Her Sexiest Mistake (4 page)

“Mia.” Now Tess gave her one of those patented maternal expressions, full of worry and concern and, damn it, affection. “Of course it matters, it—”

“Stop. Okay? Just stop. You worry far too much. Thanks for the messages.” Mia grabbed the plant.

“Don’t punish the poor plant!”

Mia just shook her head and headed for her office door, passing by the cubicles of the four members of her creative team, Janice, Tami, Steven, and Dillon. They were all at work on various projects, so she waved and moved on. So she didn’t want to talk about her humble beginnings. So what? No reason to feel that twinge of guilt—no reason at all—just because Tess gave everything of herself, no holding back, whatever Mia needed at all times, including cookies.

Damn it, Ted Stokes
was
in her office, lounging in her chair as a matter of annoying fact, leaning back, feet up as if he owned the place. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he’d been blessed with a face that women everywhere thought of as California beautiful. He was strong and tan, and when he smiled he flashed baby blue eyes and a dimple, melting hearts and dampening panties everywhere.

But Mia wasn’t fooled by him. Beneath that fun-loving exterior beat a cold, purposeful heart. She set down the plant and gathered her bitchiness around her like a Gucci coat.

He smiled at her, that I’m-an-asshole smile, which really bit into her superiority over getting the Anderson account.

“Ah, a new plant to kill,” he noted.

She smiled through her teeth. She was going to keep the damn plant alive if it was the last thing she did. “I hope you brought coffee to this unexpected party.”

Ted lifted a steaming mug. His own, of course.

“What do you want, Ted?”

“Interesting question.” He smiled again, batting those long lashes over his baby blues.

She did not smile back.

“You’re a tough nut, Mia. I’m trying to flirt with you, in case you didn’t notice. And don’t say you don’t flirt, because—”

“I don’t flirt in the office. With coworkers.”

“We could be more than coworkers. What do you say?”

“How about never? Does never work for you?”

Some of the wattage went out of his smile at that, but she didn’t care. Last week in the employee break room he’d made a move on her. He’d cornered her between the sink and the refrigerator and tried to kiss her. She’d shoved him back, maybe a little harder than the situation warranted, but really, he was just lucky she’d let him keep his balls.

At the shove, he’d fallen backward into a table, spilling a glass of water, which in turn soaked into the seat of his pants. He’d made a joke of it then, apparently thinking that laughing it off would be the easiest way for his ego to handle the rejection, but she knew he’d been pissed.

“You’re still upset about the kiss,” he said in an annoyingly patronizing tone. “Honestly, Mia, the way you leaned into me, I thought you
wanted
me to kiss you.”

“You’ve been fantasizing again.” She liked kissing, very much. But as the queen of compartmentalizing, she’d long ago divided her needs into little groups. First and most important, job. Second, men.

Never the two shall meet.

The men in her office, and there were many, had correctly read her back-off signs. She knew they called her Ice Queen among other less flattering things, and she didn’t care, because what Ted hadn’t anticipated when he’d made the move on her was how he’d unwittingly put her into the position of power, a situation he greatly regretted. His eyes were no longer friendly.

“I’ll get to the point of me being here,” he said.

“Why don’t you.”

“You got the Anderson account.”

The two of them might be equals on the scale when it came to the ladder of success within this company, but that was only because he’d been here longer. Mia was better at the job. She knew it, everyone in the office knew it, and Ted knew it, too.

He just didn’t like it, or her aggression in getting other—and winning—accounts. Bottom line, he was lazy. She was not.

“Yes, I got the Anderson account,” she said.

“You stole it out from beneath me.”

Ah. The victim angle. She should have guessed he’d go that route. She’d won the account fairly, with blood and sweat and tears. Okay, maybe not with blood or tears, but certainly with long, hard hours over the past several months. She’d put her heart and soul into it, and she wanted to hear him say it, even knowing he’d never give her that satisfaction. “I don’t know what your problem is,” she said quietly. “But I bet it’s hard to pronounce.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “I should have gotten that account.” He pushed a file across her gorgeous Baker desk. “My ideas were better.”

“Now, that’s just plain not nice.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re insulting my entire creative team.”

