A champion is simply someone who did not give up when they wanted to.
–Tom Landry
Bethany
I’m home, sitting on the couch slash bed and staring at a box resting on the faded brown ragtag coffee table.
The package was delivered by a courier—some college-aged kid with long hair who reeked of pot. All he could tell me was it was “on behalf of Brent Crawford.”
What could it possibly be? A new toaster? A puppy? A sex swing? I’m still coming up with ideas when my phone dings.
Google alert.
I have Mr. Crawford’s name in my notifications so I can be prepared in case of a PR emergency.
I pull it up, expecting the normal article about a merger or deal or what have you, but the article is mostly about Brent.
He was just spotted going up to the penthouse of one Angela Sinclair of the HouseMart fortune.
Is this why he’s going to be late? The article goes on to mention that Brent and Angela were also spotted recently at dinner with their parents. I frown at the final sentence. Does this mean he is going to propose!?
It’s not like I have or want any claim on Brent. He owes me nothing. If anything, this article is a good reminder about why getting involved with hot, rich, famous dudes is a bad idea.
Besides, he’s the son of my boss. Bad ideas all around.
I’m not giving up my cookies to just anyone. I’m saving them for someone worthy.
Except . . . it’s been so long, I think my cookies have crumbled.
I glare at the box like it’s the one jumping from one girl’s apartment to the next and being all hot and flirty. Dumb box.
I need a distraction. I pick up a new bottle of nail polish and the Ann Rule book I started last night about Ted Bundy.
It’s almost eight when there’s a buzz at the door.
Brent.
I click the button to let him in the building and toss the book in a drawer. A few minutes later there’s a knock.
He’s fast.
“Hey.” I try to be professional, but the word comes out more breathless and sultry than I intended.
“Hey.”
I’m still wearing work clothes, skirt, blouse, but no shoes. I wanted to avoid repeating pajama time with Mr. Sexy Grin. His eyes linger on my newly painted pink toes before flicking back up to my face.
A tingle of excitement follows his gaze from my toes up the rest of my body.
Did he seriously just check me out after leaving his latest floozy’s apartment?
And did I seriously just enjoy being objectified?
I clearly need to work on my antihoochie behavior.
Or I need to get laid.
“You brought pizza.” Focus on the food, not the hunky man in the doorway. It’s hard not to be intensely aware of him towering over me. His broad shoulders fill the space, body tapering down to a trim waist, and no, I’m not going to stare at his junk.
Eyes up, Bethany.
“Best pizza in the city.” He lifts the unmistakable white box in his hands with a gentle shake.
I open the door wider and step back. A whiff of his cologne teases me as he walks by. Something expensive that makes me think of hot breaths and tangled limbs.
Dammit.
“Do you want anything to drink? I have water and . . . more water.” Good. Remind him I’m a broke-ass loser. That’s great.
He grins, opening the pizza box. “Water sounds good.”
The pizza almost smells more delicious than him. Almost.
“That looks amazing. I’m starved.” I hand him his water and pull out a couple of chipped plates from the cupboard. I take a bite and groan. “This is the best. Pizza is my fourth favorite food.”
“Fourth favorite?” His brows lift. “What’s one through three?”
“Tater tots, chicken nuggets, and mac and cheese.”
He barks out a laugh. “What are you, five?”
“Only emotionally. I think it’s why those are my favorites. It’s like comfort food. Reminds me of my childhood.” Before Dad died and Mom went to shit. “What about you? Something super mature like lobster tails and caviar?”
“Hardly. Pizza is probably number one.”
“Probably?”
“I don’t eat a lot of processed food. I keep a pretty rigid diet because of football. It’s the off-season, so I splurge occasionally.”
“Ah.”
Lifestyles of the ultra rich and healthy. He probably has a personal chef. The thought makes me glance around in embarrassment. I have a miniscule apartment with worn furniture and dirty windows.
He follows my gaze and glances around the small space. “I’ve never been in here before.”
“Never? Not even when . . . ?”
When he was fake-dating Gwen who ended up with his brother, Marc?
Awkward.
“I walked Gwen up to the door once. After a game.” He frowns down at his plate.
I know why he’s frowning. He wanted her. She didn’t return his feelings.
I heard the whole sob story from Gwen herself. I wonder if a guy like Brent really cares, though.
“Have you heard from them since they left?” I ask.
“Yeah, Marc calls and sends me emails whenever they have access. They’re happy. Gwen’s even trying to get Marc to snowboard again.” He smiles at me, and now . . . he doesn’t look terribly heartbroken or anything. Which makes sense. I mean, he can have anyone he wants. He probably found solace in the arms of a different model. Or Ms. Rich Angela Sinclair.
The thought makes my stomach turn. So I won’t think about it. We’re just friends. “Marc’s going to snowboard again? That would be amazing. That’s a huge deal.”
