Now and Then (5 page)

Okay, no way did that just happen. No way had she gotten so completely caught up in Ford Meyers standing close enough she could feel the heat coming off him, towering over her in the way she used to love, smelling so good, and all but growling “
very
dirty” in her ear…that she’d actually posted up for a kiss
Ford wasn’t offering.

Oh yes, that burning sensation rushing over her was shame encompassing every square inch of her pathetic physical being. These were the moments she wished she lived in Buffy’s Sunnydale and the ground would mercifully open up a Hellmouth to devour her whole. If only. But as it was, she was pushing her cart over the mockingly solid floor of Go Grocer, ostensibly shopping for some “actual food” while Ford did the same somewhere else in the micro store. Grabbing dolmades and baba ganoush, she decided that was as much as she could manage and pushed up to the checkout, where Ford had already paid for his bottle of organic juice and apple.

Organic juice?

The only reason she’d picked this market was its assortment of healthier fare and her vivid memory of Ford devouring a bag of Funyuns while ranting about the horrors of some tofu burger his sister had tricked him into eating once. But obviously there were more than a few things about him that had changed in the past ten years.

“Got everything?” he asked, stuffing a few bills into the front pocket of his jeans and again stepping in closer than strictly necessary, providing her with another hit of the clean laundry and yummy guy smell that had scrambled her senses back in the refrigerated section.

She wasn’t going to lean into it. No matter how appealing it might be to burrow beneath his wool peacoat and find out where that scent was the strongest…whether the twill of his caramel-colored shirt would be as soft as it looked against her cheek, or if her arms would feel as right around his waist as they had last night.

“Looks good,” Ford commented casually, as he buttoned up for the cold.

Casual. Super casual.

Crazy casual.

This guy was completely taking the events of the night before in stride.

Like maybe she’d overestimated the connection between them and, really, Ford had so many girls tumbling into his apartment that a few getting away was no big deal at all?

She took in the broad shoulders and towering height. The boyishly thick, dark fringe of his lashes and all-man square of his jaw. The confident slant of his firm lips. Yes, it was totally possible.

Ooh and hello, new, unwelcome sensation settling like a jagged stone in her belly. That would be jealousy. Of the totally unjustified and completely irrational kind.

What the heck?

Brynn’s eyes narrowed on Ford as he took his bag of groceries and all four of hers in hand, cocking his head toward the exit. No. Not after what he’d said the night before about their connection, about her feeling it the same as he was. Unless that was just talk and—and Ford was propping the door open with a foot, holding it so she could walk through.

She followed him out to the street, where he grinned down at her and asked, “Which way?”

Back in her apartment, Ford set the bags on the pass-through between the kitchen and dining area.

“Thanks for the help with all this,” she offered, about to say something more when he shrugged out of his coat and her mind went blank. One broad shoulder rolled free and then the next, the muscles between flexing visibly through the pull of his shirt. His biceps bulging just enough to ensure the only thoughts left in her betraying mind were of the show-me-more variety.

He folded the coat over a chair and then circled back into the kitchen, where—yep, where she was staring, probably with her mouth hanging open and her ovaries doing some kind of exploding fireworks show.

This was crazy.

In her line of work, Brynn was surrounded by guys. Almost constantly. The production crew, the hotshots able to score seats in her zone, and the athletes—men who by all rights were at the pinnacle of physical perfection. But never, not once in all her years on the job, had she reacted to a single one of them the way she was reacting to Ford. Not even close.

And it wasn’t just that she considered the men at work off-limits. She’d never reacted to
anyone
this way.

Never with the kind of hot pull capable of melting away the rational parts of her that knew better. The parts in charge of saying “no.”

Sure, she’d dated some. A little over the years. There had been boyfriends in high school who’d been clumsy and oblivious. A couple of guys after Ford when she moved back to Milwaukee. And Carl.

She shook her head, wanting to clear his face from her mind before he had a chance to dig in, but he was already there. Reminding her why it was such a mistake to have Ford there at all.

Another smile flashed her way and then Ford was unloading the groceries onto the counter, asking her how she liked the apartment. Joking about the neighborhood managers having a secret handshake and did she need anything fixed or improved?

But they needed to talk. Not just joke and blow off what had happened the night before, because even if he could act like it didn’t bother him at all, she couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t have gone back to your place last night,” she began, her heart beating so loud she could barely hear herself think.

Ford propped a hip against the counter and crossed his arms, his dark eyes intent on hers, but his expression otherwise unreadable.

“Why’s that?”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly Sahara dry.

