Falling for the New Guy Read online

“Look, to be clear...”

  Tess had a feeling she knew where this was going, and if she were noble she might have saved him the discomfort, but a mess of a girl needed a little something to make her feel a pinch in charge of her life. “Clear about?”

  “It’s not...it’s not a date. That’s not what I’m... Friends. We should be friends. Not dating...things.”

  “God, you’re cute.”

  “Tess.”

  “No worries. I don’t date cops, even if I want to. So you’re safe no matter how much you’re nice to me.” Though she couldn’t resist one little flirt. “Or how many lusty vibes crop up.”

  “I’m really starting to hate that word,” he grumbled. “Noon. I’ll meet you at my truck.”

  Tess nodded and did her best not to saunter to her apartment door, not to swing her hips or bounce her steps, no matter how tired her legs were, but she could feel his eyes on her, so it was hard.

  Well, welcome to life. Hard.

  * * *

  “PIVOT.”

  Tess started giggling, which was not pivoting so they could get the damn couch up the stairs. A couch she’d somehow talked him into. He didn’t plan on having company. It was just him. Why would he need a couch? A chair would have sufficed.

  “Why are you laughing?” Marc grumbled, the bulk of the weight of the couch resting on his shoulder. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, that run this morning had kicked his ass—physically and emotionally and whatever feeling was ignoring your hot neighbor/coworker’s hotness.

  Something akin to wanting to crawl out of one’s skin. Or sex. Sex would be good.

  He gritted his teeth and Tess got a better grip on the couch. “I take it from the grumpiness you never watched Friends. You know, Ross yelling at everyone to pivot in the stairwell?”

  “No, I’ve never seen it.”

  “How is that even possible? I’m not sure I can trust someone who’s never seen Friends.”

  “I’m not big on TV.”

  “Strike two, Santino. Next up you’ll tell me you don’t like dessert and I’ll be forced to hate you forever.”

  “Depends on the dessert.” Which was not sexual innuendo. And it didn’t sound like it, either. Not to her. Not to him. Nope.

  “Okay, so what’s your favorite?” They got the couch around the stairwell turn.

  Sexual innuendo? Oh, no, dessert. “Cannoli.”

  They reached the top and Tess dropped her end. “Ooh, Santino. Cannoli. Italian. Is your family in the mafia? The Minnesota mafia. And you’re a dirty cop!”

  “No. Apparently you watch too much TV.”

  “No fun.”

  No, he wasn’t. But she was. He’d pity invited her on this shopping outing, one he’d mostly been dreading since picking out crap and spending money were two of his least favorite things, and she’d made it fun. He’d laughed.

  He was so inherently screwed.

  He unlocked his door, twin urges surging through him. One was the one he should listen to. The one to tell her she’d helped, and now she could leave, because he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t dying.

  The other was to ignore that urge. Let her come in. Comment on his apartment again. Infiltrate on some crazy chance they both knew they couldn’t let happen.

  “Thinking awfully hard there for a door opening.”

  “Just thinking about how I was swindled,” he lied, poorly. Ill-advisedly.

  Tess laughed, picking up her end of the couch again. “Oh, my God, you did not just say swindled. Are you living on the prairie?”

  “It’s a legitimate word,” Marc grumbled. He didn’t need her help to get it in the apartment, but he didn’t say anything. Except, “I could make my own damn chair for half the amount of this stupid couch you talked me into.”

  Tess snorted. “Sure, Ron Swanson.”

  “Huh?”

  “You, sir, need an education. Friends, Parks and Rec, The Office.”

  “I prefer reading, thanks.”

  “Strike three. You’re out,” she puffed out as they maneuvered the couch into the apartment. They dropped it in the general area in front of the TV. “Besides, if you prefer to read, why do you have a TV?”

  “Sports.”

  Tess rolled her eyes. “Oh, be a little less stereotypical.”

  “My e-reader is full of romances.”

  Her eyes got comically wide. “Really?”

  “No. I actually prefer nonfiction. Biographies and stuff like that, but that’s probably stereotypical.”

  She collapsed onto the couch, throwing her arm dramatically over her forehead. “Oh, and here I got all excited you had some secret poetic side to you.” She peered out from under her arm. “You know, I should hate you for not paying the delivery fee and making me help.”

  “I should hate you for talking me into a couch when I only needed a chair.”

  She stretched her long legs out. She was wearing loose jeans with random rips across the thigh and knee—which actually looked like use, not some attempt at fashion. All he knew was, on more than one occasion it had given him a glimpse of skin.

  On more than one occasion, he’d had to tell himself to stop staring so damn much.

  “You can’t stretch out on a chair,” she was saying, folding her arms behind her head. “You can’t nap or curl up with a fascinating biography of...” She looked at him pointedly, as if he was supposed to supply an answer.

  “Lyndon Johnson.”

  “Ugh. Worst president ever.”

  “I think worst is a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “I watched this show once that gave evidence to how he was behind the JFK assassination. It seemed pretty legit.”

  “Please tell me you are not serious right now.”

