Bad Taste in Men (Clover Park, Book 3) Contemporary Romance (The Clover Park Series) Read online

  She may have been joking with the invitation, but he sure as hell wasn’t.

  He kicked off his shoes, propped up some pillows behind his head, and grabbed the remote. He’d take it slow. Give her time to get used to him being so close. “What do you feel like watching?”

  “Excuse me?” Rachel’s voice hit a jarring high note. “I was joking.” She shoved him with both hands, but he didn’t budge. “Get out!”

  He turned on his side and propped up on one elbow. “Rach?”

  She blinked rapidly. He was making her nervous. Good, that made two of them. If there was ever a time to cross the line of friendship, it was when they were in bed.

  “What?” she asked in a voice much softer than her usual tone.

  He took a deep breath. “Do you ever think about being more than friends?”

  She studied the comforter, appearing to consider the question. His heart thundered in his chest. It was out there. He couldn’t take that whopper back. He’d taken a risk, and he hoped like hell it paid off.

  Her chocolate brown eyes met his. “I can’t lose you, Shane. Let’s not mess up a good thing. Okay?”

  His ears and cheeks burned. Damn Irish genes. He wished he wasn’t a blusher. He could never play it cool when he wanted to. “Whatever, your loss,” he mumbled.

  He turned on the TV and settled in to watch the History channel, something they had in common. They both also loved running their own business, good coffee, and British comedy. They were a match in so many ways, but if she didn’t feel that way about him, he wasn’t going to force the issue. Dammit. He couldn’t believe he’d misread her so badly. He’d thought there was something there.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Rachel said.

  “Yeah, I do.” He couldn’t look at her, so he kept his eyes fixed on the small TV. “Just for a while. I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  “Yup.” He tried to focus on the show, something about Lewis and Clark. Having her so close, her flowery scent wrapped around him, it was very, very hard not to touch her. Why was he torturing himself like this? He should just go. She was fine. Yet something kept him pinned in place.

  He really should move on. It was just…he’d connected with Rachel. Something that didn’t happen for him that often. Ever since that New Year’s party at Garner’s when they’d spent most of the party talking in a quiet corner. Rachel had been alone since Liz spent the entire party wrapped up with Ryan. Shane didn’t much like parties, but he’d gone since his brothers and Gran would be there, and he hated being alone even more than he hated parties. He was very glad he’d gone. Sure he’d known Rachel as a kid, but he’d never talked to her back then. She always had her nose in a book, and he’d been tongue-tied around most girls anyway.

  Maybe his timing was bad. She wasn’t feeling well.

  Half an hour later, he finally risked a glance over at Rachel. She was sleeping. He removed her black-rimmed glasses and set them on the nightstand. He took a moment just to gaze down at her; something he could never do when she was awake. Locks of dark brown hair fell around her face out of the twist she’d put it in for the wedding. He’d love to let her hair loose and run his fingers through it. Her lips were parted. A small bow in the upper lip drew him in. If he kissed her good night, would she wake?

  He leaned down slowly, his heart kicking up. So close. He eased in. Almost there.

  She sighed and threw an arm over her head, smacking him in the face.

  Ow! That’s what you get for trying to steal a kiss.

  He leaned back and tucked her in. Then he quietly got out of bed and left, feeling like an absolute fool.

  ~ ~ ~

  Rachel woke the next morning, grabbed her glasses from the nightstand, and tried to get up, momentarily forgetting about her ankle. Ow-ow-ow. Her leg was so stiff. Shoot. What had the doctor said to do? They gave her instructions. She grabbed the paper from her purse on the nightstand. She was supposed to elevate it above her heart to reduce swelling and ice it twice a day. She sighed. All she really wanted was a hot shower and coffee. Should she call Shane for help like he’d told her to?

  Nah, she could do this.

  She grabbed the crutches and swung herself to the kitchen, getting the coffee going and grabbing a granola bar. Her ankle throbbed, reminding her she needed ice. She tossed the granola bar to the kitchen table, grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and tossed that on the table too.