“There isn’t room in my life for a messy romantic entanglement. I know it sounds extreme, but the way I work and the hours I keep can be…intense. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for dates or bonding and I’m not the kind of woman interested in keeping a—”

“A benchwarmer?” he offered, a wry twist to his lips.

“Well, um, yes.”

And okay, so that wasn’t the whole truth. But it was a part of it. The part that had kept her out of romance’s way until she’d figured out a more effective method of avoidance. Only
that
wouldn’t work with Ford.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer, so there wasn’t more than a foot separating them and each breath she drew hinted of
him.
“Okay.”

Okay?
That was all he had to say about it? For some reason she’d been bracing for the usual assurances the guys who’d come before offered. All the promises that they were cool with her schedule. That they could take it slow, just have fun.

Only Ford didn’t say any of that.

Picking up a jar of salsa, he held it in one hand and then the other. “Where does this go?”

She gestured to the cabinet with the pita chips beside her, then sucked in a short breath when he reached past her, offering more of his delicious scent and a prime view of his shirt hugging his lean hips and waist. The thick strap of his belt giving her ideas about hooking her fingers into it.

He was standing even closer, eyes still holding with hers. “What else?”

She blinked, trying to clear the clean laundry smell and dirty ideas that had started swirling around in her mind. “What?”

The corner of his mouth kicked up and he grabbed the granola bars and a jar of peanuts, shelving them with the rest. Then, leaning back, he caught a bit of her hair between his fingers, loosely twirling it around and around the way he’d done so many years ago. The gentle repetitive tension against her scalp almost hypnotic. “It’s not just your work schedule making you think last night was a mistake. What else?”

Maybe it was the way he was looking into her eyes, or maybe it was who he’d been in her life. But before she could think to say something different, another piece of the too honest truth slipped quietly past her lips. “You.”

Was that satisfaction in his eyes? And his lips?

“Are you smiling?” she demanded, snapping out of that hair-winding half-trance. “Are you?”

Hell yes, he was smiling. Because leave it to his girl Brynn to deliver a flat-out “it’s not
me,
it’s
you
” slam in that half-breathless and all heavy-lidded way—and did she even realize her hand was resting against his chest?

He offered a pointed glance down and,
Ha!
She whipped that limb back like it was on fire.

“So it’s me, huh?” he prodded, not entirely hating the sight of Brynn squirming in front of him. “Explain.”

She shook her head, grumbling, and then stepped away from him. Scowled and stepped back even farther.

This was going to be good.

“You remember what it was like between us. How intense things got.”

“I remember.” How could he have forgotten when those months with Brynn had set the bar so high, he had to train himself to stop comparing everything that had come after? Because nothing came close. At least not until last night.

Hell yeah, he remembered, but what had his grin pushing past containment was the confirmation that she did, too. That, and the way every time she looked at him he could see the
want
right there in her eyes.

Unfortunately there was doubt there, too, and that was the part he was going to have to find his way around.

“I don’t have time for that kind of intensity, Ford. I can’t afford the distraction. It’s not just my job. It’s my life. Things are already complicated for me. It would be a mistake to add another complication when I ought to be trying to simplify instead. And you’re you, Ford. So nice. So good.” Her words were starting to come faster, the color rising in her cheeks as she spoke. “You don’t deserve the kind of garbage that comes with me, and I don’t want to feel like shit—crap—I mean
bad
for bringing it. I don’t want the guilt. I don’t need the mess. I can’t afford the risk—”

“Hey, hey,” he said, cutting her off as he pulled her into his chest, suddenly not finding any satisfaction in her words at all, because his girl was seriously panicking. “Shh, Brynn, it’s okay. I get it.”

She wasn’t ready.

Yet.

Abruptly, Brynn pulled out of his arms, wiping at her eyes and giving him her back. “And now I look like a total psycho.”

“No.” She looked beautiful. Vulnerable and confused. “You look like you need a break. Some dinner. And probably some sleep.”

She looked like the girl he used to love, and hell, maybe even after all this time he still did.

“I’ll let you get to it.”

Deep in the belly of this too-swank-for-his-tastes bar, Ford sat across from a couple of suits working their asses off to woo him. It happened a few times a year, ever since Hibachi Cannonball became the top-grossing game for mobile devices in the U.S. Some megacorp would swoop in, pitching their shtick with an offer to partner up.

Sure, the numbers these guys were throwing around had only been going up—and it was flattering, no doubt—but the truth was, Ford liked working independently. He liked designing the games that got into his head, working on them
when
he wanted to and
how
he wanted to without anyone else’s vision or timetable getting in the way.

