Rebecca Larsen shouldered open the door of her
new Park Slope apartment and surveyed the wreckage.
A pizza box lay open on the coffee table, containing
the remnants of a sausage and mushroom pizza of
indeterminate age. By this point, Becca was on her
last nerve. Her cat had shrieked for the entire trip from
Philadelphia to Brooklyn, and as Becca gazed about the
room, she began to feel a sensation akin to entering the
Twilight Zone.
Annabelle, Becca's best friend, sister-in-law, and
resident of the apartment until two weeks ago, wasn't
a neatnik by any stretch of the imagination, but Becca
had never seen her leave this much of a mess. Empty
beer bottles littered the remaining space on the coffee
table, and a pair of very large shoes lay underneath.
Men's shoes. Becca's sense of unease escalated. It
definitely looked as if there was a man living there.
Yep, the XXL fleece hoodie thrown on the couch was
her first clue; the second was the singing that came
from the direction of the bathroom seconds after the
hiss of the shower started.
Becca grabbed the baseball bat she found leaning
against the wall by the closet and skulked to the
bedroom. The bed was unmade, which wasn't startling,
but the collection of men's jeans hanging off every
surface as well as a mess of jockey shorts and socks on the floor certainly was. Not as much, though, as
the voice coming from the shower. It was a rich bass
baritone, and if she wasn't mistaken, he was singing
an old '40s tune. God, who sings songs from the '40s?
Whoever it was had a smooth, smoky, sexy-as-hell
voice that was hot enough to make a woman melt like
chocolate in a two thousand-degree kiln. The guy in
the shower had one hell of a voice. Too bad he was also
going to have one hell of a bruise.
She spent some time thinking about whether she
should hit him while he was in the shower or wait until
he got out. He'd gotten through the first stanza of his
song and the whole chorus before she decided to wait
until he emerged. The shower curtain might severely
curtail the speed at which the bat would hit, and then
there was the problem of proper aim.
Pushing the door open with the end of the bat, she
watched the steam roll toward her and bring with it
the scent of yummy-man. A man who smelled like
that at any other time would have her following him
just to get a whiff. His scent was clean, with citrus
and spice overtones that made her mouth water. The
body that stepped out of the shower bare-ass-naked
stole the breath from her lungs, the attack plan from
her memory, and made her thankful she was a woman
who could appreciate the human form because she'd
never seen one finer. Her eyes wandered back to
his face just in time to see the corner of his full lips
lift to form a grin. If looked at separately, each part
of his face—the Roman nose, sapphire blue eyes,
curled spiky black eye lashes—was almost pretty,
but something about the way they fit together and the addition of his five-o'clock-shadow-before-noon, stole
the prettiness from his face and made it arrestingly
gorgeous. He was the Sicilian version of a Greek god.
He had to be the most beautiful man she'd ever seen in
person, and as a sculptor, she'd seen more than her fair
share of beautiful people. Too bad she disliked him.
Rich Ronaldi looked over his shoulder to find his sister's
best friend staring wide-eyed at his bare ass. Well,
maybe it wasn't only his ass she stared at because when
he turned, she got a load of the full monty.
Becca rested the end of the bat she carried on the floor.
"Excuse me, but what the hell are you doing here?"
Rich had never been the shy type, but the women who
got a load of him in the buff were usually invited to do
so. Becca, Miss prim-and-proper-ice-princess, wasn't.
He wished he knew where the damn towels were. He'd
just moved in, well, in a figurative sense of the word.
He'd stayed there for a few days, and he had a towel
somewhere, but knowing himself, it was on the floor
along with his dirty socks and underwear.
If he'd known she'd be coming by, he'd have kicked
them into the closet or at least under the bed. But then,
Becca was the last woman he'd expected to darken
his doorstep. He had no clue why, but since their first
meeting, he got the distinct impression she wasn't overly
fond of him. "How did you get in here?"
Becca didn't seem to grasp the fact that standing
naked in front of a woman who wouldn't normally give
him the time of day is not the most comfortable thing
to do. She didn't turn away or hand him a towel, not that there was one at hand. He brushed past her into the
bedroom, saw a towel hanging off the footboard of his
bed, and quickly tied it around his waist. The only reaction he saw from Becca was a blink.
"I used my key. What are you doing in my bedroom,
taking a shower in my bathroom, which is conveniently
located in my apartment?"
Rich let out a laugh. "Hold on. I'm the one asking the
questions here. This is my apartment. I'm leasing it from
Rosalie and Nick."
She crossed her arms, the action pulling her baggy
sweatshirt taut across her chest. A chest he forgot she
even had. When he realized he was staring, he returned
his gaze to her face and found her rolling her eyes.
"You're impossible. So is your story since I'm subletting the apartment from Annabelle. It was her apartment,
and now it's mine. You need to leave."