  Coffee first. She hobbled over to fetch the coffee and returned to the table. Lifting her foot up on a nearby chair, she undid the brace and placed the ice pack on her poor ankle. Still swollen. She stayed like that for a while, sipping coffee and icing her ankle, and pulled her book from the large, flat basket that served as both fruit bowl and book holder. The Nitwit’s Guide to Running a Coffee Bar was surprisingly thorough. She’d created a business plan from it.

  She’d already talked to the landlord about expanding into the abandoned deli next door to Book It, and he’d even agreed to ninety days rent-free while she got the café up and running. Now she was just waiting to hear from the bank on her loan application. She really needed this. Book It was in the red, and she was nearly at the point of either giving up her apartment and moving back in with her parents (Please, no. Her parents were nice people, but they radiated a tense civility of a marriage long gone south.) or letting her cashier go.

  The doorbell rang. Shoot. It was probably Shane. How did he expect to help her down the stairs if she had to go down the stairs to let him in?

  She heard the door rattle, then turn, and open. “It’s just me,” Shane called.

  Her eyes widened. He had a key?

  “Uh…come in?”

  He walked into her kitchen and smiled at her sheepishly. “I grabbed your keys on the way out yesterday.”

  She was torn between furious and grateful. She held out her palm for the keys. He dropped them in her hand.

  “Don’t do that again,” she said.

  “It was an emergency.” He pulled up a chair. “How’s the ankle?”

  “It hurts like hell,” she admitted.

  “The doc said you should take ibuprofen. Did you take it?”

  “I barely got the coffee. No, I didn’t get the medicine.”

  He stood. “Where do you keep it?”

  It was in the bathroom medicine cabinet along with tampons, bikini wax, a box of condoms—more a measure of hope than of any practical use—and who knew what else she’d left in there. Not fit for Shane’s eyes, that was for sure.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, grabbing the ankle brace and leaning forward to put it back on.

  “Just rest,” he said. “I can get it.”

  “I can do it!”

  He put his palms up. “Okay, okay.” He pushed her hands out of the way and quickly redid the brace.

  “Thank you,” she said through a clenched jaw, annoyed with all his fussing over her. She didn’t like needing help. She grabbed the crutches and made her way to the bathroom. Her mouth dropped as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her mascara made black smudges under her eyes. Her hair was half out of the twist in a tangled knot. Her dress was wrinkled. Geez, Shane was kind to act like he didn’t notice anything odd.

  She opened the cabinet. It was worse than she remembered—she also had press-on nails (she never could bother with polish) and cherry massage oil from Maggie’s bachelorette party. Maggie, Shane’s grandmother, was a hoot, and Shane…he was apple pie. Warm, comforting, sweet. At least the other wildly inappropriate party favors—edible underwear and a vibrator—weren’t here. She’d thrown out the underwear, and the vibrator was hidden in her nightstand drawer for easy access.

  She tossed back some ibuprofen, washed off the mascara, and brushed her hair into its usual neat braid before making her way back to the kitchen.

  Shane was poking through her refrigerator. He straightened. “You want me to make you something?”

  He was a trained chef,
but she didn’t want him cooking for her and making a big deal out of this ankle thing.

  “I have a granola bar.” She headed back to the table and plopped down. Coffee. She’d be much more pleasant with more coffee in her.

  “Those granola bars taste like cardboard,” he said, turning his nose up at it.

  “It’s the perfect balance of fiber and protein,” she said, reading the label. “Besides, I’m not a big breakfast person. What I really need is a shower.”

  “Need help?”

  She leveled a suspicious gaze at him.

  His lips twitched. “I won’t peek.”

  Yeah, right.

  “I can do it. Why don’t you come back in half an hour to help me downstairs?”

  “I’ll wait here in case you need help.” He sat at the table and picked up her book. “Seriously, Rach? The Nitwit’s Guide?”

