The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction) (5 page)

Chapter Five

Well, fuck a duck.

Noelle sank to the black kitchen stool that had come furnished with the Allston apartment. When she’d answered the Craigslist ad to share a two-bedroom place, she’d eagerly plunked down her half of the security deposit and the first month’s rent. The convenient location, near busy Commonwealth and Brighton Avenues and only blocks away from Boston University and the rattletrap subway system locally known as “the T,” had seemed ideal. And the three-level brick building boasted all the amenities a grad-school student needed: twenty-four-hour emergency maintenance, parking, and most importantly, a laundry room.

And when she’d arrived four days earlier and met Chancey, her new roommate, she’d been content with her decision.

Everything had been perfect.

Except for the two inches of water that now covered the living room and seeped out into the hall. The same murky, reeking pool also drowned the bathroom and second bedroom—
her
room.

Noelle chuckled, catching the slightly hysterical edge to the low burst of laughter and not giving a damn.

Jesus Christ
. Exhaling, she studied the russet stains steadily widening across the ceiling like a dirty Rorschach test. Over the couch hovered an amoeba. Near the window pranced two dancing bears. And right in the center…a vagina. Yep. Definitely a vagina.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Chancey bellowed into the surprisingly calm superintendent’s face. In the time they’d been roommates, Noelle had learned the volume of the short brunette’s thickly accented voice was stuck somewhere between booming and bellowing. How such a small body could contain that much sound without combusting had to be one of the mysteries of the universe. An even bigger enigma? The woman was a librarian.

The super, a stocky, quiet man, lifted a beefy shoulder in a casual shrug. Apparently, Chancey had been a tenant for three years, so he was probably used to her histrionics. “Not much you can do,” he mused, scratching a red patch on the side of his neck. “I have a call in to maintenance now to unclog Mrs. Leonard’s toilet and sinks, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before they respond. Don’t know what the hell the woman was thinking, stuffing so much shit in them. Well,” he chuckled, “not shit…”

“It smells like shit, John,” Chancey snapped.

Noelle snorted. Big mistake. Damn, the
odor
.

“See?” Her roommate jabbed a finger in Noelle’s direction. “Look at her. She’s gagging. We’re all gagging. Because we’re all standing in a cesspool of what-the-fuck-is-it.” She waved her expressive, delicate hands, gesturing toward the water lapping at the soles of her flowered rain boots and the super’s waders. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“Well…”

“I swear to God, if you say
well
one more time, I’m going to lose it.”

Both Noelle and John’s eyebrows arched high. If “losing it” was worse than this…

“Now, Chancey.” John held up his hands, palms up. “Like I said, I have a call in to maintenance. We’ll have to fix Mrs. Leonard’s plumbing and get her apartment and yours cleaned up and repainted. That could take a couple of weeks. At least.” When the brunette’s mouth parted, most likely to pour out another profanity-laden reply—the girl had a mouth that would make seasoned sailors go “
Damn!
”—John popped up a hand. “It’s the best I can do. I didn’t cause this mess. We all have to deal with it.”

“Is there another apartment we can stay in until then?” Noelle quickly asked before her roommate could fire back. “One we can temporarily use?”

Another scratch to the irritated patch on his neck. “No, unfortunately.” He winced, but hastily added, “But I’ll prorate next month’s rent for the weeks you can’t use the place.”

“You’re damn right you will. We pay for an apartment. If I wanted to live in a pool, I’d live at the Y. Or the sewer.” Chancey scrunched up her face, but instead of yelling, she sighed, her shoulders deflating on the long, heavy gust. “I’m so sorry, Noelle,” she said. “This is horrible. You haven’t been in Boston a week, and now…this shit. Literally.” She thrust her fingers in her hair, her topknot tilting to the side like a precarious Jenga tower. “I can go crash at my parents’, but I’ll be on their couch, or else I’d take you with me. But honest to God, I’m doing you a favor not taking you there.” She shuddered. “What will you do?”

The panic eddying inside Noelle ratcheted up. Where
would
she go? Her mind raced. She didn’t have family here. Maybe a motel? But she didn’t have the funds for a two-week—at least—stay. She’d handed over $1,800 for this place, and her job didn’t start until tomorrow. Though more than a little bit of dread clawed at her throat, she covered it with a small smile. None of this was Chancey’s fault.

