you headed back for Thanksgiving?”

Heather shook her head and opened her mouth to reply but to her utter horror, felt her eyes well with tears. “Oh, honey,” Sue said, coming toward her and cupping Heather's face. “You'll come to our house.”

Heather let out a little laugh and sniffled. “That's kind, but I really can't.”

“Of course you can,” Sue scolded. “No way am I letting a sweet girl like you spend the holiday alone.”

Heather pressed her palms to the back of Sue's hands before slowly easing the other woman's away with a smile. “I appreciate it, really, but I'd feel strange intruding on a family holiday.”

“Would it make a difference if I told you that you'd be a welcome buffer from my mother-in-law?”

Heather smiled but still shook her head. Sue sighed. “Okay, I won't push. Much. But promise me you'll at least consider it.”

“I will,” Heather lied.

It was bad enough that she was dragging Josh into the whole mess with Danica Robinson. She liked the guy far too much to crash his Thanksgiving.

Heather and Sue walked out of Josh's apartment, and Sue gave Heather a lingering, motherly hug after locking Josh's door. “I hope to see you on Thanksgiving,” she whispered before pulling away and giving a happy wave.

For long moments after Josh's mom left, Heather stood perfectly still, tempted beyond reason to chase after Sue Tanner and tell her that yes, she would love to come for Thanksgiving.

Instead she turned on her heel, going back into her quiet apartment, trying desperately not to wonder where Josh was as she turned on the TV and watched a couple of mindless hours of reruns before going to get ready for bed.

As she changed into her pajamas, she got an unexpected lump in her throat—a threat of tears that came out of nowhere at the realization of just how alone she was. But just as she was on the verge of letting herself get good and deep into a pity party, the familiar sound of Josh's music hit her ears.

Just a week ago she would have already been out in the hall, banging on his door, but tonight she climbed into bed and simply
listened
.

Then she heard his voice. His voice, not the lead singer's, which meant it was a solo practice tonight.

Heather wrapped a blanket around her ­shoulders, curling into a ball with one ear pressed against the wall as she listened to Josh's low baritone sing
something slow and moody. And even though she knew he wasn't singing to her, didn't know how much his song fit her mood, she let herself
pretend
he was singing to her.
For
her.

And as she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders and leaned back against her pillows, Heather was struck by the realization that maybe she wasn't as alone as she'd thought.

Chapter Thirteen

W
HEN
J
OSH HAD AGREED
to help Heather figure out some of the details for Danica's wedding, it had seemed simple enough. Tag along to cake tastings, maybe look at a couple of fancy hotels, maybe even suffer through some florist shops.

In other words, play along and do girly shit until he could figure out how to coax her into where they both wanted to be:

Bed.

But three hours into his first day of helping her plan Danica's wedding, he realized he'd completely underestimated the magnitude of Heather's job.

He'd thought Wall Street was nuts, but it had nothing on the warp speed with which Heather Fowler moved through the city. So far they'd been to three reception sites, a bridal shop, a tux shop, and a craft store (he'd waited outside), and it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

Speaking of lunch, he was starving. He reached out and grabbed Heather's elbow, pulling her around
and interrupting her midstream as she prattled on about silk flowers versus the real thing before she could go charging down to yet another subway platform to take him out of the Meatpacking District and to God knew where.

“What's up?” she asked, glancing at her watch.

He waited until she looked up to meet his eyes before answering. He was happy to help the woman out, but he was starting to feel a bit like a dog expected to happily prance around a few steps behind her for the entire day.

“So far I've told you that Danica hates orange, loves blue, thinks roses are overrated, is self-conscious about the shape of her ass, and has zero appreciation for prewar architecture.”

“Yes, and I've said thank you,” she said, looking puzzled. “You were hoping for a medal?”

A blow job, actually.

“That'd be nice. All men
do
love to have a nice medal to commemorate the moment they planned their ex-girlfriend's wedding. But I'll settle for a sandwich.”

“A sandwich?”

He wrapped his fingers more firmly around her elbow and dragged her out of the subway entrance and in the direction of the row of restaurants they'd just passed.

“Lunch, 4C. You need to feed me lunch.”