He has scarring over one side of his face from a snowboarding accident when he was a teen. Hasn’t been on a board since. Before the accident, he might have gone pro, according to Gwen anyway.
“I’m really proud of him,” Brent says, still smiling.
I clear my throat. “So, what’s in the box?” I gesture to the delivery sitting on the coffee table.
His smile widens. “It’s a camera for the front door.”
“Camera? How much do I owe you?”
He waves me off. “Nothing. It was cheap.”
“How much is cheap in rich man land? Because I think your definition of cheap and mine are going to be vastly different.”
“Well, technically I bought it for Gwen. It’s still her apartment and we can leave it here or she can take it when her lease is up. So really, it’s not even for you. Besides, everyone has one of these nowadays. It looks and functions like a doorbell, but there’s a camera inside.”
“Well, if everyone has one, and it’s actually for Gwen, then I guess it’s okay.
“They’re pretty cool. There’s an app you can download to your phone and then you can see activity and view live feeds at any time.”
“Seriously? That’s fancy as fuck.”
He nods. “Just like a spy movie.”
“Okay, but I get to be the ninja with all the skills and ass-kicking excitement.”
“What do I get to be?”
“You’re the arm candy.”
He laughs. “I guess I’ll take what I can get.”
He helps me clean up after dinner and then gets to work setting up the camera.
Inside the large package is another smaller box. “Here. I got this for you, too.”
I turn it over to read the front. “Is this . . . a night-light? It has Sam. And Dean. And Castiel! You got me a Supernatural night-light?” My eyes snap to his.
He’s smiling. A small flush colors his cheeks. “I thought you might like it. You know, because of the pants.”
My mouth pops open. “You noticed my pants and went out of your way to find me a matching night-light?”
“It’s no big deal. I’d do it for any friend.” He clears his throat and walks toward the front door.
I hug the box to my chest. “You’re a really good friend, Brent.”
And a friend you will stay.
I try to help him, but after giving him the Wi-Fi password, he insists it won’t take much time and he hardly ever has the opportunity to do this kind of stuff. So I sit on the futon and get some work done while he goes out into the hallway, working on the front door.
Once he’s finished, he helps me download the app on my phone and set everything up.
Then he shows me where he’s installed it on the door. It only needed one screw so there’s no damage to upset the landlord and the screw hole can be easily filled when it’s time to move.
“Can you set it up on more than one phone?”
“Yeah, up to four.”
“Can you link it to yours, too? Just in case.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. That way, if you don’t see me leaving for more than two days, it’s time to make sure I haven’t been murdered and stuffed in a suitcase.”
He grimaces. “No murder allowed on my watch.” He taps on his phone, setting up the feed, before he walks over to get the jacket he left on one of the chairs.
“Before you go, take a look at this.” I walk past him to the coffee table where I’ve left my laptop open. “I’ve been tracking when the incidents occur to see if there’s a pattern.” I turn the screen in his direction so he can see the spreadsheet I’ve been working on.
“That’s actually really impressive.” His eyes scan down the color-coded sheet.
“I’ve tracked the occurrences by day and time.”
“What did you find?”
“There’s more activity on the weekend and on Thursdays. Tonight is a typically quiet night. Thank God.”
He nods at me but his mouth tilts down and there’s a crease between his brows. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. Nothing bad has happened, except for the sleepless nights. I can handle noises. I’ve been here for three months and I’m still alive. Besides, what if it’s all in my head? Maybe I’ve cracked and now I have split personalities and I’m gonna go all crazy and you’ll see me on video running around the halls covered in animal skins and peanut butter.”
He laughs. “That’s always a possibility. One I hadn’t really considered, actually, but now I think it’s burned into my brain. Where would you get the animal skins?”
“That’s the part you’re worried about?”
He laughs again, shrugging his large frame into the sleeves of his jacket. “Yeah.”
“I’m sure there’s some subway rats I could catch.”
He groans. “Oh God, no. Don’t go there.”
We both smile and then there’s an awkward moment where he’s glancing around to make sure he didn’t leave anything and I’m trying not to think about the fact he’s probably leaving here to go back to Angela Sinclair’s penthouse apartment. She probably doesn’t need cameras on her front door. She has a legion of doormen and personal security guards, maybe a giant Doberman with a pink collar named Gertrude.
“What an asshole,” I grumble.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I, uh, be careful driving so you don’t end up in a sinkhole.”
“That doesn’t sound like what you said.
“I’ll . . . walk you to the door.” I practically shoo him toward the exit. Which is literally two feet away.
Good job, Bethany.
He stops at the door and turns to face me. “I’ll call you tomorrow to check on things.”
“You don’t have my number.”
“I do. I put it on my phone when I was setting up your app.”
“You stole my number?”
“Don’t make it creepy. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“I guess we are.”
Since there’s no way we could ever be anything more.