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“No, but I could have at least made sure there were no dead bugs all over the floor.”
“There aren’t.” A tiny grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Anymore.”
“Gross,” she said with a reluctant laugh. “I suck at this landlady thing.”
“As I recall, it wasn’t a job you chose.”
“True.”
“Speaking of which, have you heard from your brother?”
Her lips tightened. “Not a single word.”
Not surprising. The cheerful young man hadn’t looked like the type who would enjoy being confronted by anyone, especially an angry sister. “I’m sure he’s all right.”
She growled. “He won’t be after I feed him a batch of fudge with a laxative icing.”
Philip didn’t know exactly what she meant, but got the feeling it didn’t bode well for Freddy. “Poisoning your sibling isn’t very nice,” he said, while privately conceding her brother likely deserved it.
“He won’t die,” she insisted.
He laughed softly. “Bloodthirsty, are you? I didn’t think you capable of murder, Claire.”
“You should have seen me after you left Sunday night.”
He had seen her. Every time he closed his eyes.
She leaned against the hallway wall. “So, have you gotten out at all to see New York?”
“A bit.”
He told her of his adventures with the subway, hearing her chuckle as he admitted he’d ridden the thing for four hours straight one day, being unsure where to get off. She gave him a few tips, talked about her own favorite things to do in the city...and gave him an idea for his next move.
Now wasn’t a good time. She looked exhausted, having worked alone all day. Plus he had some plans to make. But very soon, he would, as they said here, take his best shot.
“I should let you get inside,” he told her when he saw her struggling to hide a yawn. “You look most weary.”
“You can say that again. Making ten dozen truffles really shouldn’t be such backbreaking work.”
The days to come would be better; she wouldn’t have to work so hard. He’d make sure of it, even if he had to send Shelby to sell sweets in the store and set Teeny to baking in the kitchen, so Claire was able to take a break now and then. Picturing such a thing, he smiled.
“What?”
“I’m just imagining my...friend Teeny working in your kitchen, making delicate chocolates. ’Tis not a pretty picture.”
“Bull-in-the-china-shop sort?”
“More like a mastodon.”
She chuckled, as if visualizing it. “I’m afraid I can’t give him a job right now, anyway. I can barely make payroll for my salesclerk, who I can afford only four days a week.”
Hmm. How much, he wondered, would a kitchen assistant require? And could the salesclerk be persuaded to work a few more hours for money slipped to her on the side?
“Well, I should go in,” Claire said.
“Yes, of course. Good night,” he told her, resisting the urge to touch her again.
But he would, very soon. He just had a few things to work out. In the meantime, he would get to know her, be someone she could rely on. He would befriend her, with courtesy and politeness. And see what happened.
“Good night, Philip.”
Her smile was gentle, sweet, and his heart clenched as she nodded and walked to her door. After she unlocked it and let herself inside, he listened for the click of the bolt. Once he was sure she was safely locked in, he made his way back upstairs, but didn’t go into his cold, lonely apartment just yet. Instead, he stood on the landing for several long minutes, thinking about that smile, that laugh, that naughty gleam in her eye. Thinking about that hair. About sinking his hands into it and feeling it brush against his bare skin...his chest, his throat, his stomach.
That was when he acknowledged that he’d wasted enough time looking for someone else. The only woman he wanted lived right downstairs from him. He could walk around for days, find ways to be introduced to a hundred more single woman and still not be drawn to anyone the way he was to Claire Hoffman.
And so as soon as he could arrange it, his courtship of her would begin in earnest.
* * *
CLAIRE HAD BEEN TELLING herself for several days that she didn’t mind that her handsome tenant hadn’t sought her out in private after that first night. Yes, he’d kissed her. Yes, he’d rocked her world in the process. Yes, he’d left her dazed, confused and dreaming fantastic dreams every night since. But he hadn’t promised anything.
Maybe in Spain, deep tongue kisses meant “Nice to meet you.”
After she’d finally had another conversation with him, outside her apartment Thursday night, however, she was forced to admit the truth to herself. She’d been bothered that he hadn’t pursued her. Seriously bothered. She was attracted to the man in a way she’d never been attracted to anyone. She just didn’t know what she was going to do about it.
As ridiculous as it seemed, she tried to intentionally run into him again throughout the next few days. She lingered in the hallway during her breaks. She hovered at the bottom of the stairs, or at the entrance to the building a few times. She certainly heard noises from upstairs, or sometimes from the hallway, when they were hauling in furniture that looked like it had come from the dump or the junk store.
And her plan worked; she did see him and talk to him. But never with the intimacy of the night they’d met, or the time he’d been taking out the trash. Now when they bumped into each other Philip was polite and courteous, insisting on opening doors for her, and once helping her move a stack of boxes to the stockroom. She tried not to notice the way his shirt pulled tight against his arms and shoulders when he moved. But that would be like trying not to notice a tsunami roaring up the Hudson.
Beyond that, though, they’d been nothing but cordial. Like real neighbors. Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy was the perfect tenant—which was a good thing, right?
Wrong. Because she felt she was missing out on something every time he was cordial, when she wanted him to be flirtatious. Every time he held the door, when she wanted him to hold her.
Now, she probably wouldn’t even have that much. Christmas was exactly two weeks away, and she would be incredibly busy with the store. Though, she conceded, not as busy as she’d feared. To her surprise—and delight—an older lady who’d once owned a candy shop and was looking for something to do now that she’d been widowed, had come in looking for a job on Saturday, and had gone right to work. Mrs. West had insisted on working for a low salary to “get back in the game” as she called it, and had quickly become indispensable. Not only was she wonderful in the kitchen, she had a sharp mind for business and had made several great suggestions.
What a godsend. And not only that, Jean, her part-time salesperson, had said she needed a few more hours, and had agreed to let Claire pay her every two weeks instead of weekly so it would be easier for her to make payroll. Businesswise, things were going well.
Personally? Not so much.
It wasn’t just Philip. Claire also hadn’t seen or spoken with her idiot, soon-to-be-seriously-smacked-if-she-had-anything-to-say-about-it brother. Freddy hadn’t been coming around, nor had he returned any of her dozen messages. Probably because he knew she would, A) want to do violence on his person; and B) demand that he give her the five thousand dollars he’d scammed off Philip so she could pay back the man’s security deposit when he moved out.
She had no idea how she was going to do that, and found herself half hoping they’d decide to stay another month so she could tell him he didn’t have to pay, that she’d take the rent out of the deposit. Then she could write it off and call it even. Even if they stayed, that wouldn’t allow her to recoup the money she’d had to pay to get the utilities turned on upstairs, but it was better than trying to come up with five “large.”
That, she promised herself, was the only reason she wanted Philip Smith to stick around. It had nothing to do with his looks or his smooth voice, his sexy smile, or, oh, God, that incredible kiss.
“Are you okay?” asked Jeannie, who, like Claire, had been working like a madwoman during the late afternoon rush on Tuesday. Word was spreading about I Want Candy and people were constantly calling or coming in to place orders for specialized holiday gifts. Claire had gone through so much red and green icing, she wished she owned stock in Dixie Kane sugar. “You’re so quiet.”
“I’m fine, just thinking,” Claire admitted. “I’ve barely had time to do that lately.”
She’d looked at the clock during a lull that afternoon, and then three hours had passed in a blur of customers and phone calls. It was nearly six now, almost closing time and already dark out, if Midtown Manhattan could ever be called dark. Especially at this time of year, with all the twinkling lights and holiday decorations brightening even the gloomiest of nights.