“Just stating fact.”

The man was impossible. She picked up his work and dropped it in the trash.

His eyes filled with anger. “Bitch.”

“Oooh, ouch. You got me, Ted. Now get out.”

“That account should have been mine.”

“You know what? I can stand your arrogance, and maybe even stand your smugness—though it’d be easier if you weren’t wearing such a tacky suit—but I won’t stand being accused of stealing.
Get out.
”

“You should have to share that account with me.”

“When hell freezes over.” Planting her hands flat on her desk, she leaned over and looked him right in the cold eyes. “Read my lips, Ted. I don’t share.” She shoved his loafers off her desk and stood her ground while he slowly, insolently rose to his feet. Never had she resented her average height more as he towered over her, leanly muscled and ticked off.

“I want that account, Mia.”

“Get out. Now.”

For one long beat he stood his ground, staring her down, no longer even attempting to hold the façade of friendliness.

She stared back, bitterly resenting that she had to tip her head up to do so. Tomorrow she’d wear her five-inch stilettos, if it meant looking this prick right in the eyes.

Finally he slowly backed off and walked out, shutting her door too hard, rustling her new gorgeous plant. Not sure how many more people she was going to piss off today, she shifted the pot away from the door, then stood there, her heart beating just a little too hard for comfort. God, she really hated a bully, but she especially hated that he’d gotten to her and made her uneasy.

And just a tad nervous.

Refusing to let him ruin one more second of her time, she got busy, burying herself in the groundwork for her next conquest, a major athletic shoe account. She and Dick had nicknamed the file “Runner” to keep it quiet from other firms. That very secrecy and care was what had garnered her such an Ice Queen rep, but she worked hard, so what? Others could do the same; she’d only respect that.

She’d already been briefed by the Runner company on what they expected and wanted, and now it was up to her to create a campaign from scratch. Her favorite part. Most times, this involved her creative team. She loved those late-night meetings, where ideas flew freely and the creative muse took control.

But for now, with this account, she was on her own, and she worked on the research until noon.

By then she’d forgotten all about Ted, and she sat with Tess in the employee lunchroom.

“He was smiling when he left your office,” Tess reported over her moo shoo. Others were around, including Margot, so she leaned in for privacy. “Smiling like a snake, too. He left for a meeting on fourth, the rat-fink bastard. I hope the layoff rumors have him worried and he’s looking for a job elsewhere.”

“Not likely. Don’t worry, I can handle him.” Mia sank her teeth into a pot sticker. She could handle anything, she thought. Suddenly the smoke alarms went off. Everyone ran into the hallway.

The thick smoke cut off Mia’s air. Janice and Tami from her creative team had their laptops hugged to their breasts, but Steven and Dillon were nowhere in sight. People were already evacuating when Mia darted into her office to grab her laptop, where she found an unwelcome surprise.

The smoke came from
here.
Specifically, her trash can.
“Shit.”
Grabbing the water bottle off her desk, she raced to the trash can and dumped the contents over the flames, which gave one last surge—straight upward and into her face—before dying with a hissing gasp.

“Shit,” she said again, stumbling blind backward. With a gasp, she remembered her new plant. Panicked, she whirled around. It looked a little wilted but okay, and she gratefully hugged the pot close as she sank to a chair.

Margot was the first to show up, with half the building behind her. “The fire department is on its way—Ohmigod, Mia! Are you hurt?”

“No.” Mia swiped her sweating forehead with her forearm, which came away black with soot. Ugh.

Tess shoved her way in, yelling, “Clear the way, let me through, damn it!” Then she skidded to a stop. “Oh, my God—”

“I’m okay,” Mia said quickly.

“But honey, your eyebrow!”

Gone, Mia discovered. Just like her trash can.

But she still had the plant.

“You’d better work on that rejection policy of yours,” Tess said in the employee bathroom a few hours later, after Mia refused to let the paramedics fuss over her, after everyone had been allowed back in the building and been thoroughly lectured by the fire marshal.

He’d deemed the incident “suspicious in nature,” and an investigation was under way.

Mia instantly thought of Ted, but he’d been gone from the building. Which meant she had someone else after her, a fact that Tess pointed out with great worry.