  “It’s a good book,” she said defensively. “I made a business plan from it.”

  “I can help you plan the café. I know the food business.”

  “Sounds good. We’ll talk more once I hear from the bank on my loan.” She finished her coffee and granola bar while he flipped through the book. She grabbed the crutches and stood. Then she remembered the zipper on the back of her dress. “Could you just unzip me?”

  He stood, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “I’d love to.”

  She gave him her back. “Cool it, Don Juan.”

  He chuckled, and his warm hand brushed over the back of her neck as he moved her hair out of the way. She focused on the pain in her ankle so she wouldn’t think about what he was doing. She’d ask her sister to do it if she were here. Same thing practically.

  His warm fingers grazed her spine as he inched the zipper down. A shiver ran through her. Ankle throbbing. Terrible pain. Omigod, could he go any slower?

  She heard him suck in a breath. She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

  His eyes met hers in a heated gaze. “You’re not wearing a bra.”

  She looked away. “So?”

  She wore pasties because of the spaghetti straps. Not that she was going to explain that to him. She didn’t wait for a response; instead she headed for the bathroom. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  To her relief, she heard him settle back at the table. She really didn’t want him following her into the bathroom. She made her way to the bedroom, slipped off the dress, pasties, and undies, took off the brace, and hobbled over to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, she was clean and exhausted. She wrapped a towel around her body and headed to the bed, needing to sit down for a bit.

  Shane was already sitting there.

  “Shane! Get out of here!”

  “Think of me as your nurse, here to help. I see naked bodies all day long. Ho-hum.” He faked a yawn.

  She sat on the bed next to him. Sweat broke out and ran down her back purely from the exertion of getting ready.

  “Go get me a towel for my hair.” She shoved him toward the bathroom. “Please.”

  He went to fetch it.

  She used the break from him to make her way over to the dresser and caught her reflection in the large mirror above it. Her hair was a tangled lump, and she wore no makeup. Oh, who cares! It’s just Shane. The towel drooped, and she tucked it tighter. She grabbed a bra and pulled it on. One crutch slipped out from under her arm and hit the floor. Dammit. She readjusted the towel around her waist and slipped her favorite rhinestone-studded “Reader” T-shirt over her head. It was one of a series of reading-themed T-shirts she’d made herself. She got her panties and shorts. Okay. She’d have to sit down for this next part.

  She considered the floor and realized she’d have to drop pretty far with her bad leg out in front of her to get down. Better not.

  She considered how to get to the bed with one crutch. She could hop. Yes. With one hand clutching her panties and shorts, the other holding the crutch, she hopped in a little half-circle and made her way to the bed.

  Shane threw the extra towel on the bed and headed toward her. “Wait. Let me get your crutch.”

  “Stay right there,” she warned, continuing her hop journey. “I got this.” He kept walking toward her. “Back up!”

  Hop, hop, whoosh. Omigod.

  The towel had given up its precarious hold and dropped to the floor.

  Rachel closed her eyes. Shane saw. She knew he saw. She could just die of embarrassment. Right here, right now.

  She felt the towel wrap securely around her waist again. His warm hands tucked it in.

  “You are one stubborn woman,” Shane said.

  She opened her eyes, expecting to see him holding back a laugh at her expense, but he looked damn serious. His eyes burned into hers, and a frisson of awareness ran through her body. The air felt suddenly charged between them. Her mouth went dry over the sarcastic reply her brain couldn’t seem to formulate.

  She quickly averted her eyes and hopped the rest of the way to the bed. “Turn around,” she told him. “No more peep show.”

  He turned, giving her his back. His voice came out hoarse. “I wasn’t peeping. The towel just—”

  “Never speak of this again.” She yanked on the panties and shorts, leaning back on the bed to wiggle them up over her hips. “I mean it.”

  “Never,” he agreed. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me if you need me.”

  He left quickly, and Rachel collapsed on the bed, unsure how she’d ever look her friend in the eye again.

