Dreams of Her Own Page 3

  Grabbing sweats and a worn T-shirt, he threw them on, then headed down to the kitchen for that hot meal, and the chore his disability made so difficult. Paperwork.

  A week later, the alarm buzzed, waking Millie from a dream. Ian had pulled the pins from her bun, and was just pressing passionate kisses to her neck, his bad-boy stubble scraping against her skin sending delicious tremors up her spine. She sat up with a start, glancing around her studio apartment.

  “Abelard and Heloise!” She hadn’t seen the man in a week, and he still starred in her dreams.

  She slapped the button on the clock silencing the alarm. The sounds of her upstairs neighbor, stage-name Chelsea Chandler, already practicing her dance routine for some off-off-off-Broadway performance she’d landed echoed off the walls.

  “Thank God it isn’t tap,” Millie muttered as she made her way, all five feet of it, to her kitchen. Putting the kettle on for tea with one hand, she opened the fridge with the other reaching for the cream.

  She’d stop by Darcy’s favorite bakery and pick up some Morning Glory muffins for breakfast. Darcy didn’t exactly rise with the sun. Most mornings Millie arrived before Darcy’d ventured downstairs, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed the quiet time between Josh, Darcy’s husband, leaving for his office at the law firm, and Darcy’s rising. That would end once the baby came along.

  Taking her mug of tea with her, she opened the cubby that served as her closet. Should she wear the brown dress, or the brown skirt and sweater? “Take a walk on the wild side.” Closing her eyes, she reached into the back of the closet and grabbed the first thing she touched. “Oh, the brown corduroy dress with the tiny mustard yellow flowers. That’s different.”

  After brushing and flossing her teeth, she twisted her long brown hair into a bun and secured it with hairpins. “That should do it.”

  Picking up her copy of What to Expect When Your Expecting from the nightstand, she tucked the book into her backpack.

  She slid on her brown SAS moccasins, and grabbing her heavy coat prepared to bundle up for her eight block walk to the subway.

  “Hi, Millie. Bye, Millie,” Josh said as he rushed out the front door Millie had just unlocked.

  “Bye.” Closing the door behind her, she shivered as the warm air inside touched her chilled face. Walking straight to the kitchen she unloaded her bundles. After shucking her coat, hat, scarf and gloves, she headed to what served as her office in the brownstone. Last year, Darcy had remodeled a room on the third floor as her writing space, leaving the one downstairs for Millie’s use.

  First up, check Darcy’s calendar to ensure she didn’t need to wake her for any meetings or appointments. Nothing on the schedule until two when she sees . . . Romeo and Juliet! Ian. Her hand flitted to her hair of its own volition, as if to check its tidiness.

  Embarrassed by the unaccustomed girlie reflex, she cleared her throat and recited the periodic table of elements: “Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium . . .” The calming effect of the recitation steadied her as always.

  “I can handle this.”

  Dragging up a seat at the desk, she glanced over the morning’s to-do list. Some social media posts to schedule, the newsletter to draft and send out, a few autographed books to mail out, some phone calls to return, and a list of topics to research for the latest manuscript. Nothing too taxing.

  She couldn’t say the same about seeing Ian again that afternoon. That might tax her more then she cared to admit.

  Absurd.

  She wasn’t that timid, anxiety-ridden teenage girl anymore. The one who didn’t fit in. The one who cared what people thought about her. Not that she fit in now. It just didn’t matter anymore. So what if a man like Ian completely dismissed her?

  Only it wasn’t just men like Ian. It was all men. Except for Josh, of course. And Darcy’s brother, Brandon, and his life partner, David. But they were gay, so really, did that count? And then there was Nathan, the husband of Darcy’s best friend, Laura. They noticed her. Were kind to her.

  Darcy and her family always made Millie feel included.

  So really, what did she care if men had no interest in her? She had her few friends, she had her books, and she had her job.

  Of course, that made achieving Number Two on her list difficult at best. A naughty thought flitted through her brain. She could pay for sex. Cringing, she dismissed the idea. She didn’t relish the thought of calling Josh to bail her out of jail for solicitation. And what man would want to have sex with her, no matter the payout?

  No. She’d have to come up with another plan. But what?

  Her boss stirred above, so Millie headed back to the kitchen to make tea and set out the muffins. Since Darcy woke each day with morning sickness, Millie liked to have a cup of lemon-ginger tea waiting when she staggered into the kitchen.

  Darcy stumbled in a little while later, her hair in a messy twist, looking pale. “Boy. Whoever said their pregnancy was a breeze never had morning sickness.”

  Millie thrust the cup tea into Darcy’s hand. “Sit.” Covering the muffins for later in the morning when Darcy’s appetite usually returned with a vengeance, she made herself a cup of tea and sat with Darcy.

  “I heard from Laura last night.” Darcy blew on her cup of tea. “She and Nathan will be home next Thursday.” She took a careful sip, then sighed with pleasure.

  Laura, formerly known as Queen of the Booty Calls, had shocked everyone when she and Nathan got engaged. They’d married the beginning of November on board the Nave dei Sogni, the ship on which they’d met, in the middle of the Mediterranean.