She looked like one of those sexy Anime cartoon
characters. She was tall, just a few inches shorter than
his own 6'3", and thin with long, long legs and short,
choppy, platinum blonde, perpetually tussled hair that
gave her a sexy as hell, just-been-fucked look. Rich
mimicked her stance, careful not to spread his legs wide
enough to dislodge the towel, though it would serve
her right if he did. "You're wrong. Rosalie and Nick
own the apartment. They rented it to Annabelle, who
has since moved out. I moved in. If anyone is leaving,
it's you."
"Well then, we have a problem. Because as of right
now, I'm living here."
"Not with me, you're not."
"Exactly.
He waved his arm to encompass the whole apartment, and the whole mess he had scattered across it.
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."
"The only possession I see here is your mess.
Everything I own that's not in storage is now in the living
room, so, in that respect, as in others too numerous to
count, you come up…" She looked him up and down
with a critical eye. "…decidedly short."
Rich had half a mind to whip off his towel just to
show her how very short he wasn't. He was a man
comfortable with his body and his um… size. Shit, he'd
never had any complaints in that department, and from
the look in Becca's eyes when she ogled him—and it
was an ogle—she didn't have any complaints either. He
was sure she was just trying to get a rise out of him,
which she wouldn't. She wasn't his type.
No, Rich's type was a woman like his girlfriend,
Gina: a little bombshell. She was all black-haired,
copper-eyed, and built like a woman. She was a barely
five-foot package of pure TNT. Gina dressed like a
woman. You'd never find her wearing an old sweatshirt five sizes too big and a pair of low-slung baggy
jeans. "Shit." He looked at the clock. He was going to
be late. He was meeting his dean at the Harvard Club
and then heading uptown for a date with Gina. "I don't
have time to talk about this. I have somewhere to be.
Why don't you go out to the living room and let me
get dressed. I'll call Nick and Rosalie on my way and
find out what to do about this mess. You can spend the
night tonight because I have other plans, but I have
to tell you, babe, you're gonna be looking for another
place to rent."
Becca pulled her cell off her jeans and flipped it
open. "I'm not leaving until after I've spoken to Mike
and Annabelle. We'll see who'll be combing Craigslist
for a place to hang his mess. And let me tell you, babe,
it's not going to be me."
Rich didn't bother to wait for Becca to leave before
reaching for his towel. Thankfully, she stormed out and
slammed the bedroom door behind her. Rich found a
clean pair of jockeys and pulled them on wondering
what else could happen. He went to the closet, ripped
the plastic off his dry cleaning, and slid on his lucky
shirt—the blue one everyone said matched his eyes.
He looked around for his favorite pair of 501s, stepped
into them, and while he buttoned the fly he scrounged
around for clean socks. He had to go for the emergency
pair of red socks he'd gotten for Valentine's Day last
year. He hated them but kept them in his gym bag for
emergencies. It looked as if he had to wear his boots
to hide the damn socks, and sometime in the next day
he either had to do figure out how to do laundry, find a
laundry service close by, or go to his mother's. He tried
to remember if he picked up the last of his laundry he
left there. After stuffing his wallet in his back pocket,
he slid on his watch and ran his hand through his hair.
Perfect. Well, perfect except for the temporary lodger
banging around in the next room.
Becca paced the apartment waiting for Rich to dress. The
man was completely exasperating. Moving to Brooklyn
meant she'd be the only single female in a gaggle of
couples. The payoff for overlooking all that togetherness was that she'd be close to her newfound brother, her
best friend turned sister-in-law, and her little niece- or
nephew-to-be. She could always sneak out of whatever
stifling function she was talked into and escape to her
own apartment if it got to be too uncomfortable. She
just didn't expect to be stuck moving in with the only
other unmarried person she knew in Brooklyn. The fact
that Rich Ronaldi had played a starring role in all her
fantasies since the day she met him only added to the
numerous reasons that he was the last man she wanted
to be alone with. He was a regular menace.
When he stepped out, he'd gone from Mr. Wet-andWicked to Mr. Urban Chic. He wore great boots,
perfectly faded jeans that lovingly hugged his thighs,
ass, and well, everything else a pair of well-designed
jeans is supposed to hug. She turned her back on him
and stepped into the kitchen. "Do you want some coffee
before you leave?"
Rich shook his head. "I'm late as it is, and as much as
you try to be the lady of the house, you're not. Making
coffee isn't going to change that, Becca."
The way her name rolled off his tongue, dripping
with sarcasm and something else she thought it best
not to consider, made her want to call the cops and
have him thrown out. But if she did that, she'd have to
prove residence, which she couldn't. She'd also have to
explain to Annabelle why she'd had Rich thrown in the
clink. Becca tossed a filter in and counted the scoops of
coffee hoping it would help in the same way counting
to ten did.