“Who now?” she fretted. “Who else have you succeeded past, made look bad, or walked all over?”

She would have protested, but the truth was she hadn’t made a lot of friends over the years. She stared in the mirror at her singed eyebrow. “I guess I could make a few social changes.”

Tess let out a sound that said, “Ya think?”

Mia just sighed again. Maybe she could try to adopt a new kinder, gentler manner.

Oh, and a new eyebrow.

S
ixteen-year-old Hope Appleby was going somewhere if it killed her.

And given that she’d never felt more alone, hungry, or desperately afraid she’d never get out of her car and into a real bed again, it just might.

She chewed on a fingernail and hummed as she drove, trying to fool herself into a lull of comfort. But she’d been driving so long now, and for so many days, the scenery blurred into itself. Tennessee to Los Angeles…a lot farther than it had seemed. Still, she’d always dreamed of seeing the country, and finally, at sixteen years, two months, and three days old, she was seeing it plenty.

Just not quite in the style she’d imagined.

State after state passed as she headed west, Arkansas into Oklahoma into Texas into New Mexico. She’d been sleeping in her car to save money, trying to keep one eye open as she did because, as everyone knew, bad guys preyed on people sleeping alone in their cars.

Especially female people.

She had a flashlight, but she’d dropped it at a rest stop about five hundred miles back and couldn’t get it to work after that. She’d been singing to the radio just to hear a real voice, but now she couldn’t get any stations that weren’t farm weather reports. Now she had nothing but herself for company, and she’d never been much good at small talk.

Not that she wanted company from strangers. No, thank you. They all looked at her funny, as though they’d never seen anyone dress Goth before.

It was just black.

And a few chains.

No big deal. She’d started dressing like this only to look as different on the outside as she felt on the inside.

She’d lifted a steak knife from Denny’s the day before, which was dull as a plastic butter knife but flashed fairly impressively in the light. It would be good for show, if need be, and hopefully that was all she’d need to do—even the thought of blood made her want to hurl.

She was eating as cheaply as she could and bathing in public restrooms, which were really gross. People were universal slobs, and if she had to look at
one more
slimy sink or toilet…

But she was in the home stretch now, nearly to her aunt Apple’s in Los Angeles, and she patted the dashboard of her beat-up 1989 Dodge Diplomat. “Not much farther,” she promised.

The car coughed.

Oh, God.
Her biggest fear. “Don’t die on me now,” Hope begged it and patted the dash again. “We’re going to be okay, really we are.”

Or so she hoped. The problem was Apple didn’t know she was coming, and Momma didn’t know she’d gone.

Which left Hope in her usual spot—a big mess.

Unable to read the map and drive at the same time, she pulled off the freeway, not daring to turn off the engine for fear it would never start again. Only she didn’t have much gas left…

“Please find it,” she whispered to herself, running her finger over the foldout she’d pilfered from a 76 station somewhere in Arizona. She’d felt a stab of guilt until the grimy two-hundred-fifty-pound guy behind the counter looked her over, making her skin crawl like that time she’d gotten ants in her bed after her momma had left out a box of Twinkies.

When Hope had asked the guy for the key to the restroom, he smiled (missing a front tooth!) and offered to take her himself.

Ewwww!

So she said no thanks, left with the map, and then cursed him the whole time she was peeing in the woods.

Now she unraveled the small scrap of paper that had Apple’s address on it. The ink had gotten smeared. Was that 11732 High Waters Drive or 11735? Five, she decided and hoped she was right. She searched the map for High Waters, feeling a little frantic. “Please find it, please…”

There.

She wasn’t too far now. Probably she could get there by nightfall, which was good because she was in the last of her clean clothes. She thought of how surprised and shocked her aunt Apple was going to be, and swallowed the niggling doubts that she should have called ahead.

And she would have, except for two things. One, her aunt hadn’t called her.
Ever.
Though she did send birthday cards every year, with increasingly larger checks enclosed.

Momma said Apple never called because she’d gotten a big head—so big Momma was surprised she even bothered with the cards and money—but Hope figured that Apple was
somebody
now, and somebodies took care of their own, busy or not.