“I’ll find something—”

“What the hell happened?” a new voice demanded.

Noelle closed her eyes, the air in her lungs evaporating. For just a moment, she’d wondered how her situation could get any worse.

Now she had her answer.

Lifting her lashes, she met Aiden Kent’s stare.

Damn, how did he do it?
She rose from the stool, rounding the bar-style counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. Even in a simple leather jacket, a gray shawl-collar sweater, and black jeans, with water staining the bottoms and the tips of his boots, he could’ve walked off the cover of
GQ
magazine. Screw
GQ
.
Hot as Hell
magazine.

His emerald gaze touched on her, traveling from her messy bun to her combat boots, then the long-sleeved T-shirt and nylon shorts that were fine for lounging around the house, and she battled the urge to fidget. How many romance novels had she read where the heroine claimed to have felt her man’s eyes on her? Before, she’d scoffed. Now, she raised her mental hands in an “Amen!” because she swore his scrutiny solidified, grew fingers, and skated over her skin, leaving twists in her belly that she would be drawn and quartered before admitting to.

She held her breath as his perusal dipped to her legs. His mouth tightened as his eyes narrowed on the riot of color that streamed from the mid-thigh hem of her shorts and disappeared into the top of her calf-high boots. She could just imagine the scathing words trapped behind his grim, sensual lips about the artful tangle of white, violet, blue, and pink flowers with the green leaves and dark-brown tree limbs that inked the skin of her leg.

She crossed her arms, tipping her head to the side. If he expected her to be ashamed of the body art, or care that it might offend his hoity-toity sensibilities, he would have a long wait. She smothered a snort. The truth was, she’d ceased being that shy, desperately in love girl six years ago. Today, she didn’t need his approval—or his condescension.

When he finally met her gaze, something dark flickered in his eyes before his aloof expression and shuttered stare revealed nothing. If not for that flash and the tiny, telltale tic along his chiseled jaw, she might’ve believed he was unaffected. Might.

“Hey,” Chancey cooed, sidestepping John and swishing over toward the front door, where Aiden remained standing. “Can I help you?”

Dear Lord
. “What are you doing here?” Noelle asked.

Just great. The last words she’d said to Aiden had been that she didn’t need his help. That she could take care of herself. And then the next time she saw him was in a flooded, water-damaged, funky apartment. At some point in her twenty-five-going-on-twenty-six years, she’d committed a mortal sin, and God was sticking it to her. Royally.

“I came to see you,” he said, the bored tone still managing to convey the “obviously” he’d left unspoken. “What happened?” he repeated.

“Mrs. Leonard happened,” Chancey explained, waving a hand toward the stained ceiling. “A very sweet lady, but she’s older and dementia is setting in. Which is why she probably mistook her sinks and toilet for drawers and stuffed panties, bras, scarves, and jewelry down them. So we’re flooded and homeless for at least two weeks. At least Noelle is.”

Aiden’s attention jerked from Chancey to land back on Noelle with unnerving intensity. She fought not to fidget under the relentless weight of his inspection. Once more it lowered, scanning her bare legs, and her skin tingled.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she assured Chancey, her eyes focused on Aiden. She would be—because she had to be.

Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to move with little or no notice. Before moving in with Caroline, her father had dodged more than one landlord because he’d failed to pay rent. They hadn’t been strangers to sneaking out of an apartment in the middle of the night or even being escorted out by a sheriff after hurriedly packing whatever belongings they could carry in a car.

“Where are you planning to go?” he pressed.

She hiked her chin up. “A motel.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have money for a long stay?”

“I’ll. Be. Fine,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Chancey and John, whose heads whipped back and forth between her and Aiden as if watching a Wimbledon championship match.

Why did he care? He’d made it perfectly clear that he would have preferred if she’d never darkened Boston’s city limits. She’d meant every word Friday night; she could take care of herself. Except for those seven years living with Caroline—the only time of security she’d experienced—she’d done just that.