She huffed out a breath and glanced again at her watch. “Okay, I need to get back to Midtown. There's a handful of food trucks—”

Josh ignored her as he opened the door to Pastis and ushered Heather inside.

“Josh, I don't have time for—”

“For lunch? Yes, you do,” he said, before turning to the hostess and holding up two fingers.

“But—”

He put a hand on her back and not-too-gently shoved her in the direction of the hostess.

A moment later they were seated at a cozy table in the back corner, Heather was glaring at him, and the hostess was batting her eyelashes, but Josh was too busy reading the menu and salivating to care about either.

The hostess moved away, and Heather leaned forward. “Look, I appreciate you helping me, but I really—”

“This is one of Danica's favorite restaurants,” Josh said, not looking up from the menu.

Heather sat back. “It is?”

“Yup. We came here at least once a week when we were dating, usually on a Friday or Saturday night, when she could see and be seen.”

“And where
you
could,” Heather said with a speculative note in her voice.

He glanced up. “I'm currently wearing a hoodie. Do you really think I care about that?”

“No,” she said slowly. “But I think you cared about that. Why else would you date someone like Danica Robinson?”

“I already told you, she wasn't famous back then,” he muttered.

“I bet she wanted to be.”

“Sure,” he said warily, setting the menu aside. “But I didn't.”

Heather crossed both arms on the table and looked at him steadily. “So she twisted your arm, then? Dragged you in here the same way you dragged me.”

Josh sighed. “Fine. You win. I
may
have been a little different back then.”

Heather smiled, and damned if he wasn't getting to know the woman, because he'd come to recognize that as her victory smile. She'd never admit it, but she
loved
winning an argument.

The server came over, and after Heather ordered a boring sparkling water he got them a bottle of wine.

She blinked at him. “Seriously? I'm working.”

“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “But you also need to live. It's a French restaurant. Pretend you're French.”

“I'm German.”

“One hundred percent?” he asked, reaching for the bread basket.

She shrugged. “At least half, on my mom's side. I didn't know my dad.”

“Ah,” he said. There was no ire in her voice, no sadness. It told him that she'd long ago adjusted to that being her reality. As someone who was close with both parents, it bummed him out.

“You close to your mom?”

“Yeah,” she said.

Her voice was confident, but she glanced down at her napkin when she said it, and even though he told himself not to press her—it was none of his business, really—the next question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Michigan, right?”

Heather nodded. “A little bit outside of Detroit.”

“You see her often?” he asked, spreading a liberal amount of butter on the bread before handing it to her.

Heather didn't even hesitate before taking the bread and sinking her teeth into it. He hid his smile.

“I try to get back there at least once a year,” she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin. “Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever.”

“You headed home this year?”

“This is my home,” she said with emphasis. “I'm from there, but New York . . . this is home now,” she repeated.

Josh leaned back in his chair and studied her as the server approached the table with the wine bottle. Josh did the whole swirl-and-taste thing, nodding at the server appreciatively and waiting until both of them had glasses before he resumed the subject.

“And no siblings, right?”

She shook her head.

“You headed back for Thanksgiving this year?”

She gave him a startled look, then shook her head.

The sadness on her face bugged the crap out of him, and he opened his mouth to invite her over to his place before he realized how odd that would be. He didn't know her that well, and inviting her would give everyone the wrong idea.

His parents.

Heather.

Himself
.

Still, the thought of her spending the holiday alone . . .

“Your mom invited me over,” she said, not looking at him. “For Thanksgiving.”

Josh froze in surprise before letting out a resigned laugh. “Of course she did. When?”

Heather lifted a shoulder. “Last night. She brought you lasagna.”

“Ah, right. Trevor and I were out grabbing a drink. So, you coming?”

Heather frowned. “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

She stared at him. “Because it's a family holiday. A big one. And I'm not family.”

He lifted his wineglass. “You have other plans?”

She bit her lip. “No. My mom isn't coming this year.”

“Perfect.” He lifted his glass. “You'll come to my folks'. The dinner will be mediocre, but the pie's magnificent.”

“Well, it
is
all about the pie,” she said hesitantly.

He winked. “Exactly. Speaking of baked goods, when are we making our banana bread?”

“
We
don't have a banana bread,” she said, taking a small sip of her wine, and then another.