Nope, no luck there. She measured the water, filled
the machine, and was still as angry as ever.
Rich followed her to the kitchen and was now leaning
on the breakfast bar staring at her. "I need to go. I'll be
back late, if at all. Feel free to help yourself to anything
in the kitchen. Stay the hell out of my things. We'll get
this mess sorted out, and you can be on your way first
thing in the morning. I don't think Gina would look too
kindly on you staying with me."
Becca didn't bother holding back her laugh. "Oh
yeah, she's got a lot to worry about there. Get over
yourself Richie. The only thing I'm interested in is my
apartment."
Rich plucked a leather jacket off the back of the
kitchen chair, went to the door, and picked up his keys.
"Sorry to tell you this, babe. But that old saying, blood
is thicker than water, is just as true today as it was when
the Germans penned it. Of course, the Italians have taken
it to a new level." Rich winked. "Don't wait up."
Rich walked up the steps of the Harvard Club and
headed toward the bar. He didn't belong to the prestigious club, but Craig Stewart, his old friend and new
boss, the dean of psychology at Columbia University,
did. Rich stood in the doorway of the bar and looked
for Craig.
The two had a long-standing lunch meeting there
once a month. It began when Rich had been one of Craig
Stewart's doctoral candidates. Even while Rich taught
at Dartmouth, he'd fly down to the city every couple
months and always met with his mentor and friend.
When Rich had woman or job troubles, Craig was
the first one he'd call for advice. Thankfully, Craig was quick to help him out of the last mess he found himself
in. Now Craig was not only a friend and a mentor, he
was a boss.
"Rich, over here."
Rich nodded and worked his way past several tables
to the bar. Craig stood a few inches shorter, quite a few
years older, and about fifty pounds heavier than Rich.
Rich accepted the beer Craig pushed toward him as he
tossed his jacket on the back of his stool. "Thanks. I'm
sorry I'm a little late. It was a family thing. It couldn't
be avoided." He held up his glass, and then took a long
drink from it. "How are you?"
"Good. I saw your research on schools was cited, and
you were quoted in the science section of the Times this
morning. You didn't mention the Times had picked up
on your work. Congratulations."
With everything going on that morning, Rich had
completely forgotten about it. "I'm sorry. I should have
said something, but I can't take all the credit. There were
two other co-authors."
"Yes, but the article said the researchers were led by
you. It's good for you and good for the department." He
slapped Rich on the back. "I'm proud of you. But I have
to say I've been a little disappointed that Emily and I
haven't seen you at the house. We saw you more when
you were up at Dartmouth."
Rich always got along well with Craig's wife, Emily.
But now that Craig was his boss, Rich wasn't sure exactly
how to treat the relationship. "I've just been busy trying
to get things set up the way I like them, moving into my
new place, getting my office settled, ordering new books
for next semester. You know how it is.""That I do. I invited Jeff Parker to join us in about
a half hour. I know you met at the faculty mixer, but I
thought since you're both new to the faculty, you might
want to get better acquainted. He's got a great jump
shot, and I know you're big on basketball."
Jeff was the professor in office next to Rich's. "Sure."
Craig took a sip of his drink and set his glass down.
"I heard from your old dean yesterday."
Rich had just taken another swig off his beer and tried
not to choke on it. "Oh?"
"He wasn't too happy with the way you left things
with his daughter."
As if he hadn't made that crystal clear during the last
six months of Rich's tenure at Dartmouth. "Shit, Craig.
She's a grown woman. How the hell was I supposed to
know she was my dean's divorced daughter? Darcy has
a different last name, and thank God, she looks nothing
like her daddy. If she did, I wouldn't have got in bed
with her in the first place."
"I understand, Rich. I do. But don't you think you're
getting a little old for this? Even you have to admit that your
serial dating has brought nothing but trouble to you your
entire life. First, there was that problem with the law."
"Hold on, I was seventeen. And that had more to do
with stripping cars than with my dating life."
"Still, it was your girlfriend who turned you in."
"Yeah, but I turned my life around. I did my six
months of hell in military school. I paid my time, and
my record was expunged. You would never have known
about it if I hadn't told you."
Craig rested against the back of his stool. "I still can't
believe you live the way you do after going through military school for even six months. Your place always
looks like a frat house after a weekend party."
"Which is why I spent most of my time in military
school in the brig. I could never get a quarter to
bounce on the bed after I made it. Then I got nailed
for paying someone else to shine my shoes, buckles,
and iron my uniforms."
Craig laughed. "That explains how you remained a
slob. Still, you're a thirty-four-year-old man. Aren't you
getting to the point where you want to settle down?" When
Rich looked at him with what he was sure was a blank,
confused expression, Craig continued. "Have a committed
relationship, maybe get married, and have a few kids? Isn't
that what you want?"