Aiden stared at her, and she returned it, while all she wanted was to escape the scalpel-sharp scrutiny. After Caroline’s diagnosis and then death, and when Aiden sliced Noelle from his life with the skill of a surgeon, she would’ve prayed for him to notice her, to just look at her. Damn, she’d been so naïve. To be on the receiving end of his full attention was intimidating. Disquieting.

She sighed, ready to call “uncle” and retreat like a coward, when he strode forward, the splashing of water punctuating each step. Her jaw honest-to-God dropped as he stalked past her and into the kitchen, his muscled arm brushing her shoulder. He halted in front of the boxes and suitcases she and Chancey had managed to hastily pack and stockpile in one of the only safe zones in the apartment.

“These yours?”

The question snapped her free of her shocked paralysis. “Why?” she blurted.

“Because if we stay here much longer, we’re going to need hazmat suits. So, if possible, I’d like to make as few trips as possible to move your belongings. So are these yours?”

“Yes,” she admitted, shifting forward and placing a protective hand on one of the cardboard boxes. “But I don’t need your help. I can pack my car myself.”

He hefted the top carton and headed for the door. “Don’t bother. We’ll put everything in mine.”

“That’s not nece—”

“My car has more space. You can follow me in yours.”

She threw up her arms, frustrated. “Follow you where?”

“My apartment. You’ll stay with me,” he informed her before disappearing from the apartment without even a backward glance.

She gaped at the empty doorway.
What in the
hell
just happened?

“Soooo,” Chancey drawled, “should I have your mail forwarded to his address…”

Shooting the other woman a glare, Noelle charged after a dead man walking.

…

Three. Two. One…

“You’re out of your damn mind!”

Aiden stowed the cardboard box in the rear of his Escalade with a sigh. He happened to be in agreement with Noelle’s assessment. Since leaving her flooded apartment seconds earlier with a box of her property in his arms, he’d been questioning what strain of crazy had prompted him to offer his place. He snorted. Offer? More like ordered.

Shit. Maybe the god-awful fumes in that apartment had momentarily poisoned him. Maybe he’d temporarily blacked out.

Whatever the reason, seeing Noelle standing there in that small kitchen filled with boxes, her arms folded around herself while that stubborn chin pointed toward the ceiling, he couldn’t leave her there.

In that moment, he’d been transported back in time to fifteen years earlier. He’d no longer stood in a flooded Boston apartment but in the dry living room of his childhood home in Chicago, meeting Frank Rana for the first time. Frank had pumped Aiden’s hand, his loud, overly jovial voice declaring how glad he was to finally meet Caroline’s son, his large frame nearly filling Aiden’s vision. Nearly. Over Frank’s shoulder, Aiden had glimpsed the slight, petite figure hiding by the front door. His mother had told him Frank’s daughter was eleven—five years younger than Aiden—but the little girl with the wild tumble of black curls and ice-blue eyes that almost swallowed her elfin face had appeared closer to eight than eleven. And she’d stared at him as if calmly waiting for his rejection. Expecting it. With her skinny arms wrapped around her, and her chin hiked into the air, she’d seemed braced for it.

And he’d given it to her.

He’d ignored her, dismissed her, because even then, whiskey fumes from her father had stung Aiden’s eyes.

That had been the sixteen-year-old’s reaction. But as he’d stared at Noelle in her water-logged apartment with the image of the child superimposed over the woman, the thirty-one-year-old couldn’t abandon her.

Damn
.

Dragging a hand down his face, Aiden slammed the Escalade’s door.

What a clusterfuck.

He’d driven to the address supplied to him by the private investigator Bay Bridge had on retainer with the sole purpose of telling Noelle he would pay for her tuition. That his obligation to her—his mother’s wish—would be fulfilled with the payment he intended to make to Boston University’s finance office on Monday. Then he’d planned on walking away with no further need of contact between the two of them. No need to constantly rehash the past in a relentless loop. No need to be reminded of the loss that could never be regained or healed.

But that goddamn road to hell. Not only was it paved with good intentions, but the best-laid plans and a bunch of delusions.

Turning, he faced the glaring, five-foot-four-inch bundle of righteous anger shivering on the sidewalk.