And without the risk of some partner screwing him over. Been there, done that.

Still, he’d hear the guys out. Listen to what they had to offer…and then inevitably end the evening more confident than ever with his current path. Besides, he’d scored a few sweet merchandising deals on his own, and sales from his last three games had earned him more money than he knew what to do with—so he must be doing something right.

When it came to business anyway.

He looked around the bar—at the clusters of preening models and big-bill-flashing financial guys.

Not his scene.

He’d have rather been hitting one of the neighborhood places where the only dress code required was that your clothes be comfortable, where the point wasn’t to see and be seen, but to connect with friends and maybe make a few more—and hell, where there was a chance he might run into a girl wearing Converse sneakers instead of five-inch stilettos.

It could happen. He’d seen Brynn a handful of times since he left her apartment the week before. The next day she’d been walking into La Colombe for coffee as he’d been walking out and, sticking with his plan to play it cool until she realized there was no reason to fight this thing between them, he hadn’t done anything more than hold the door and say “Good morning.”

She’d been nervous and flustered, and he’d just laughed and told her he’d see her around.

They’d bumped into each other two days later at the UPS Store, where he’d accused her of following him, and she’d turned every gorgeous shade of red there was before helplessly holding up a package she was sending to her old boss in Milwaukee. They’d talked about the game the night before, a truly incredible shot with less than a second on the clock and the sweet victory that followed.

But again, once his missed delivery was in hand, he’d limited his contact to tucking a few flyaway curls behind Brynn’s ear before taking off. And yeah, it was a small cheat, because he knew for a fact Brynn’s entire scalp was like one big erogenous zone, but whatever. He hadn’t stood around to soak up the way her eyes hazed over just that much, or angled to work that small gasp into something bigger.

The next three days she’d been out of town for the Magic game in Orlando, but he knew she was back because the next TNT game wasn’t for another four days and the Bulls had played the night before. And speaking of, there were a couple of players across the bar.

Reaching for his glass of Booker’s, he took a swallow, nodding appropriately as the suits talked about a trip to the Andes, no doubt trying to gauge whether he’d be open to joining them sometime. More of the woo, but typically the kind reserved for the close of the night. Excellent, he’d heard enough and—

Red. An untamed spill of it, there over by a pool table, where he’d just seen a handful of NBA guys.

Ford leaned forward in the low club chair, setting his glass on the table in front of him. Because, yeah, that was most definitely the body he hadn’t had nearly enough of draped in some kind of formfitting black dress with a low, scarfy-looking neck, and pair of black, thick-heeled boots. Looking incredibly good.

Brynn leaned back into the table, making a face at whatever one of the players had said to her. She feigned like she was taking a shot—earning the laughter of half the guys there.

“Hey, Ford, you like basketball?” the suit with the ponytail, Jeremy, asked, leaning into his line of vision. All grins. Totally in the way. “Want to meet a couple of the players? Just say the word and we’ll make it happen. Drake, buddy, want to set something up for Ford here?”

Shit.

Ford leaned back and waved the guys down. “No, thanks, but I just saw someone I knew over there. Thinking I’d like to catch up, actually.”

He stood, and both men rose with him, their disappointment masked as quickly as it flared.

“I appreciate the offer, and I’ll give it another look and get back to you with an answer next week.”

Jeremy perked up, shoving out his hand for a solid shake. “Excellent, man. And think about the Andes, too.”

“You’d love it,” Drake chimed in, adding his own vigorous shake.

“I’ll keep it in mind, guys. Thanks again.”

And then they were gone and Ford was walking toward the group of guys surrounding his girl, wondering if his plan to be cool and take his time could withstand the curve-hugging perfection of her dress.

Stepping around the velvet rope between where he’d been seated and what he figured was the VIP section, he headed toward Brynn. Toward that hair and smile and—
fuck
—her body.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Ford glanced down at a bald guy with a giant zirconium in his ear. Security, from the look of him, except this guy didn’t seem entirely confident in what he was securing. Or maybe what he wasn’t sure about was
who
he was defending against. After all, people had been mistaking Ford for a ballplayer most of his life.

Rather than help him out, Ford met the man with a level stare.

“What?” he asked, putting just enough irritated entitlement into the single word to suggest he might be “somebody.” Another ballplayer with a slightly less recognizable face, maybe?

The funny thing was, based on the club standards, Ford
was
somebody. Just not who this guy was thinking. Not that Ford would clue him in either way—the Hibachi Cannonball connection wasn’t one he shared with the masses. Too many opportunists, and ulterior motives were one thing he preferred not to worry about when bringing a woman home. Hell, he hadn’t even told Brynn. Habit mostly. But he would soon.