"Where are you going with this?"
"I just thought that since you're back home now
that you might want to reevaluate your life. You have
a great opportunity at Columbia if you play your cards
right. You're on the right track, but you can't afford
another problem like the one you had at Dartmouth.
You're exactly where you want to be. Now you can
look forward to having more of a personal life. You
know, settle down, have a committed relationship,
get married."
Rich looked into his beer. He wasn't sure if this was
his friend, the happily married man, or if it was his boss,
the dean of Columbia's psych department, speaking.
Still, since Rich was working his way toward a full
professorship and tenure, he didn't want to do anything
to screw up his future. He could get away with leaving
one Ivy League University on less-than-good terms, but
not two. "As a matter of fact, I've been seeing someone here for some time. She's the reason I stopped seeing
Darcy in the first place. Now that we're both in the city, I
was thinking of taking the relationship to the next level."
It made sense. Gina was great. She was a lot of fun, easy
on the eyes, good in bed. What more can a guy want?
"I'm glad to hear it. You can bring her to the benefit
dinner Emily has been nagging me to drag you to. She
hasn't seen you since you moved back."
"Sure, we'd love to go. I've yet to meet a woman who
doesn't love to dress up and do the town."
"Great. The benefit is in two weeks. I'll get the tickets
and let you know all the details later."
Just then, Jeff Parker joined them.
Craig stood up and Rich followed suit. The three
shook hands and went to the club room for lunch and
psych department talk. Still, it was better than the
conversation Jeff's arrival put an end to. Now, if only
Rich knew which Craig Stewart he had that conversation
with: his friend and mentor, or his boss.
Rich knew something was wrong when he entered the
apartment Gina shared with her sister and brother-inlaw. The way Gina's brother-in-law, Sam, a big cop
with a bad attitude, stared at Rich made him want to run
in the opposite direction. What was it with people not
liking him on sight?
Rich smiled, doing his best not to fidget. His experience with cops made him uncomfortable to say the least,
and Sam didn't seem thrilled to have his sister-in-law
mixed up with an ex-juvenile delinquent. Although
his record was expunged, the fact that it was expunged didn't look good on the background check Rich was sure
that Sam ran on him. "Beautiful day, huh?"
Sam just stared.
"The leaves are changing, I'll bet the Park is gonna
be crazy today with everyone taking in the fall colors."
Rich found himself taking a step back when Sam
shifted his weight. "Is Gina ready to go?"
Sam crossed his arms and Rich wondered where the
man found shirts to fit over his huge biceps. He looked
like the incredible hulk without the whole green skin
thing happening.
Tina, a slightly younger version of her sister, Gina,
entered the room, took one look at the situation, and
stood between him and Sam. Rich fought the urge to
cross himself.
She poked Sam's chest. "Sam, stop this." She turned
to Rich. "Sam and I are going out for a little while."
Sam held Tina's coat for her. "We'll be close by and
could stop back any moment. Understand?"
Rich nodded. "Okay, but we're not staying—"
"Yes, we are." Gina teetered in on her four-inch heels
and all but pushed Sam and Tina out the door. "Give me
an hour before you send the SWAT team in, okay? Tina,
maybe you should put a leash on him or something."
She shut the door behind them and locked it. "Sit down,
Rich. We need to talk."
Nothing good ever came after the words, "we need to
talk." Rich examined his actions over the last week and
wondered if it was something he'd done that caused the
I'm-so-not-happy-to-see-you look on Gina's face, and
the way she kept her back up as if she was trying to steel
herself against God only knew what.Rich sat on the couch and watched Gina pace the
room while he tried to figure out the problem. Before
he'd moved down a few months ago, Gina would visit
him in New Hampshire once or twice a month. She
never wanted to go out because she had an aversion to
any place that wasn't New York, so they stayed at his
place, usually in bed, which worked for him. Come to
think of it, since he'd moved back to New York, he and
Gina didn't do much together that wasn't horizontal
either. Maybe that was the problem.
She continued pacing, and he had half a mind to grab
her and haul her onto his lap. Whatever she had to say
couldn't be as bad as all that. After all, they'd never
really had any problems. He closed his eyes and cursed
silently. They must have had some problems since she
was obviously working up the courage to do something.
Rich had a strong feeling it wasn't going to be something
he'd enjoy. He'd lived with his two sisters long enough
to know that women had all sorts of problems with the
men in their lives that the poor slobs were never privy
to. Maybe if Gina had said something, he could have
avoided whatever this was. Gina turned and crossed
her arms under her breasts, which always had the same
effect on Rich.
"Richie."
He pulled his gaze away from her abundant cleavage
and brought it to her face.