  Millie had been invited—her first trip abroad—and the experience had whetted her appetite. The museums, the cathedrals, the art, and the history of Italy, she couldn’t get enough.

  “No broken bones, then?” After their wedding and a week on the ship with their guests, Laura and Nathan had flown off to the Swiss Alps for skiing. She’d rather have headed to the UK, to the Bodleian Library in Oxford, or maybe Trinity College Old Library in Dublin. Or both. If you’re going to dream, might as well dream big.

  Darcy cautiously sipped her tea. “No, but I’m guessing they left behind some broken beds.”

  “And on that note, I’m off to work,” Millie said. “There are Morning Glory muffins in the basket when you get hungry. Let me know if you need anything.”

  With Ian Brand on the brain, the question was whether she’d get anything done.

  Chapter 4

  Engrossed in her editing, Millie lost track of time until the doorbell rang. “Darcy and Elizabeth! It’s Ian.” Setting aside her work, she drew herself up, and just as she reached up to pat her hair, she snatched her hand away.

  Already flustered, she opened the door to find him standing on the porch looking all scruffy and confident. And sexy. She envisioned a thought bubble above her head, and in it read ‘Holy hot guy, Batman.’

  “Oh, hi,” Ian said, sounding disappointed. “I have a meeting with Darcy.”

  When Millie didn’t respond, he continued, “Today. At two. Which is . . . now.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Millie, is that Ian?” Darcy called down from upstairs.

  “Yes. But don’t come down. He’ll come up,” Millie responded. Stepping back from the door, Millie let him in. “She’ll meet you in the nursery.”

  “Thanks.”

  He breezed past her, the scent of his soap or cologne, she didn’t know which, mixed with the hint of leather from his jacket, making her almost dizzy, he smelled so good. She had to concentrate on not inhaling like she’d just surfaced from the deep end of the pool, the fact that she couldn’t swim making her metaphor a bit absurd.

  She watched as he climbed the stairs, fascinated by the way his jacket bunched over the muscles of his back. And then there was the glute area, which hi
s jeans hugged lovingly. Shaking her head at her own fancies, Millie forced herself back to the office to return to her work.

  She appreciated beauty, in all its forms. Painting, music, sculpture, and especially the written word. She was just appreciating the beauty of a fine male form, not unlike Michelangelo’s David. At least that was what she told herself, as she imagined Ian as naked as that famous statue. Jane and Rochester! Is it hot in here?

  No sooner had she settled back at the desk when Darcy called her to come up.

  Heaving a heavy sigh, Millie set the work aside yet again, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When she entered the room to be renovated, Ian and Darcy were bent over the blueprints laid out on the bed, the only surface in the room large enough to accommodate them.

  “Come see the drawings,” Darcy said, her face beaming with excitement. She reached out and drew Millie between her and Ian.

  Ian glanced up at her, making her knees wobble and her heart stutter. This close, she got a good whiff of him, and he smelled like heaven . . . and leather. The heat of a flush engulfed her face. She’d once read that blood travels at about zero-point-seven miles per hour, meaning her flush took all of point five seconds to manifest itself.

  “This is where we’ll cut the door to the bathroom,” he was saying, “which will require us to move the shower/bath along this wall.”

  She tried to pay attention to the schematics, but all she could think about as she watched his fingers slide over the drawings as he pointed out details were how beautiful his hands were. Strong. Square. Capable. Not the pale hands of a man who spent his time in libraries researching dusty old tomes, like her father. But the hands of a man who clearly made his living with them. In other words, not the kind of man with whom she would have anything in common.

  Ian glanced up to gauge Darcy’s reaction and instead found himself looking into Millie’s face. She gnawed nervously on her bottom lip, drawing his eyes to her mouth. A mouth that featured a rosy, lush bottom lip.

  His eyes slid back to her face, where a faint blush had appeared. Jesus. Just a look was enough to make her blush?

  “I love it,” Darcy said. “What do you think, Millie?”

  “Um, yes. It’s—It will be very functional,” Millie stammered.

  “Millie, you okay?” Darcy asked. “You look a little flushed. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

  As Ian gazed at Millie, the flush deepened.

  “I’m fine. I, uh, I just remembered, I need to call your publicist.” Millie spun on her heel, almost running into the doorjamb before he heard her practically sprint down the stairs.

  “Huh,” Darcy said as she stepped into the hall to watch her progress. “I wonder what’s got into her?”

  Besides a whole lot of strange? Ian rolled up the blueprints, securing them with a rubber band. “These are yours.”

  “Thank you.” Darcy took the blueprints from him. “When can you start?”

  “You don’t want to look them over with . . .?” He wasn’t sure what to say. The relationship between Millie and Darcy remained a mystery. Life partner? Housekeeper? Future nanny? Spinster sister?

  “My husband? Definitely. But he’ll defer to whatever I want,” she said with a shrug.

  A husband? Well, that solved some of the mystery. Sort of.

  “Well, I can start next week.” He’d be wrapping up the remodel on the house in Harlem by then.

  “Perfect. Why don’t I give you a key, so you and your men won’t be dependent on me or Millie to let you in?”