After a few seconds, earring guy took a step back, inviting Ford to enjoy his night.

Another few steps toward the group of professional athletes, most of whom were as tall as he was, and the two closest guys looked up at him. They exchanged a knowing look like they were expecting to have to sign an autograph or something, and blinked in surprise as he clapped one on the shoulder, congratulated them on the game from the night before, and then edged past, to get to Brynn.

She took a swig from the bottle of Heineken she had hooked around the neck with her finger, and then stalled mid-swallow—her eyes going wide as they landed on his.

“The ‘coincidental’ meetings were cute at first, Brynn,” he started, leaning a hip into the table beside her. “But I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s time for me to look into a restraining order.”

She coughed, and he patted her back, smiling as she shook her head.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, once she’d gotten her breathing back under control.

“Business thing. Big dinner, trendy club. But I’m done. How about you?”

She looked around at the group of players, who Ford realized seemed to have stopped their conversations and were looking between him and Brynn. And then just at him.

The looks darkening, like if he was bothering Brynn, he might be about to have a big problem. He was certain it wasn’t their intent, but those dark looks were a welcome sight. He liked the idea that Brynn had people looking out for her.

“Umm, this is Ford Meyers,” Brynn offered, introducing him to the group. Probably a few were trainers and production people, players, their wives and girlfriends. “He’s an old friend, and
almost
as big a sports geek as I am.”

With that he was shaking hands and bumping fists.

“How old of an
old friend
we talkin’ here?” one of the guys asked, grinning wide when Brynn seemed to blush and straighten up a little.

She tucked a curl behind her ear. No earrings. No jewelry at all, now that he looked. Just a black rubber Ironman watch on her slender wrist. That same barely there pink sheen on her full lips, and nothing else.

So different from the other women he knew.

Had she worn makeup when they dated? Maybe a little, but he liked this look. He liked the idea that with this woman, what he saw was what he got.

“Ten years,” he finally answered.

Then, catching the look of panic that flashed through Brynn’s eyes, he leaned closer. “You okay?”

She nodded, but set her drink down behind her.

“You know what, guys?” she started quickly, her voice sounding pinched. “Thanks so much for inviting me tonight. But I’m going to catch up a little with Ford and then head home early.”

Something was definitely up.

“Ten years?” Another player hooted, landing a play punch at Ford’s shoulder. “So you gotta know her boyfriend then, too, since—Brynn, how long you and Fred been dating?” He looked around for confirmation. “Since high school, right?”

Ford was pretty sure the sound system of the club hadn’t actually blown out, that the static filling his head was originating from between his ears. The jackhammer pounding through him, within his chest.

His eyes cut to Brynn, who was looking at him with such apology, it blasted him back to the one part of those few months he hadn’t revisited. Hadn’t compared a single moment to, until now.

He could feel the phone biting into his palm, the frustration boiling over after weeks of hurt and confusion and anger.

“Of course I looked you up!” he shouted through the line, instinctively knowing he’d regret losing it later, but unable to contain his emotions. They’d been in love. Christ, she’d given him her virginity a week before winter break. And when she’d said goodbye at the Amtrak station that last time it had been with tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d kissed her and told her it was only a couple of weeks.

But then he’d come back to school in January and she hadn’t been there. All he’d gotten was an email telling him she wasn’t going to be back. That she’d transferred and she was sorry. She’d miss him, but he should take care.

Take care. Right.

Only the whole thing had been bullshit. Because he’d called Santa Clara out in California, and surprise, fucking surprise, she hadn’t been registered there. So he’d tried the phone number she’d given him before break—the one that hadn’t worked the last four times he’d dialed it—and this time it rang. And rang. And rang, until a weary-sounding woman finally answered and when he’d asked to speak with Brynn…she’d gotten on the line.

“You were coming back, Brynn. Everything was great. You told me—what the fuck happened?” he demanded, still too shocked to believe she wasn’t there with him. That she’d left. That she’d
lied
. That—

“Ford, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He could hear her crying through the line and the sound of it—even as mad and confused as he was—it gutted him. Had him ready to hop the fucking train himself and pound down her door just to wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

“Don’t cry, baby.” He couldn’t handle it. “Whatever this is, we can work it out. I can come up and—”

“No. Don’t come up here.” Her voice was stronger then, colder. “I don’t want you to. Look, Ford, I didn’t want to hurt you, but the truth is, there’s someone else.”