Hope didn’t care about phone calls, or even about Apple, really. She just needed out of town, away from the trailer park, away from the stupid boys and mean girls, away from being a
nobody.

Her aunt probably didn’t give a rat’s ass about Hope, either, but that didn’t matter. Apple lived in Los Angeles, the city of angels, the city of
hope.

Surely that was a sign, right? Hope
belonged
there. She was going to stay with Apple and become a marine biologist and swim with dolphins for the rest of her life.

And like her aunt, never look back.

She was going to get better grades, get into Stanford, and then get rich. She’d have a place by the ocean, a new car—“Sorry,” she whispered to the Diplomat and stroked the dash as she sipped from the 7-Eleven Big Gulp she’d used her last bit of change for. She was going to have a
real
pool, too, not a plastic little thing where she couldn’t get all wet at once. Yeah, she had big dreams, and she would live ’em, assuming she didn’t run into any trouble—

A hard rap on the window jerked her so hard she nearly came out of her own skin. Soda soaked into her chest and belly and legs, her hand hit the horn—which made her jump again—and she hit her head on the visor she’d pulled down to block the lowering sun.

Heart in her throat, soda dripping off her nose, she turned and looked out her window.

And froze.

A cop stood there gesturing for her to roll down her window. Oh, God. Oh, God…She rolled the window down an inch. “Y-yes?”

“I need to see your driver’s license and registration, please.”

“Um…okay.” She willed her heart to stop knocking into her ribs. Sticky with the soda, she fumbled through her purse, her fingers shaking like her momma’s did when she needed a drink real bad.

“Are you alone?” the officer asked, leaning in slightly to search the interior of the car with those flat cop eyes.

“Yes, sir.” Hope handed him her license and registration.

He eyed her for a long moment, then looked over her paperwork. “Wait here.”

And then he was gone. With her license.

She counted to twenty while watching the same dark clouds move in, blocking out the sun. And then to one hundred. And then she started counting backward, and had gotten back to twelve when the cop showed up again.

He handed her the license. “Careful driving, kid. A storm is moving in.”

She wasn’t a kid, but she nodded obediently, and then he was gone.

And she was alone again, but that was better than being arrested for map theft. She studied the soda-soaked map, then got back onto the freeway.

Mia got home from work at six. This was early for her on an evening when she should have been out celebrating, but the fight with Ted and then the fire in her trash can had pretty much sapped her.

She figured she owed herself a quiet evening, with nothing more exciting than an extremely hot shower and a good book. Oh, and maybe a quick private little happy dance for the Anderson account. It was sweet indeed, enough to almost make her forget that she no longer had a right eyebrow.

Getting out of her car and into the sticky pre-storm humidity, she refused to crane her neck to see if there was a motorcycle parked two houses down. No need to look, because she didn’t care.

Her heels clicked on the concrete walkway, but at the sound of pounding feet, a dribbling basketball, and male swearing, she pivoted the other way, to the end of the street and the basketball court there.

A competitor at heart, Mia loved a good game—of anything, but especially basketball. Something about the sweat and fast pace, not to mention the display of hard, damp, sexy bodies in shorts, called to her.

There was definitely a game in action, a vicious game of three-on-three. She moved closer to watch.

She recognized her neighbor’s twin college-age sons and the fifty-something guy who lived on the next block over who’d once fixed her plumbing. There was another neighbor, frowning with concentration as he dribbled. Then the twenty-something she’d seen in Kevin’s apartment.

And then, Kevin himself. Mia’s gaze locked on him and held. He’d looked amazing in his jeans and leather jacket. He’d looked damn fine naked.

But on the court…be still her heart. He wore black basketball shorts that hung to his knees, a loose gray tank top that said
You don’t have to attend every argument you’re invited to.
His hair was damp, those yummy eyes following every movement of the ball with the same fierce intensity he’d used to make her come too many times to count, his long fit body primed and hard and damp with sweat.

He charged after the player with the ball, and with a hand that moved fast as lightning, he reached in and stole it. In tune to the cheers of his two teammates, he dodged free and ran down the court with lithe agility and speed, dribbling at the speed of light. Lifting his arm, he twisted in midair, performed a one-handed layup, and came down hard with a quick triumphant pump of his fist.