  “Okay, this right here is another reason I should hate you—I’m lying on your couch debating about history. That is the last thing I ever want to be doing on a guy’s couch.”

  “And what’s the first thing?” Danger. Accident ahead. Like a flashing sign, only he couldn’t backtrack and take back those words, so he had to stand in uncomfortable...uncomfortableness.

  “Hmm.” Her smile went sly, reminding him of that first night he’d met her in the hallway. Despite bleeding and being pissed, she’d smiled as if she had the world in the palm of her hand.

  She could smile like that even though it was so obvious she didn’t. He couldn’t understand that. He was having a hard time resisting it, too.

  “Pizza?”

  She pushed herself into a sitting position, and glanced at the door. “I never say no to pizza.”

  “You can go, if that’s what you want.”

  Her eyes moved from the door to him, all sly smiles and confidence gone. Just gray eyes wide and something he was having trouble resisting, too. Like what paltry help he offered mattered, meant something.

  He helped a lot of people, but it never felt as though it...resonated. People moved on, people kept focusing on other people. Having someone see the effort he was making was...why did that make him feel ridiculously good?

  That probably made him a dick, because helping was supposed to be something you did without the hope of thanks or retribution, but he couldn’t deny he was desperate for a little thanks, a little gratitude.

  Christ. Pathetic to the extreme. At least that was another reason not to like her. Chatty and made him consider uncomfortable truths about himself. Too bad he couldn’t get that message through all the ways he did like her. He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, to get out of Pathetic Land, but she beat him to it.

  “I know, I should get out of your hair.”

  “No, I wasn’t saying it because...” Jeez, now he really sounded pathetic. “You were looking at the door. You
are welcome to stay, but I don’t want you to feel obligated. I have eaten many a meal on my own. It’s not half-bad.”

  “I just...” She looked down at her hands, pressed her palms together before looking back at the door. “I need to stay away from my phone. If I can do that for a little while longer.”

  Marc felt as though he’d done an admirable job keeping his mouth shut—he was damn good at it, after all—but the trepidation in her voice, in her movements made him realize keeping quiet went against everything he stood for.

  He didn’t let people get hurt if he could help it. While Tess was an adult and her father was her business, even if he did hurt her, Marc couldn’t stand by silently if she was afraid.

  “Does he harass you?”

  She went completely still, presumably because he’d broken the silent agreement not to discuss what had actually happened and what it meant.

  “It’s not like that,” she said lamely. She got off the couch, pushing her hair back and linking her hands behind her head before letting them fall at her sides. “He calls and asks for help. I need...” She shook her head. “He’s an alcoholic, Marc. He’s sick. I’m all he has. It’s sometimes a bit much and I need a break.”

  “You...” Part of him was desperate to keep his mouth shut, to keep out of this, to help in only the most peripheral ways possible, but it wasn’t a big enough part of him to keep his mouth shut. “I know it’s none of my business, but him having a fight with that scrawny guy at his apartment complex? It may not just be alcohol.”

  Her shoulders slumped and she turned away from him. “I know. That’s new. Kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Marc. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I have things under control.” Her head bobbed as if she was nodding to herself. Then a sound escaped her mouth—not really a laugh, not a sob. He wasn’t sure what the noise was.

  “God, what a joke. I don’t have a damn thing under control anymore. I’m not even fooling myself.” She sniffled. “I’m not doing this again in front of you. I’m going home. Look, I’m sorry. I need to get out of here.” She moved for the door, but he was—thankfully—faster and got there first. Blocking it.

  What the hell are you doing?

  He had no idea. He only knew he couldn’t let her leave. “Tess.”

  Even though she’d sniffled, she wasn’t crying. Yet. Her eyes were shiny with tears. “Marc, let me go, okay? I’ll handle everything. I always do. I...have to.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, hands shaking.

  The little voice in his head kept repeating the same question over and over—What the hell are you doing? Only it didn’t seem to change the fact he was doing it. He reached for her shoulders, fingers curling around them. Even though her body trembled, she felt so damn strong under his hands he just wished he had answers.

  He could only do his best, which would never be good enough, but maybe it could be something. “Surely there’s someone who can help—”

  “I don’t have anyone who can help us,” she choked out, dropping her hands from her eyes, a mix of determination and defeat. How did she do that?

  A few tears had escaped her eyes, and he hated the feeling in his gut—helplessness. As though there wasn’t a thing he could do to fix this.

  A very familiar feeling. One he couldn’t seem to shake no matter where he went, and yet the words that came out of his mouth didn’t seem to understand that. “I can help.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.” How long had he been trying to help only to fail? But...she made him feel as if this could be different. “Honestly, my choice method of help would be arresting the kind of asshole that would hurt his daughter.” Without permission from the rational side of his brain, his hands moved from her shoulders down to her arm, where she’d held a cloth over a cut that first night he’d met her.

  “I can’t—”

  “So, I can’t fix anything. But I can help. You need to be away from your phone. I’m right next door. Well, almost. I don’t have much of a life, considering I just moved here. The point is, if you need someone to distract you, I can do that.” Which sounded... “I didn’t mean...”