Gina rolled her eyes. "I'm not cut out for this."
"This?"
Gina nodded. "Yeah, this…" She motioned from
herself to him and back again. "I didn't sign up for a relationship. It was different when you lived in Maine—"
New Hampshire."
"Whatever. We saw each other once or twice a month
for a day or two, and it was fine." She blew her inky
bangs off her forehead. "This full-time girlfriend thing.
It's just not working for me. It's too much pressure.
You're everywhere. And well, since you live here now,
it's really killing my social life."
Rich stood. "Social life? You have a social life?"
"Because of you, no. I don't."
"Good."
"Good? You think that's good?" Gina said something
in Spanish that even after four years of taking it as a
foreign language, Rich couldn't make out.
He figured it had something to do with God and
possibly death. Maybe it was better he didn't know the
exact translation. "Look, Gina. Why don't we just talk
about this? What's the problem?"
"You."
"What about me?"
"Pretty much everything. It's nothing personal,
Richie. You're a nice guy. I liked it when you were
just someone I slept with whenever we got together.
You're great in bed, and well, that's always been fun.
You know?"
Rich nodded. Yeah, he knew.
"Now you're talking about relationships, and well,
I like you, but let's face it, you're just not relationship material."
"I'm not?"
Gina shook her head. "You're like a little boy. You
expect every woman you know to clean up after you,
cook for you, and do your laundry. I'm surprised you'velearned to cut your own meat. Face it. You're a mama's
boy. You don't need a girlfriend. You need to move
back in with your parents so your mother can take care
of you. I'm not interested in being a maid with benefits.
I want more, and you're not it."
Rich stood. "Hold on, Gina. Give me a chance. I
can change."
She laughed. "Come on, Richie. You're hopeless.
You've been treated like a prince since birth. Your
mother thinks you're the Second Coming. I'll bet she
still does your laundry."
"I can change. I'm a grown man. I'm intelligent. I
have three post-secondary degrees. I'm sure I could
figure out how to do laundry."
"Sure you can. If that's what you want to do, go for
it. But don't do it for me. I'm sorry, Richie."
When Rich left the apartment, he saw Sam leaning
against the wall in the hallway with his arm around his
wife. Tina shrugged as if to say that's the way things go
sometimes, gave him a sad smile and a wave. Rich nodded
and turned toward the elevator. He just wanted to go home
and do an imitation of Brian Wilson holed up in bed for
a week or two, eat bags of Sara Lee biscotti, and watch
cartoons and hockey on TV. He couldn't believe he'd been
dumped. He'd never been dumped before. Well, except
for that time when he was seventeen and his girlfriend
slept with his best friend, Nick Romeo, and then snitched
to the cops, which led to his and Nick's arrest for grand
theft auto. But the only reason she did that was because
she found out he was about to dump her first. Women.
What was he going to do now? He was supposed to
show up at some charity thing two weeks from today with a woman on his arm to prove to his dean he's
respectable, stable, and in a committed relationship.
Fuck, he had to get Gina back because there was no
way he could find another girlfriend and establish a
committed relationship in the next two weeks. He was
good, but not that good. Besides, how hard could it be
to turn into relationship material?
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket,
pulled up his collar, and headed into the cold fall wind
toward the subway and home. That's when he remembered that Becca was at his place. Great. Just what he
needed. Another woman who thought he was worthless.
Shit. He couldn't even go home so he went to the next
best place, his home away from home—DiNicola's.
Becca moved her cat, still in his carrier, from the living
room into the spare room. While he slept, finally, she
cleaned her new apartment and made a strategy for
getting rid of the unwanted man in her life. She had a
feeling it would be difficult. But then, over the years,
she'd learned that nothing worthwhile was easy.
She jumped at the sound of the intercom buzzing.
Shit, she wasn't sure what she should do. For all she
knew it was Richie's girlfriend, Gina, at the door. Richie
said she wouldn't be happy to find out that Becca was
staying there. On the other hand, it might be a fast way
to get rid of Rich Ronaldi. She smiled as she pressed the
button for the intercom. "Yes?"
"It's Rose Albertini, Richie's aunt."
Becca leaned her forehead against the cool plaster
and buzzed Aunt Rose in. She looked in the mirror and pushed the hair off her forehead wishing she'd had a
minute to clean herself up a little. Taking a deep breath,
she opened the door. Becca had met Aunt Rose twice
before—once at Annabelle and Mike's engagement
party, and then, of course, at their wedding. Annabelle
always said Rose was scary, but the little old lady who
walked in carrying a lasagna didn't look the least bit
scary. "Oh, it's'a you. I thought I recognized the voice.
Not too many got your accent."
"Accent?"
"Yeah, you know, you sound like you talk with your
teeth clenched. That's'a no good for your jaw. It'll give
you pain as you age. Mark my words."
