be next New Year’s before we’re apt to run into each other again!”
She moaned with dismay. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Evie?” Now he was at a loss for words. He’d meant it as an endearment. For this bizarrely intriguing conversation they were having, Eve seemed too formal, and Evie spoke to his wish that they could still be back in that sunroom with her gently murmuring lyrics that he found himself yearning in that moment to be true.
“It’s what my family calls me, especially when they’re about to patronize me for something I did or advice I wouldn’t take. Another gift that comes with being the youngest. Remember I mentioned my older brother is Nicholas? No one has called him Nick in years. He’s a cardiac surgeon. My older sister Sela is a corporate attorney. Her look will give you a freezer burn if you call her anything else.”
“I’m not patronizing you, and I understand now how pulling in here the way I did must have panicked you, but—” he gestured to their respective residences “—this is what it is.”
She shook her head as if still fighting reality with herself. After a few more seconds, though, she said, “You’re taking it awfully well.”
“Maybe because I’m honestly glad to see you again.” Leaning over a few inches he said, “This is where you could say something like, ‘You know what, Derek? I’m happy to have had a chance to see you again, too.’”
With a sheepish smile, she said, “Consider it said.”
Continuing to gauge the proximity of their buildings, Derek added, “It is odd that we haven’t crossed paths sooner.”
“The truth is that I rarely see anyone in this place except for service people and the groundskeepers. So many of the residents are professionals who tend to head to their workplaces from five-thirty to seven-thirty every morning. Rae and I usually don’t get into our office until nine because we’re often on the job later into the evening.”
“That would explain it,” Derek said, having come to the same conclusion himself. “I’m usually heading in by seven. Although that doesn’t explain weekends. What do you do on weekends, play Sleeping Beauty?” That would account for her whipped-cream complexion. His fingers itched to touch her again—in places that would probably leave her with a permanent blush.
“Hardly. That’s when I am likely to be gone before daylight, possibly not to return until dark again. We have a number of clients who, out of necessity, schedule their events for the weekend.”
“Makes sense.”
Derek hoped she would continue, to share what some of those events were like. Despite her reserve, tonight felt a little too close to kismet or destiny to see it end yet. Instead, she opened her door.
As she exited the SUV, he did, too, hurrying to help her, which proved a necessary thing when he saw that she had more ice and snow on her side than he’d previously realized—another indication that the woman had gotten to him in more ways than one. He literally lifted her by her waist as though she were a doll and placed her safety on the clear and dry walkway. “Sorry for not seeing that.”
“It’s okay,” she said a little breathless. “Derek … I hope you know that I do wish you only happiness?”
She was truly adorable with her big blue eyes refreshingly absent of guile and her mermaid-sleek body half hidden from him by a jacket, whose color perfectly matched her lip gloss. Those lips stirred hunger anew in him. Derek suspected that she didn’t have a clue as to how delectable she was because Wes the Weasel had taken her for granted, if not outright neglected her. The betrayal and divorce were the final blows to her crippled self-esteem. He hoped one day Eve would heal enough to believe that she was a delight and would be very easy to fall in love with.
“I wish you the same,” he replied with quiet earnestness. They began walking up the sidewalk that bisected their front lawns. “If things were different …”
He waited to see if she would take the bait. Women were supposed to be the curious sex and ask, “What if they were?” But she didn’t. She was proving to be an anomaly in more ways than one.
“If things were different,” he said again, determined that she hear this anyway. “I would ask you out sometime.”
At the crossroads to their respective buildings, she stopped. “That’s one of the nicest bad ideas anyone has said to me,” she said.
Unsure whether to laugh or curse, Derek had to ask the obvious. “Bad idea why?”
“Because there’s baggage, and then there’s our kind.”
“‘Our kind?’”
“Joint baggage.”
She made it sound ominous, like a five-year tax audit, or worse. “We aren’t the ones who did anything wrong.”
“Which is why if we do run into each other now and then, we can say, ‘Hello.’”
“I should hope so.” Taken aback, Derek couldn’t decide what was more astonishing, that she wanted to pretend that the too-brief, but wholly romantic interlude they’d shared earlier was easier for her to brush aside than it was for him, or that he was somehow tainted by Sam’s behavior? Hindsight being the ugly pill that it was had made him accept that Samantha had always shown the impulses of an alley cat. He supposed it was a combination of his patience and voluntary myopia that had allowed the marriage to last as long as it did. No doubt Eve had engaged in her own survival tactics, but she couldn’t still be in love with Wes—or was she so angry she was going to judge all men by her two-timing ex’s character flaws?
With a sigh, Derek gestured toward her apartment. “I’ll wait for you to get inside.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand. “Humor me. Accept that I’m old school and want to see a lady safe and secure for the evening.”
“Okay. Thanks. Sorry.” She flapped her arms hopelessly. “I’m just no good at this.”
“No, you’re not.”
But he said it with a smile, and she laughed softly, and finally continued her way to her place.
In truth, she was a pain in places he didn’t want to think about. He ached to follow her to her door and kiss away what was left of her lipstick. Some competitive or hungry something compelled him to talk her into agreeing to see him tomorrow or the next day for coffee, lunch, or whatever. If she looked over her shoulder, he would do it.
She didn’t look back again until she had her door unlocked. Then she waved and locked up, leaving him to grimly stride to his own apartment. After bolting up behind himself, he stood in the nearly dark, too impersonal living room and felt fatigue descend upon him.
“Note to self,” he muttered, pulling at his tie. “Let it go … or move.”
“This is the winner of the Best Use of Spices float,” the female commentator for the Rose Bowl Parade said on the television.
“And I’m going nuts pretending this is what I want to be doing.”
Eve put the last of her meager Christmas ornaments into their box before reaching for the remote and turning off the TV. It was