Someone threw the ball into play again, and Kevin caught it just as a player from the opposite team body-slammed into him.

They both crashed to the ground.

Mia held her breath. Kevin rolled to his knees and got up, offering a hand to the kid who’d knocked him on his ass.

The kid took his hand, stood.

They eyed each other.

Then grinned like idiots.

Kevin ruffled the kid’s hair, then waggled a finger in his face. “Flagrant.”

“Bull-fucking-shit!”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

The kid grinned again. “
Not
flagrant, dude.”

“I’m taking a foul shot.
Dudette.
” Dribbling, Kevin moved to the foul line.

There was just something about his easy rhythmic movements that utterly captivated Mia. He looked down at the ball, then up at the basket, a line of sweat running down his temple, his shirt sticking to him like a second skin.

He made the shot, and the roughhouse game continued.

Mia had no idea how long she stood there captivated, entranced, watching Kevin move on the court with the grace and ease of a cat, but for the life of her, she couldn’t walk away. Someone blocked his next shot, but he got the rebound and went up again, taking an elbow to the cheek but making his shot. His team cheered as he came down on both feet. When the other team tossed the ball in, Kevin again snatched it away, then fired the ball to a member of his team. It was immediately passed back to him. Someone tried to take the ball away, but he simply moved faster, his face tightening into an expression that said
Back off, sucker.

When he got into the key, he passed the ball to his brother in a bulletlike throw, and the shot was made.

“Yeeees!”
Kevin said, looking extremely satisfied.

Whooping and high-fiving ensued, and some manly butt-slapping, leaving Mia to assume game over, victory declared.

Kevin grabbed the ball and executed some sort of victory dance, and deep within Mia something quivered. Oh, damn. Oh, damn, this was bad, bad, bad.

Despite his easygoing demeanor, he was a fellow hard-core competitor.

How sexy was that?

Kevin swiped a towel over his face. His shirt was stuck to him, his arms and throat gleaming. He had a bruise gathering beneath one eye and a cut on his lip. And he was smiling, as if he’d just had the time of his life. His brother nudged his shoulder, and they began a conversation.

With their hands.

The brother was deaf. No big deal, but the sight of them, eloquently and easily signing, felt addicting. Even knowing she was invading their privacy, Mia stood there transfixed by their quickly moving hands, their fast smiles, the easy affection…

Then Kevin brushed his hand over his brother’s hair, messing it up, rubbing his knuckles over his head in the affectionate age-old noogie.

The brother tossed back his head, his mouth carved in a laughing smile, then pushed away and walked off. Kevin watched him go, his smile fading, replaced by an expression of worry and concern.

Mia’s smile faded, too, and she wondered what she’d missed.

Then suddenly Kevin turned his head and saw her. The hand holding the towel dropped to his side. His worry and concern faded, replaced by an expression she was fairly certain could be read as annoyance.

She would have winced, but she preferred not to show her hand, that being she felt something almost foreign—true regret at how she’d treated him this morning. But if she didn’t like to repeat men, she really didn’t like looking back, and so she turned away, moving up the sidewalk toward her house.

The evening had begun to cool. She couldn’t believe nearly half an hour had passed since she’d parked, she’d gotten so lost in their game.

“Running. What a surprise,” he said.

Slowly she turned back to face the low, husky voice she knew so intimately, thanks to last night. Kevin must have hustled to catch up with her, and yet he wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’m not running,” she said.

“Yeah, you are. Well, as much as you can in those ridiculous shoes, anyway.”

She looked down at her favorite heels.
“Ridiculous?”

“What’s the hurry? Your cookies burning?”

No, but, oddly enough, now her face was.

“You didn’t really make them, did you?”

“I never claimed I did.”

“It was implied. Among other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” But suddenly his eyes narrowed and he took a step closer to her, frowning as he lifted a hand and touched her singed eyebrow. “What happened?”

She fought the urge to slap his hand away. “Nothing an eyebrow pencil won’t fix.” Turning away, she began to walk again, only to feel his fingers wrap around her arm and gently but firmly pull her back.