Rose walked past Becca into the kitchen, popped the
lasagna into the oven, and turned it on. "You take'a this
out in forty-five minutes when it'sa nice and bubbly.
Leave the foil off for the last few minutes to brown the
top a little if'a you like. I put'a the gravy and the cheese in
the Frigidaire. You heat the gravy and make sure you save
the leftovers. I made enough for you and Richie. He'll be
hungry after tonight. You take care of him, eh?"
"I hardly think that I'm—"
"Ah, you don't like my Richie, do you? My Richie—
he's'a good'a boy, you'll see. Spoiled, but good." She
rubbed her hands together as if she were wiping away
any argument and looked Becca over from bottom to
top. "You too skinny. Mangia, mangia. My Richie, he
don't like skinny girls."
"Mrs. Albertini—"
Rose waved her hand. "No, you call me Aunt Rose.
You're practically family." She moved toward Becca,
reached for her face, and kissed both cheeks. "You'll like my lasagna. Later, when you want, I teach you
to cook. Put some meat on those skinny bones." She
looked away and shook her head. "Aye, yi yi, you and
Richie, you got a lot to work out. But don't worry,
you're good for him, and when he grows up, he'll be
good for you too."
"I'm sorry Mrs… I mean, Aunt Rose. Rich and I
aren't… we don't even like each other. Honestly, you've
got it all wrong."
"Like? Who said anyting about like? You think me
and my Vito liked each other?" She laughed. "You don't
need to like each other. Well, not at first." She waved
her hand. "It'sa the fire you like. The rest, you learn
to live with, and then to love. You listen to your Aunt
Rose." She tapped her temple. "I know what I know."
The only thing that Becca knew as she followed the
old lady out of the apartment was that Aunt Rose needed
some serious therapy. Still, the look she gave Becca
when she tapped her temple gave Becca the willies.
Becca could see what Annabelle meant.
The old lady turned and raised her hand. "No need to
thank me. Just take care of my Richie. You're a good'a
girl. Skinny, but that won't last."
"It won't?"
"No." She kissed Becca again. "A little meat on your
bones and you'll be a beauty. You Catholic?"
Becca shook her head. "Presbyterian."
"Ah well, I guess you can convert. Eh?"
"Convert what?"
Aunt Rose just patted her cheek. "You're going to
be fine. You wanna watch your cat though. Somethings
a'no right with him."
Becca grinned. "No kidding. Thanks for the lasagna,
Aunt Rose."
"Prego, ciao."
Becca watched Aunt Rose through the window.
Tripod's yowl had her rolling her eyes. Aunt Rose was
right about one thing. There was something definitely
wrong with Becca's cat. She wasn't sure if it was that
he lost one of his hind legs or it was his personality
problem. Probably both. After checking to make sure
the dog door that Rosalie's dog, Dave, used was locked
and dead-bolting the door to the garden, she let Tripod
explore his new home while Becca changed the sheets on
the bed. She'd be damned if she was going to spend the
night on the couch, or God forbid, on that torture rack of
a futon in the den. No, if possession was nine-tenths of
the law, Becca was going to possess the memory foam
mattress. That was for damn sure. Rich could just take
his pick of either the couch or the futon; she'd even be
nice and leave him a pillow and a blanket.
Chapter 2
"Aw shit. What happened to you? You get dumped
again?"
Rich looked up from searching for answers at
the bottom of his Scotch glass to find a fuzzy Vinny
DiNicola staring at him. Vinny was a bear of a man
with dark hair and a unibrow that reminded Richie of a
prickly black caterpillar, only bigger. He wore a white
cook's coat over black and white checkered pants, both
splattered with the special of the day. The only thing
about Vinny that had changed since Rich was a kid in
trouble was his hairline. It was receding, badly.
Rich tossed back the rest of his drink and slid the
glass toward Vinny. "This is the second time in my
whole life I've been dumped. It's not like it happens
every day."
"And every time you do get dumped, you end up at
my bar. At least this time you're not underage." Vinny
filled Rich's glass and slid it down the bar to him. He
poured himself four fingers of Jack Daniels, raised his
glass in silent toast, and drank most of it before slamming it down on the bar, punctuating the act with a
satisfied "Ahhh…"
Rich just gulped down more Scotch and thought about
calling it quits. The drinking, not his life or anything.
He was depressed, sure, but more than being depressed
about losing Gina, he was depressed about what she'd "Hey, Mike. When did you get here?"
"Just now. Nick called me. Said you were in deep
shit and needed some medical advice." Mike nodded to
Vinny with the same expression Nick wore.
Nick gave Rich a tug. "Yeah, like how to get your
head out of your ass."
Rich slid off the barstool. "My ass isn't in my head."
