The Billionaire in Her Bed (Worthington Family) Page 15

  “What plans?”

  Eli set his glass aside and grabbed a cardboard tube from behind his desk. He slid the plans out and spread them flat on the desk. Simon leaned forward to study them for a long minute then sat back, running a finger thoughtfully along his jaw. “Interesting.”

  “Yep.”

  “Not our usual M.O.”

  “Nope.”

  Simon tapped the plans. “If this doesn’t convince her you love her, nothing will.”

  “That would be great if there were a snowball’s chance in hell I could get her to look at it.”

  “You need to find out where she’s going to be. Somewhere public, where she can’t freak out. Then you spring this on her, say those three magic words, and bam. All is forgiven.”

  “Sounds kind of like stalking.”

  “Not if it works,” Simon shot back, unruffled. “Then it’s romantic.”

  Eli drummed his fingers on the desktop, something he did when he was deep in thought. “She mentioned something about a neighborhood meeting to discuss the sale of the building.”

  “Perfect.” Simon raised his glass, signaling for a refill. “Women love a grand gesture. You can unveil the plans there. Win everyone over with your wit, charm, and brilliant vision.”

  “It’s pretty risky,” Eli mused, ignoring his friend’s empty glass. “What if she turns me down? I’m not really into public humiliation.”

  “What’s that old saying? Nothing ventured, nothing gained?” Giving up on Eli, Simon went to the credenza and poured his own drink. “You didn’t get where you are today by playing it safe.”

  Eli lifted his glass to his lips and drank, a plan already starting to form. He’d have to move fast. First order of business was to find out when and where the meeting was being held without tipping off Brooke. And he knew just the person to help him.

  “Go big or go home.” He raised his glass in a mock toast.

  Simon clinked his glass with Eli’s. “Exactly.”

  …

  Working from home had its advantages. Like not showering for days on end and subsisting on junk food and Diet Coke. Made wallowing in self-pity so much easier.

  It helped that Brooke had a little sister willing to overlook her substandard appearance—and questionable odor—and trek out to Brooklyn to replenish her supply of said junk food and Diet Coke.

  “Thanks, Mal.” Brooke took one of the grocery bags from her sister, brought it over to the counter, and started to unpack. Powdered donuts. Chex mix. Slim Jims. Twinkies. It looked like Mallory had bought out an entire gas station convenience store.

  Their parents were right. She was the nice one.

  “I brought some real food, too, so you don’t die of malnutrition.” Mallory followed Brooke into the apartment and hip-checked the door closed behind her, her arms otherwise occupied with the remaining grocery bag. “And a little something special.”

  She dangled a smaller plastic bag from her fingers. Brooke took it from her and peered inside.

  “Please tell me that’s your homemade black satin mousse cake inside that box,” she said hopefully.

  “If the kitchen at the Worthington counts as home.” Mallory put the second grocery bag on the counter along with her purse and leaned against it to scrutinize her sister. “That’s an interesting ensemble.”

  “What, this old thing?” Brooke fingered the hem of her tattered RISD sweatshirt, which she’d paired with Minnie Mouse pajama pants and fluffy unicorn slippers.

  “And you smell god-awful.” Mallory wrinkled her nose. “How long has it been since you showered?”

  So much for overlooking her lack of personal hygiene. “I plead the fifth.”

  “I get that you’re nursing a broken heart.” Her sister reached into the second grocery bag and started pulling out what she apparently considered real food. Baby carrots. Hummus. Chicken cutlets. Bananas. “But you’re going to have to leave this apartment eventually.”

  “Eventually can be a long, long time.” With the bags unpacked, Brooke got to work putting the perishables in the refrigerator.

  “What about the bar? Don’t they need you?”

  “I’ve been cutting back on my hours there, working on my book and doing more freelance design stuff.”

  “That’s good, I guess.” Mallory picked up a banana, peeled it, and took a bite. “But you’re going to have to rejoin the land of the living at some point. You’re not the first person to be unlucky in love.”

  “More than unlucky, Mal.” Brooke put the last of the perishables in the refrigerator, closed the door, and slumped against it. “He lied to me. About everything. Our entire relationship was one big, colossal joke to him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know the whole time he was screwing me, he was planning on evicting me.”

  “Do you?” Mallory asked. “He said he was buying the building, but did he tell you what he was going to do with it?”

  “Not exactly,” Brooke hedged. “But he’s a big-time real estate developer. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s going to tear this place to the ground and put up a luxury high-rise. Or convert it into overpriced condos for the nouveau riche.”

  “I’ll admit, it doesn’t look good.” Mallory polished off the banana and threw the peel in the trash. “But didn’t he give you some kind of explanation when you asked him?”

  “I didn’t ask.” Brooke tore open the bag of Chex mix and dug in.

  Mallory nodded knowingly. “Now I’m getting the picture. You did your cut-and-run routine.”

  What was she talking about? Brooke was all fight, not flight. “I do not cut and run.”

  “You don’t think you do, but you do.” Mallory pulled a stool out from under the counter and sat. “Why else would you be living way out here?”

  Brooke took a seat on the stool across from her, putting the bag of Chex mix between them. “It’s Brooklyn, Mal. Not Bosnia.”