“I've dutifully followed you all around the city to plan the wedding of my ex. And let's not forget that I made your friends brunch yesterday and did your shopping. There's definitely going to be a banana bread.”

And sex. Please let there be sex.

“You know what? Fine,” she said, taking another sip of wine and seeming to relax slightly. “You just say the word, and we'll make the damn bread.”

“I think I like this agreeable version of you. Would now be a good time to call in other favors?”

“If that's your way of negotiating more band
practice, the answer's no. Always no. Also, I noticed it's been just you playing lately. Where are the guys?”

“Listening in on me, were we?”

“Avoiding the question, are we?” she shot back.

Damn. He
was
avoiding the question.

He wasn't ashamed of canceling practices lately, although he was perhaps a little embarrassed that he'd made up a white lie about having a female companion in order to do so.

The truth was, he hadn't had female company in . . . weeks. Was that right? Hell.

As far as why he'd canceled practice—no clue other than the fact that he just wasn't feeling it. He'd wanted to play music, but not under the pretense of his group being the next Stones.

He'd wanted to play the music just for him.

And for his nosy neighbor, apparently.

“You ever just . . . need a minute?”

Heather cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Josh rolled his shoulders, feeling foolish. “I don't know. Forget it.”

She reached across the table, her fingers stopping just short of touching his hand, and he had a fierce and strange wish that she'd complete the gesture and make contact.

“You okay?” she asked.

He winked. “I'm always okay.”

She merely stared back at him with a steady gaze that quietly called
bullshit
.

“I like your voice, you know.”

His wineglass froze halfway to his lips. “Why, thank you, 4C.”

“No, I mean . . . I
really
like it. Better than your lead singer's voice.”

Josh studied her. “Trevor's voice is perfectly suited for the songs I write.”

“Only some of the songs you write,” she argued. “The loud, bang-the-drum noisy ones.”

He laughed. “Such high praise.”

“The ballads. Those are better suited to your voice.”

Josh winced. “I don't write ballads.”

“Well, what would you call them?” she asked softly. “The quieter ones like I heard you singing last night. They're slow. Pretty.”

“Okay,” he said, pointing at her with his wineglass. “We can call them ballads, but we're not calling them pretty.”

She smiled. “I think you like those songs best, too.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, picking up his menu and holding it in front of his face to block her prying gaze.

Heather snatched it away. “Why'd you cancel band practice last night?”

“Because I had a woman come over,” he snapped, the lie rolling off his tongue before he could think better of it. He instantly felt like shit. Lying to the guys about this was one thing. It was what guys did.

But lying to Heather . . . it didn't feel right.

Especially not when she blinked and looked away. Almost as though she were hurt.

Nah. Their relationship wasn't like that.

And yet, now that he thought about it, the thought of Heather bringing a guy home . . . the
thought of some guy running his hands all over those slim curves, plunging his fingers into all that glorious hair . . .

Shit.
Shit!

Their server came over, saving both of them from going any further down a path that he was positive neither wanted to. After he'd ordered a steak and she'd opted for some mussels, he gratefully let her change the topic toward safer territory:

Danica.

Never in his life would he have thought that his most toxic ex would be a safe topic, but compared to crossing a line with his neighbor, perhaps destroying the first good thing he'd had in years, it was definitely the lesser of the two evils.

“So tell me more about why you guys broke up,” Heather said, helping herself to a bit more wine.

Josh shrugged. “The usual reasons, I guess. We outgrew each other. We were fighting more often than we were getting along. I found myself coming up with reasons not to pick up the phone when she called. I no longer had a clue how to make her happy, and she certainly wasn't making me happy.”

He skipped the part about her telling him his sickness was “too much.”

Heather fiddled with her glass. “I've met Danica. I'll admit, I'm trying to figure out—”

“What I saw in her?” he asked with a grin.

She winced. “I know I'm not supposed to talk badly about my client, but you're a . . . a friend, sort of, I guess, and I just . . . I don't get it.”

“I was a different person back then,” he said
quietly. “And trust me, that version of Josh Tanner was exactly the type of douche bag that would get involved with a social-climbing diva.”

“Is this back when you were a hedge fund manager?” she asked.