Mike laughed. "Sure, whatever you say."
His brother-in-laws helped turn him around. "Where
are we going?"
Nick pushed Rich forward. "Vinny's office. Drunks
are bad for business."
"It's a fuckin' bar. Bars encourage drinking."
"Drinking yes, drunks no." Mike opened the door
for them.
The next thing Rich knew he was sitting in a hard
chair with a cup of coffee in his hand. He aimed for his
mouth again and forgot the content of his cup wasn't
Scotch. It was hotter than hell. Shit!
Vinny looked over his boys and laughed. It wasn't long
ago that Nick and Mike were both in the same place Rich
was. Of course, they did it at different times and over
different women, but still, they both came to DiNicola's
to get plowed.
Vinny took another sip of his Jack and tried to remember
that saying about the course of true love never running
smooth or some such crap. But come to think of it, Nick
and Mike had both been a whole lot more upset about
losing the women they loved than about why they'd been
dumped. Maybe Rich didn't really love Gina after all. said. Rich waited until he had Vinny's attention. "Do
you think I'm relationship material?"
"Not for me, you ain't."
Rich tried to focus on Vinny. Yes, he was definitely
getting drunk. He could tell because he actually had to
concentrate to get the glass to his mouth. When you have
to aim for your own mouth, chances are, you're well
on your way to oblivion. "Shit, Vin. You know what I
mean. Gina said I wasn't relationship material."
"Yeah, well, she's got a point."
Rich was looking at Vinny, but if that was Vinny
talking, he wasn't moving his lips, and he was throwing
his voice. Rich turned his head in the direction of the voice
and saw his brother-in-law Nick sitting beside him.
Nick grabbed Rich by the back of his neck and gave
it a shake before giving him a shoulder bump. "Mona
called, said you needed some male bonding time, whatever the fuck that means. She said I had to get my ass
over here. This had better be good. I was home, curled
up with my wife and my dog, watching the Islanders
trounce the Cunucks." He shot Rich a look that was
somewhere between a smirk and a grimace and reached
across the bar, grabbed the remote control, turned on the
Islanders game, and muted the volume.
Vinny poured Nick a drink. "Gina dumped Richie
and said he wasn't relationship material."
Nick nodded. "Smart girl."
Rich went to smack Nick but forgot he had his elbows
on the bar and was resting his head on his hands. He
remembered just before his face hit the bar.
Nick grabbed Rich's left arm, and Mike, his other
brother-in-law, grabbed the right.Rich moved to stand, but Mike put a hand on his
shoulder and pushed him back down into his chair. "I
gotta get Gina back. I'm supposed to have a date with
my dean to show that I'm a responsible guy and involved
in a committed relationship."
Vinny put his feet up on his desk and pulled his office
bottle of Jack out of his bottom drawer to refill his glass.
"Why do you want Gina back if you're datin' your
dean?" He took a sip. "You think that's smart? Ever hear
that saying, don't shit where you eat?"
Mike laughed. "I thought your dean was a man."
Nick almost spit out his Jack Daniels. "Oh yeah? This
is almost worth missing the game."
"I don't have a date with my dean. I have to bring a
date to this charity thing my dean invited me to. I gotta
get Gina back in the next two weeks, or I'm screwed.
But she says I'm not relationship material. What's a guy
got to do to be relationship material?"
Vinny was right. Rich didn't love Gina. He just needed
her to look settled so he could keep his job. Hell, Vinny
should do this shit for a living. Was he good or what?
Mike sat down. "Well, you have to think of the
woman you love before you think of yourself."
Nick leaned against the desk and took a sip of his
Jack. "If she's anything like Lee, you have to do her
laundry, clean up after her, cook, make sure she eats."
He paused. "Oh, and bring her coffee and chocolate in
the morning. Believe me, your life will be much more
enjoyable if she starts her day with caffeine and chocolate. Sex works too."
Rich looked appalled and squeamish, like the first
time a guy has to go to the store to buy tampons.
"Yeah, that's good." Vinny nodded. "Mona likes it
when I rub her feet. You know? She's always wearing
those spiked heels of hers, and though they make her
legs look great, they're hell on her feet."
Rich groaned. "You gotta be kidding."
"Vinny's right." Mike nodded. "Plus, feet are erogenous zones."
Nick smiled. "Everywhere is an erogenous zone if
you're talking about Lee."
Rich was incredulous and looking a little sick as he
eyed one brother-in-law and then the other. "Hold on,
those are my sisters you're talking about. I don't want
to hear this shit." He slumped in his seat. "I don't know
how to do laundry. Or cooking. Why can't I just feed
them Mama's leftovers? I guess I could have her come
over and clean the apartment."
Nick shook his head. "You can't have your girlfriend
clean your apartment and expect her to think you care
about her. That doesn't scream 'marriage material.'"
