Page 18 of The Beat Match

Julio whistled a tune, something old-fashioned and sweet, completely out of character for him. “From my experience, women only do that die-motherfucker look when they’re emotionally or physically involved with a guy. Just sayin’.”

Yeah, she was emotionally involved with Weston, all right. In a he-makes-me-irrationally-irate kind of way. That must be why her cheeks were scorching hot right now. It was a fury blush. Except that wasn’t completely fair.

Wes was everywhere in her life—one helpful call away or demanding favors, cluelessly funding her dream or calling her Squirrel in his condescending tone. He was the good and bad in her day, the last link to her brother. Her momentary fantasies today had been ridiculously out of character. She’d just felt confused, addled. So many changes going on at once. She needed to focus on music. On the mysterious Falcon she’d no longer see tonight.

Annie marched out of Julio’s apartment, his comment rattling around her head with each footfall. Emotionally or physically involved? With Weston Aldrich? Wes couldn’t be further from her type. Not that she had a type. But if she did, he wouldn’t be it.

By the time she hopped off the subway at Wes’s office, she was grinding her teeth. Wes was as overbearing as his towering building. So much glass and steel reaching for the sky, marble walkways inside, new flower arrangements daily—shades of white, all stark and serene. She walked past an abstract painting that oozed wealth, the grotesquely simple kind with a white line drawn on black canvas, as though saying: we’re so powerful we pay millions for the mundane.

If she didn’t know Wes loved to eat Cup Noodles soup on her couch, his silk tie tossed on the cushions, she’d think he was as rigid as every surface in here. But she’d seen him laugh until tears streamed from his eyes, thanks to her lip-syncing performances. When she was younger, he’d let her dress him for Halloween with fake blood and makeup, even dying his hair pink once. He often tried to talk to her about modern art and shoved stinky cheese in her face, telling her she needed to expand her horizons, but he also listened when she bitched about work or when she got excited about a clothing purchase or scrapbooking accomplishment.

They didn’t talk about Leo, or the parents they’d lost. They teased, they joked, they got on each other’s last nerves, the messiness of their relationship making Julio’s comment even more farfetched. Yet, she couldn’t let it go.

She’d been so vehement in her defensiveness. The type of quick retort rooted in denial. And it wasn’t just Julio’s chiding. With Wes’s constant meddling, she didn’t want to dissect the way he’d brushed against her breast in his car, how she’d felt it down to her toes, or untangle why she’d been blushing more when talking to him or about him. She couldn’t like him, like him. He was part of her foundation. The mortar to her bricks, and complicated feelings had the power to blast those supports to smithereens. Not that it mattered. She’d always been a charity case to Wes. A responsibility. He’d only ever see her as his late best friend’s little sister, a foster girl who used to live on the streets.

She stepped off the elevator on his floor and, in her confused haze, slammed into the man himself.

Weston steadied her, one hand on her lower back, the other on her shoulder. Instantly, her body awakened, melting and tensing at once. She leaned farther into him, and his fingers dug deeper into her hip. Neither of them moved for a prolonged second. Could he feel how quickly she was breathing? The shakiness of her hands? And why did he smell so good?

Flummoxed, she laughed awkwardly and eased out of his hold. “You do an excellent impression of a brick wall.”

“Your zoned out zombie routine isn’t half bad, either.” His eyes darted to her, then skipped across the floor. “I need to make my meeting, so I’ll see you later. Tomorrow. Thanks for watching Felix.” A surprising blush dusted his cheeks, and he didn’t move to go.

For a second, she wondered if their contact had affected him, too. Then she remembered he’d been rushing to a meeting. He must have worked up a bit of a sweat hurrying from somewhere.

“I didn’t have much choice in the animal rescue,” she said, internally chastising herself for her unacceptable reaction. “At least I’ll be able to put it on my résumé: Rabbit-Squirrel Sitter. I’ll be a shoo-in when I run for senate.”

He smiled fully, his easy composure returned. “You’ll have my vote.”

When the elevator doors closed behind Wes, she slouched and pinched her nose. What in the ever loving hell is wrong with me? It wasn’t just her mind anymore. Her body and sense of smell were betraying her, reacting to all things Wes. And why was she joking about his stupid rabbit? This favor was the last thing she wanted to do.

She counted to five and slowly exhaled. There was no denying Weston’s curb appeal. He was like a Hamptons mansion, fun to look at but out of reach. For many reasons. And she’d been off lately, frustrated with her lack of dating and unrequited Falcon crush. This office was real and grounding, regular folks working their nine-to-fives, or more likely five-to-nines, the halls still buzzing with activity. So many people under Weston’s employ. She’d never asked him if that was overwhelming, so much responsibility on his shoulders. She should really ask him. Talking work and business would help her bury this weird new attraction.

When she spotted a cage by Marjory’s desk, her irritation resurfaced and all she wanted was to spike Wes’s next Cup Noodles with habanero extract.

Annie sauntered over to Marjory and eyed the white and gray bunny nibbling on hay. “Bet you never thought bunny sitting would be part of your job requirements.”

Marjory swiveled on her chair and gestured to Weston’s closed door. “I never expected to work for a man whose diapers I changed.”

“You changed Weston’s diapers?”

“He never failed to pee on me.”

Annie clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from cackling. “I’m sorry,” she said through her fingers. “It’s not even the peeing. I’m picturing him in a mini Armani suit, wearing diapers underneath.” Even when she’d first met Weston, he’d shown up at the shelter in slacks and a dress shirt. Mr. Posh Begosh.

“I often remind him I’ve seen him naked.” Marjory grinned. Her orange-red lipstick matched her curly hair, her pointed nose somehow matching her nasally voice—a voice that often reprimanded her boss.

Annie had been wrong before, telling Wes she was the only one who didn’t kiss his designer behind. Marjory was part of the Annoy Wes Club. “He had some nerve asking me to watch this ridiculous rabbit,” Annie said. “He didn’t even care I had plans tonight. Just gave his demands, like he runs the world. He must think I have no life.”

“You get under his skin, is all. Always have.”

Something in Marjory’s tone made Annie feel exposed. She crossed her arms. “The feeling’s mutual.” Awareness of Wes was becoming a sliver under her skin, digging deeper, impossible to ignore.

“I’d take the critter,” Marjory said, “but I’m hosting canasta at my house, and a couple of the women are allergic.”

“No worries.” Annie blew a flyaway hair away from her face. “I owe him anyway.”

“In that case, I need to run. And Annie?” Marjory’s brown eyes softened. “Be patient with him.”