  Chapter Three

  Shane poured a glass of ice water and held it against his forehead. The image of Rachel’s lush curves burned into his brain. How could he go on pretending he just wanted to be friends when all he wanted was to strip her naked and lick every inch of that delicious body?

  He stuck his head in the freezer.

  By the time Rachel returned to the kitchen, fully dressed, hair back in a neat braid, he’d managed to cool off.

  “Ready to go?” he asked, looking at a spot just over her ear. She always worked the Sunday shift at her store.

  “I’m ready,” she said softly.

  He tried not to read into that soft tone. She’d already turned him down flat last night. “I’ll take the crutches down first. Sit.”

  She made her way to a kitchen chair and handed him the crutches without a word. Their eyes met and held, and he felt it, like an electric current in the air. There was something there. This attraction wasn’t just one-sided. Hope surged through him. He took the crutches downstairs and pondered what his next move should be.

  He returned to her side. “Come on, princess.”

  She blushed, something she never did, but had done twice today already. Maybe he could make her blush just one more time. He bit back a smile.

  She stood. “The doctor said I can put weight on it again after forty-eight hours.”

  “Yup.” He scooped her up and briefly considered carrying her straight to the bedroom. She felt wonderful in his arms, warm and soft. Instead, he carried her downstairs as promised, setting her down by the crutches.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, putting the crutches under her arms.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he said.

  She met his eyes, and he saw a flash of regret, like she was about to shut him down again. “Shane—”

  He moved swiftly before he could lose his nerve. His lips met hers in a soft kiss. He pulled back to gauge her reaction.

  Her eyes were wide, clearly surprised. Then her expression darkened, brows furrowed. “That never happened. It can’t. I value our friendship too much to muck it up with a fling.”

  “Who says it would be a fling?” He stroked her cheek. “I care about you.”

  He was, in fact, stupidly, helplessly, deeply in love with her. But he knew better than to tell her that. She’d run screaming for the hills.

  She looked away. “I just don’t feel that way about you, okay?”

  His heart squeezed painfully at the slam. She set off for her store.

 
“I’ll see you,” she called over her shoulder.

  “See ya,” Shane mumbled.

  He headed across the street back to his apartment, dragging his feet. His own shop didn’t open until noon on Sundays, so he had plenty of time to contemplate Rachel’s rejection. Two painful rejections in two days. Strike three and you’re out.

  He couldn’t face his empty apartment, briefly considered cooking something in the commercial kitchen in the back of his shop, but quickly nixed the idea. He knew Sam would be there making the ice-cream base as he did every morning, and he didn’t feel up to small talk. He started walking down Catoonah Street, where rows of houses, some beautiful old Victorians, lined both sides of the tree-lined street. Where to? He passed Gran’s house. She was all wrapped up in Jorge now, newly married as of last September. He passed his older brother Trav’s house across the street from Gran. Newly married as of yesterday. His other older brother Ryan’s house was a few blocks away. Newly married as of last month. Everyone around him was getting married.

  He was starting to feel like the black sheep of the family. Funny because, of the three brothers, Shane was the only one who’d ever had a long-term relationship. Two, in fact. When he connected with someone, which wasn’t that often, he went all-in. He’d had a three-year relationship in high school, until Kerri left for college, and a five-year relationship with Laura from culinary school. A few several-months-long relationships after Laura. Nothing in a couple of years, though, not since Rachel moved back to town.

  He’d waited patiently as Rachel went through loser after loser, finally settling in as her friend. Well, now he knew the score. For whatever reason, despite what felt like A-grade chemistry percolating between them, she didn’t want to cross that line.

  He jammed a hand through his hair. Dammit, he wanted to cross that line. Enough with this patient waiting shit. He wanted her, and it was past time he did something about it. He knew her well, very well. She told him everything—every detail of her day, every bad date, every dream for the future—and he listened, soaking it all in, wanting to know all of her. That knowledge should help him navigate those defenses she was so good at putting up, keeping every guy at a distance. He just had to figure out how.