Rich tried to stand only to fall back into his chair.
"Shit, I know that. I was talking about Mama. I'll call
her to clean the apartment."
Mike laughed. "Your mother cleans your apartment?"
Nick joined him. "Yeah, she probably does his
laundry too."
Rich looked from one to the other. "Yeah, so?"
Vinny tried not to laugh, but really, Rich was a total
putz. "Oh shit, he's serious. Boys, he's got a lot of work
to do. He has to figure out how to take care of himself
before he can take care of somebody else."
Nick nodded. "Yeah, he's got to learn how to cook,
clean, and take care of a woman."
Rich sat up a little straighter. "I'll just hit the bookstore on the way home. They're open late. I'll find a
book on cooking and cleaning. Like a Martha Stewart
training manual for men. How hard can it be?"
Vinny took a deep breath and tried to break it to the
schmuck real gentle-like. "Richie, this stuff you ain't
gonna learn out of a book or fancy classroom. This is
the kind of thing you can only learn by doin'. You see
what I'm sayin'?"
Richie's mind wasn't moving at the usual light speed,
but it wasn't moving slowly either. "You can help me
then, right Vinny?"
Vinny backed up a little and held up his hands. "Sorry
Richie. Between the restaurant and my family, I ain't got
time to help you out."
Nick crossed his arms. "Don't look at me. I have my hands full taking care of business, Rosalie, and Dave. I
don't have time to whip you into a Domestic God."
Mike took a step back. "Me either. Between setting
up the practice, Annabelle's pregnancy, and remodeling
the brownstone, the last thing I need is an apprentice.
Sorry bud, you're on your own. You'll just have to learn
to become a Domestic God the same way we did. Trial
and error."
Richie shook his head. "I don't have time to learn
by trial and error. I need a coach. Where can I find a
Domestic God coach?"
Becca ignored the light shining through her closed eyes
and tried to block out the morning. Her nose peeked out
over the covers and was cold, but the rest of her felt as if she was sleeping up against a furnace. There was
nothing she loved more in life than warmth, and for the
first time in ages, she was blissfully warm. Life was
good. She smiled as she turned her face into the pillow
hoping to block the light so she could sleep longer, but
what she found instead was hair. "Oh, God, no."
"Oh, yeah."
Becca was sleeping on someone, a very big someone,
a very big, naked someone with… "Oh, God." She was
draped over Rich Ronaldi, who had one hand on her
ass, and the other on her leg, which was, at the moment,
thrown over his… "Oh. God."
Rich rolled over on top of her, his morning erection
pressed hard against her thigh. Of course it was the first
time in over two years she'd slept with a man and come
in close contact with anything that didn't require four
AA batteries. Her body knew the difference and was
doing its own version of a happy dance. Her heart beat a
mile a minute, her breathing was ragged, and her every
nerve ending was on red alert.
"Oh baby, you feel so good."
Becca's brain went straight into panic mode. This
was a disaster. The man talking in his sleep on top of
her had a girlfriend and was the last person in the world
she'd sleep with under any circumstances. What she
didn't understand was how he got into bed with her in
the first place. She knew she'd been exhausted, but she
should have felt the bed move or something, right?
She pushed against his shoulder, and he didn't
budge. His eyes were closed, and under the five o'clock
shadow, or in this case, the six o'clock shadow, his lips
formed a satisfied smile, like a little boy who had just found his favorite Hot Wheels car. She tried to pry
herself out from under him, but he was two hundred
pounds of dead weight.
He nuzzled his nose in her neck, and her traitorous
body responded. It didn't seem to matter that her body
had no right feeling the way it felt or reacting the way
it did. Every time she moved, it made things worse, and
harder. Not to mention more difficult.
She was either going to have to wake him, which,
under the circumstances, would be unbelievably embarrassing, or wait for him to roll off her.
Rich smiled and thanked the dream gods for giving
him such a gift. He took a deep breath and wondered what
they called the scent she wore. It was earthy and rich,
with a touch of musk and maybe patchouli mixed with
hot, wet woman. He kissed her neck, his lips tasting her
skin. It all felt so real—the heat of her body surrounding
him, the noises she made, the way she whispered, and
the bite of her nails on his shoulders…
He shifted his hips and pulled her long legs around him.
"Rich! Wake up."
"Oh baby, I am up."
"Good, then get the hell off me."
"What?" Rich opened his eyes and saw Becca's eyes
green with anger and dark with arousal. He may be more
than half asleep, but he was awake enough to know he
wasn't the only one turned on. Of course, all it took was
the thought that he'd almost had sex with someone who
hated his guts to deflate him. "What the hell are you
doing in my bed?"
That's when she hit him. Hard. "It's my bed, and I
locked you out."