  “Might as well be.” Mallory grabbed a handful of Chex mix and popped some into her mouth. “Look, I’m not saying running is always a bad thing. Sometimes a little distance is healthy. Necessary, even. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.”

  A soft, faraway look came into her sister’s eyes, and Brooke wondered what she was hinting at. It disappeared as quickly as it came. The moment passed, and Mallory continued. “But before you head for the metaphorical hills, you should at least give Eli a chance to tell his side of the story.”

  “His side of the story?” Brooke almost choked on her Chex mix. “He lied. What more is there to know?”

  “Didn’t you lie, too? Or did you tell him you’re Brooke Worthington of the hotel Worthingtons?”

  Snagged.

  “It’s not the same.” Brooke broke open the box of donuts, took one out and all but inhaled it. Two thumbs up for emotional eating.

  “Isn’t it? At least a little bit?” Mallory didn’t wait for her to answer. “You owe him the chance to explain. You owe it to yourself.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Brooke licked powdered sugar off her lip. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “I watched you two at the wedding. I haven’t seen you that happy and relaxed with a member of the opposite sex in, like, ever. And that guy is totally in love with you. He couldn’t take his eyes off you all night.”

  Something stirred inside her. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge, much less name. She pushed it way down deep and reached for another donut. “You got all that from a few hours on a rooftop in questionable lighting?”

  Mallory hopped off her stool and grabbed two Diet Cokes out of the refrigerator. “Sometimes you’ve just got to trust your instincts.”

  She kept one of the sodas for herself and slid the other across the counter to Brooke. Then she sat back down, popped the tab, and drank.

  Brooke followed suit, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her sweatshirt when she was done. “Yeah, well, my instincts suck. They l
et me fall in love with someone who’s a carbon copy of Dad.”

  “Really? Aside from the fact that he’s one of the richest men in Manhattan, how is Eli remotely like Dad?”

  “He’s…” Brooke stalled. How was Eli like her father? He was supportive, not selfish. Took an interest in her career, her friends. Fixed sinks and planned weddings without asking for or expecting anything in return. And although he was rich, he didn’t let his money define him.

  Qualities as foreign to her father as making minimum wage.

  Mallory cleared her throat. “I’m waiting.”

  Since Brooke had no answer to her sister’s question, she asked one of her own. “How do I know it wasn’t all an act?”

  “You don’t.” Mallory gave a rueful little lift of her shoulder. “Not for certain. That’s where those instincts come in. And yours aren’t anywhere near as bad as you think. You had Hunter pegged as a pretentious prick the minute you met him.”

  Brooke’s jaw dropped, and a little piece of donut plopped onto her sweatshirt just above her left breast. “I never said…”

  “You didn’t have to,” Mallory interrupted. “It was written all over your face. And you were right. We broke up.”

  “Oh, Mal.” Brooke reached across the counter and covered Mallory’s hand with hers. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own drama, I didn’t realize you were hurting, too.”

  “Probably because I’m not.” Mallory gave her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Which should tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “The man I lost wasn’t worth keeping. But maybe—just maybe—yours is.”

  Mallory’s cell phone chimed. She pulled it out of her purse, swiped the screen and scowled.

  “What’s wrong?” Brooke asked.

  Mallory tossed her phone back into her purse and stood. “The idiots at the fish market messed up our delivery again. I’ve got to go take care of this, or we’ll have to take the scallop special off the menu tonight.”

  “Go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here with my processed food and carbonated syrup.” Brooke held up her soda can in mock toast.

  “Okay. But promise me you’ll think about what we discussed.”

  “I promise.” Not a hard one to make. Or to keep. Brooke couldn’t imagine she’d have space in her brain for much else.

  Mallory came around the counter to give her sister a hug. “And one more thing.”

  “Name it.”

  Mallory scrunched up her nose and pulled away. “Take a shower.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Not bad for our first meeting.” Brooke stood in the back of the gym at the neighborhood elementary school and surveyed the crowd filing in and taking their seats in the folding chairs she, Charise, and David had spent the last hour setting up. They were lucky the school board had agreed to let them use the space. They would have been spilling out the door of Brooke’s studio. “I’d say we’ve got at least a hundred people out there.”

  “Just wait.” Charise rubbed her hands together. “We’ll have a bigger crowd next meeting when we’ve got more time to get the word out. We’re not going down without a fight.”

  “The natives are getting restless.” Brooke shuffled the papers in her folder. “We should get things rolling.”

  “No,” David squeaked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Not yet. It’s still a few minutes before seven.”

  Brooke eyed him suspiciously. “What is with you?”

  “Nothing.” He stopped bouncing and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his perfectly pressed khakis. “I just think we should give everyone a chance to get here. We need all the help we can get.”

  “Okay, you win. I’m going to find a quiet corner to go over my notes.” A little extra prep time couldn’t hurt. Just as she’d predicted, she’d been distracted since her sister’s visit, Mallory’s words continuously bumping around her brain.

  That guy is totally in love with you.

  You owe him the chance to explain. You owe it to yourself.

  Sometimes you’ve just got to trust your instincts.