  She smiled, which was nice to see. “Why don’t you order the pizza, Captain Quiet? That’ll be enough distracting...for now.” Then her expression went soft, and there was that fleeting feeling he’d been chasing for most of his life, the feeling that he’d helped, that he’d done something.

  Tess rose to her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thanks,” she said.

  He swallowed, because a kiss on the cheek—a friendly thank-you kiss on the cheek—was not something to get all worked up over. But that’s exactly what he was. Worked up. Tied up. Ridiculously pleased that someone had recognized his effort.

  Also, screwed. Very, very screwed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TESS BLINKED HER eyes open to a strange ceiling. There was no faint watermark from that one particularly nasty storm three years ago. And someone was tugging her foot.

  She leveraged up onto her elbows and was met with Marc. Oh-so-yummy Marc. Who apparently attracted her tears and breakdowns like a damn magnet.

  “Um, didn’t know how much time you needed to get ready in the morning.”

  “Morning?” Tess looked around the dimly lit apartment. “What time is it?”

  “Five.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes, that’s kind of what I was getting at.”

  Tess rubbed her eyes trying to get her sleepy brain to engage. So, they’d ordered pizza. Watched...hockey. Yes, that was why she’d fallen asleep. Apparently kept sleeping long after she should have.

  “I slept all night on your couch.”

  “That must be some comfortable couch you picked out. Once you were out, you were out. And snoring.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “Oh, right, that must have been a mouse.” He grinned. Like an actual, full-blown pleased-with-himself smile and God, he was so damn hot. And sweet. Nice and helpful and yes, it seemed about right that the first guy to trip her trigger in a long time was completely off-limits.

  And the only one in...ever who’d stepped up to help. But that was her own fault. After that incident between Dad and her boyfriend right after high school, she’d given up any hope of help. She kept friends at enough distance so they didn’t know what was going on.

  Work was her life, coworkers her family and her dad this secret little piece of herself no one saw.

  So sure, like this guy, have the hots for this guy and be completely incapable of doing anything about it.

  Well, not incapable.

  Oh, no, no, no. None of that. Because giving up all she’d built to scratch an itch or get some help was idiocy. Marc’s help would be minimal and short-lived. Her reputation at the station needed to last her through retirement.

  Period.

  “You want some breakfast?”

  “Um, thanks, really, thanks for everything, but I didn’t plan on spending the night on your couch. I need to make sure I have a pressed uniform and clean socks and all manner of things.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “I...I’m not usually this much of a mess.” She pulled her tennis shoes on. “Really. It...really.” She had a desperate need for him to understand that. He was catching her at a bad time. Usually she had no trouble juggling everything. This was abnormal. He was catching her at a bad time.

  He had to believe that. She had to believe that.

  “I believe you.”

  Tess laughed. It wasn’t exactly a happy laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Honestly, Marc, I don’t know why. I have given you absolutely no reason to believe I have any of my shit together.”

  “Actually, most
of the time you seem like you have everything infinitely together. The blips make you human instead of...”

  “Instead of what?”

  “Nothing,” he grumbled, turning away from her and walking toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, no, you have to tell me. Come on. I’m the pathetic girl who cried on you for the second night in a row and slept on your couch. Give me something to boost my deflated ego here.”

  “Your ego is fine. You make me talk too much.” He fiddled with his coffeemaker, rinsing out the carafe with more precision than necessary.

  “That cheers me up almost as much as the thinking-I’ve-got-it-together thing.” It really did. She didn’t feel so pathetic, and she got a kick out of making him grumbly. “You don’t talk too much, by the way. Everything you say is...” She let out a sigh. Awkwardness wasn’t something she felt too often, but in trying to give him an honest compliment, she felt it dig in.

  “Anyway.” She forced an easy, confident smile. She’d learned a long time ago how to pretend. Except when he’s all nice and you fall apart like a total loser. Ugh. She crossed to him and held her hand out. “Thanks.”

  He stared at her hand for a few seconds before lifting his gaze to hers. Grrr, it was so unfair she couldn’t throw herself at him.

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “Don’t get all—”

  “We’re friends. You don’t have to thank friends. It’s just what we do. Okay?”

  She realized he was uncomfortable, possibly as awkward as she felt. Maybe he was as bad at taking gratitude as she was at expressing it. Well, hey, that would come in handy.

  “Okay,” she said with a nod, dropping her hand. “No thanks. Just friends helping friends.”

  Marc nodded.

  “Well, friend, I’m going to go get ready to cart your ass around today, and if you want to bring your friendly FTO a cup of coffee to go, she would not say no.”

  Marc’s mouth quirked, that little half smile he had. Nothing compared to the full-blown smile during the snoring conversation, but it was enough. Enough to make the unwelcome attraction flutters come out.

  “Sure thing.”

  Tess gave a little nod then turned toward the door. She didn’t want to face her phone and the likely bazillion messages from Dad, but she felt stronger. Better equipped to deal with them than she had yesterday.