  He looked into Darcy’s trusting eyes and was overwhelmed by what that meant to him. He knew his appearance didn’t necessarily engender warm and fuzzy, and while his business had an excellent reputation, he appreciated Darcy’s trust in him personally.

  Before he could say anything, she continued, clearly seeing something in his eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “You came with Gloria’s seal of approval, and since Gloria doesn’t give that approval lightly, it’s all I need. Also, I want you to make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you. And other than the occasional plumber or electrician, there won’t be anyone else.” At Darcy’s surprised expression, he continued, “Gloria’s one condition.”

  The following week, Millie unlocked Darcy’s front door then bent to pick up the box of books UPS had delivered while she was out running errands. As she entered the townhouse, she was surprised to hear strains of Beethoven pouring down the stairs. The house had been empty when she’d left, and Darcy and Josh were at a prenatal doctor’s appointment. Besides, Darcy didn’t listen to classical music. And neither did Josh.

  After closing the door quietly behind her—why, she didn’t know—whoever was in the house wouldn’t hear her over the music, she tiptoed over to the hall closet, opened it, and gingerly withdrew a baseball bat from Josh’s bag. Heart pounding she climbed the stairs.

  Emotion told her not to be the girl in the horror movie who was too stupid to live. Logic told her neither a burglar nor a serial killer would play classical music loud enough for the victim, much less the neighbors, to hear.

  Halfway up the stairs, she stopped. Unless that was how he lured his victims to their deaths. And covered up the screams. She gasped, then clamped her hand over her mouth. The Classical Music Killer.

  Nonsense. She’d been reading too much Donald Wells.

  The music clearly came from the soon-to-be nursery. Drawing the bat over her head, ready to strike any would-be murderer, she stepped into the room to find . . . Ian, covered in sweat and dust, his hair thick with it, a stack of what appeared to be cabinet doors leaned against the far wall. Cathy and Heathcliff! He looked beyond sexy. He looked downright edible. But then again, she wasn’t a cannibal.

  Something must have drawn his attention, because he spun to face her. “Jesus! Give a guy a little warning next time.”

  She’d never expected to be so physically drawn to a guy who looked like he belonged in the cast of Westside Story. Black T-shirt, a thin layer of white dust over it, worn jeans, a hole just below his left knee, thick unruly hair, and a face that hadn’t met a razor blade in the last two, maybe three, days.

  Before the invention of the razor, people used hammered metal, flint, or sharp shells for shaving. No wonder early man wore beards. But what was his excuse?

  A leather tool belt hung low on his hips and on his bare right forearm, a tattoo in Roman script read: Scientia potentia est. Knowledge is power.

  A tattoo. How cliché. What it said, however, was far from it. Heart still pounding like a jackhammer in her chest, she said the first thing that came to mind, “That’s ‘Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.’”

  Ian stepped over to the battered, dust-covered boom box he used for construction jobs and reduced the volume. “Sorry. I thought I was alone.”

  He took in the quick rise and fall of Millie’s chest, the Louisville Slugger hanging from her fingers, and felt the corner of his mouth lift. “You planning on using that?”

  At Millie’s continued catatonia, he stepped over and slipped the bat from her fingers, leaning it against the wall.

  “How-How did you get in?” she finally asked.

  “Darcy gave me a key.”

  “Of course she did.” Millie glanced around the room.

  “I’m pulling out the cabinets today. Tomorrow I’ll start on the bathroom fixtures.”

  She walked over to the boom box sitting on the makeshift work table constructed of two saw horses and a piece of plywood. Blueprints held open by a hammer and wrench stretched across the table. She turned back to face him, pointing at the boom box, still not speaking.

  Funny. When he’d met her before she hadn’t appeared to be mentally handicapped. Awkward, yes. Disabled, no. Maybe his original theory had been correct: she had a speech impedi
ment.

  “You were listening to Beethoven,” she said again.

  Feelings from his adolescence bubbled to the surface. The need to defend himself. From his stepfather. His stepbrother. The kids at school. Before he could go on the defensive, Millie spoke.

  “I love Beethoven’s ‘Ninth.’ Though many feel that his ‘Eroica Symphony’ was his masterpiece. And of course, when most people hear the name Beethoven, they think of his ‘Fifth.’”

  Okay, so maybe not mentally handicapped. He also nixed the speech impediment. Ian picked up a cloth, wiped his hands, then joined her at the boom box. “It surprises you that I listen to Beethoven.”

  “Yes.” She took a step back.

  “I like music,” he said with a shrug.

  Millie nodded.

  “I’ll use my iPod and earbuds instead,” he said, as he withdrew the device from his pocket.

  “No. It’s okay. As I said, I love Beethoven. And Bach. And Chopin.”

  “Well, I don’t want to disturb you.” At whatever it is that you do.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll, um, I’ll just be going,” Millie said, but she still stood rooted to the spot.

  “Do you mind if I get back to work? I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “Hmm? Oh. No. I’ll just . . .” She left without finishing her sentence.

  Ian shook his head at her odd behavior, then got back to work. She was one strange cookie.