  Like that was so easy. Her instincts were what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Out of all the guys in the five boroughs, leave it to her to pick the one buying her building to be her one-night stand. A one-night stand that had morphed into something much, much more.

  She’d thought about calling Eli a hundred million trillion times. But each time she picked up the phone, she put it back down again. He’d tried to reach out to her in the days following the auction, and she’d shot him down at every turn. What if it was too late now? What if she put her heart on the line only to find out he’d moved on? That he no longer cared about her or Candy Court?

  Brooke shook her head to clear it. She didn’t have time for this now. She needed to bring her A game tonight. The rest of Candy Court—the rest of the neighborhood—was counting on her. At least she’d showered and put on pants without an elastic waistband and a shirt that didn’t advertise what she’d eaten for dinner last night. That was a step in the right direction.

  She clutched her folder to her chest and headed for the hallway. She needed out of the gym, with its noisy buzz of chatter and the heat building up as the crowd grew. “Come get me when you’re ready to start.”

  David found her ten minutes later in a classroom across the hall, still reviewing her notes. Zoning laws. Variances. Historical landmarks. There was a lot to remember, every bit of it important if they were going to save their homes and the area around them.

  “You’re on.” He gave her a thumbs-up then let his cheerful guard down, his eyes filling with concern. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “I’m sure.” With shaky hands, she put her papers back in the folder, checking and double-checking that they were in the right order. “I know I’ll have to face him sooner or later, but it’s not like he’s going to be here tonight.”

  David was the only one at Candy Court who she’d told about Eli buying the building. Probably because, other than her sister, he was the only one brave enough to get close to her when she looked and smelled like yesterday’s garbage. The others just thought Eli had gone as quickly and mysteriously as he’d come.

  They’d find out the truth soon enough. She didn’t want to be the one to disillusion them.

  “Right.” David pulled on his collar. “Let’s go.”

  The gym was more crowded now. Brooke recognized a few familiar faces in addition to the Candy Court crew. Her boss and some of the other staff at Flotsam and Jetsam. The two guys who owned the brewpub. Wayne, looking clean and sober with a middle-aged woman she assumed was his wife.

  “Good turnout,” David observed as they climbed the stairs to the stage at the far end of the gym, where Charise and the Feingolds were seated.

  “What’s the holdup?” Mr. Feingold grumbled. “I want to get to the cookies and coffee.”

  “Like you need cookies,” his wife shot back. “And you know you’re not supposed to have caffeine after eight o’clock, or you’ll never get to sleep.”

  Brooke stepped up to the microphone front and center. “If you’ll take your seats, we’ll get started.”

  She waited a minute for everyone to get settled before she began. “As you know, we’re here to discuss the sale of Candy Court and what it means for our community.”

  “It means we’re going to be the next Park Slope,” someone shouted out.

  “And pretty soon none of us will be able to afford to live in our own neighborhood,” someone else added.

  “That’s what we’re here to prevent,” Brooke said. “I have a few ideas…”

  “If we let them take Candy Court, who’s going to come in next?”

  “Our small businesses can’t compete against the big chains.”

  Brooke tightened her grip on the microphone stand. “If we could all raise our hands…”

  “What do we know about this development group?” />
  “Do we have any idea what they have planned for the building?”

  Okay, so hand-raising was out. “No. Not yet. But…”

  “Actually, yes, we do.”

  For a second, Brooke thought she was hallucinating. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She’d been hearing Eli’s voice in her head for weeks. His sexy growl. The way he cried out her name as he climaxed. But it usually started up when her head hit the pillow and she tried in vain to sleep, not in moments of full, waking consciousness. She hadn’t gone that far off the deep end. Yet.

  Then she saw him, striding down the center aisle with a cardboard tube tucked under his arm, moving like he owned the goddamn world.

  Why did he always have to look so good? If there were any justice in the world, he’d look as bad as she felt. Bloodshot eyes. Scraggly hair. At least some three-day-old scruff on his jaw.

  But no. Eli was bright-eyed, neatly coiffed, and clean shaven, looking like he stepped out of the pages of Esquire or GQ in what must be business casual for him—a crisp, white button-down shirt, lightweight gray cardigan, and dark jeans.

  He climbed up onto the stage, exchanging hugs with a squealing Charise and an equally excited Mrs. Feingold and a fist bump with her more reserved husband. Then he motioned to David, who scrambled to set up an easel he’d procured from who knew where.

  “You were in on this, weren’t you?” Brooke glared at David, who merely shrugged as he struggled with the easel. “Traitor.”

  She wheeled on Eli, who was so close she felt like she was drowning in the scent of him, fresh soap mixed with spicy cologne. She tried to ignore the tingling sensation in her nether regions. “And you. You’re just as bad, showing up here without any warning.”

  “You didn’t leave me much choice. Wouldn’t take my calls. Didn’t answer my texts. It was the only way I could think of to get you to listen to me.”

  Okay. She’d give him that one. “And you had to do it in front of half the neighborhood?”

  There was that drop-your-panties smile that made her stupid. “Less chance you’d run.”

  Again with the running? Did everyone think she was afraid of confrontation?