Out on a Limb Page 3

  Not for the first time, he wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Agreeing to the partnership with Patrice Reynolds had been a colossal mistake. He’d always worked better on his own. Why should this time have been any different? But, his previous success had led to investors clamoring to be part of the next release. Though he hadn't cared much about the money, the thought of being able to devote himself to the creative side instead of the business stuff had struck a chord. Enter Patrice. Now—it was too late to rectify the error. He was stuck with her—at least until the end of the year. For better or worse. Mostly worse.

  Teetering on her cliff of paranoia, she made life at work miserable for everyone. But if Travis did anything about it now, half their staff would quit. As it was, he already spent way too much time on damage control, running interference between Patrice and the programmers. Ironically, he had less creative time now than when he'd handled everything himself.

  A groan from the couch scattered his irritated thoughts. Relieved, he rose from his chair and crossed the room. Cat lady had shifted again, her face buried in the pillow, one long arm dangling from the couch, her fingers brushing the carpet. "MaryJo? Are you okay?"

  Her face flushed with sleep, she squinted against the light. "Hot." Pulling ineffectually at the neck of his sweatshirt, she floundered in her half-hearted attempt to remove it.

  "You want this off?" Kneeling next to the couch, he tugged on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, gently pulling her arm free. Supporting her back, he shifted her into a half-seated position so he could pull her other arm free. When he tugged it over her head, MaryJo flopped back against the pillows, her sigh one of relief.

  "Better." Her face sought the coolness of the pillow.

  Travis suspected her relief would prove short-lived. Soon, she'd be cold again. His relief, on the other hand, bordered on non-existent. Swallowing hard, he confirmed that his prettier-by-the-minute neighbor was back to wearing just a bra. All that exposed skin served to reawaken his earlier demons. Though his jeans tightened, he was helpless to look away. Satiny shoulders, an olive glow to her soft skin. He swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat. "Jesus." His fingers itched to trace the spatter of freckles across her chest. Thanks to their brief shower together, he knew the pattern was repeated across her shoulders. And probably . . . other places.

  "Dude—you're sweating." At least her bra was dry now. Not that the lack of sheerness presented problems for his overactive imagination. He'd seen enough in the shower for the memory to be scorched into his brain. As she shifted on the couch, a thin, delicate strap slid down her right shoulder. Biting back a groan, Travis fumbled to cover her with the blanket. Glancing to her feet, he discovered Jack watching with interest. "No judging," he warned. "You'd be doing the same thing if you were me." Distracted, he rose to his feet—if only to distance himself from that all-knowing stare. Maybe he should get his laptop—try to work down here. Coding was probably the only thing that could steal his concentration away from a half-naked woman. Because a tied basketball game sure as hell wasn't doing it for him.

  MARYJO AWOKE WITH A start. Her head fuzzy, her mouth like cotton. Was she ill? Glancing to her left, she ran her fingers over unfamiliar fabric. A couch. Shifting to a seated position, she groaned, realizing her mistake almost immediately. Pain knifed through her shoulder. Her brain strangely muddled, she stared down at her bare arms. Scratches covered nearly every inch of exposed skin. When had that hap-

  "Hey, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

  Gasping her terror, she shrank back against the pillows, distancing herself from the shadow hulking over her. "D-don't-"

  "It's okay," the male voice coaxed. "I'm Travis, remember? Travis Lockwood? You fell from my tree earlier tonight."

  Her heart beating too fast, MaryJo nodded, releasing an unsteady breath. "R-right. . . I remember. S-sorry to freak out like that." Running nervous fingers through her hair, she winced when the simple movement resulted in a chorus of aches. Glancing at her nails, she confirmed that two of them were shredded—not that they'd been super attractive to begin with.

  "You're in pain," he stated, his voice matter-of-fact. "Take these ibuprofen. I couldn't get them into you before you fell asleep a few hours ago."

  "Hours?" She'd been asleep on a stranger's couch—for a few hours? Accepting the pills from a very large hand, Travis held the glass of water until she was ready to accept it. Drinking greedily, she finally returned it to him. "So thirsty."

  "Are you hungry? I'm still not sure how long you were out there before I found you."

  If only the fog would lift from her brain. "I—was looking for Jack. I think I left my house at seven-thirty. I was probably in your tree by seven-forty-five." Her voice trailed off as she remembered- "Jack." The storm was still lashing against the windows. Unsteadily, she swung her legs over the side of the couch. "He's still outside-"

  "He's here," Travis corrected, his hands gentle on her shoulders as he coaxed her back to the couch.

  Warm hands—on her skin- Her brain suddenly clearing, it took only moments to fill with panic. MaryJo realized she was topless. Again. Fumbling, she raised her arms to cross over her chest. "I—where's my s-shirt?"

  Sensing her unease, Travis took an immediate step back. "It's right here. I'll toss it to you. About an hour ago, you stripped it off. Said you were too hot."

  Embarrassment staining her cheeks, she nodded. "I—remember. Good Lord. I'm so sorry." Once she scrambled into the sweatshirt, she felt a modicum of control return. "I—I’m so not like this . . . normally. This is—a n-nightmare."

  "It's alright," he reassured. "You’re going to be fine. The storm hasn't lessened, so I think it would be safer if you spent the rest of the night here."

  "What—what time is it?"

  "Nearly one in the morning." Travis eased a step closer. "There's a clock here on the end table."

  "I'm afraid I can't even see that far without my glasses." MaryJo sighed. "They slipped off my face sometime during the climb last night. They've probably floated away by now."

  "Seriously? Can you see me?"

  "Sort of—like an outline of you." She waved a haphazard hand, grateful she couldn't. Seeing him would make her more nervous. "The middle part's a blur."

  "We can look for your glasses in the morning. Do you always wear them?"

  "Contacts during the day," she explained. "But they get dry and scratchy because I'm on my computer so much."

  "Me, too." His shadowed features seemed to nod.

  "Once I get home for the night, I switch to glasses." Feeling a blush crawling into her face, MaryJo figured an explanation of her appalling clothes would hopefully leave Travis with less of an impression of the crazy cat woman. "I should explain—it was laundry night, too. Hence, the weird pajamas and the ratty tee shirt," she felt compelled to tack on. "I don't dress like a bag lady all the time."

  "Just on laundry night?"

  Hearing the grin in his voice, she smiled back. It was relatively easy telling truths when you couldn't see someone's face. She'd have to remember that in the future. Maybe the next difficult conversation with her father—she'd take her glasses off—and just let it rip. When Jack's head nudged her hand, she sighed with relief. "How did you get Jack to come down?"

  When Travis chuckled, she realized she liked the friendly, easy sound. "He came down on his own-"

  "No way!" Raising her gaze to his face, she stared at the face she couldn't see. Jack nudged her fingers, looking for a scratch.

  "Way," he confirmed. "I told you he'd be fine."

  "I'm an idiot," she muttered. "All this trouble and he would've come back anyway?"

  "I wouldn't say idiot," he corrected gently. "Basically, he howled at the door until I let him inside. He's been asleep at your feet for the last three hours."

  She sensed Travis staring at her. "That's funny. He usually doesn't take to strangers."

  "I think this was literally a case of any port in the storm," he answered. "I was pre
ferable to the alternative of freezing out in the rain. The can of tuna probably helped solidify his temporary loyalty."

  "I'll be lucky if he follows me home tomorrow." Smiling, she felt a sudden, instinctive urge to busy her nervous hands. She could sense his eyes—scrutinizing her. Making judgments she couldn't confirm without seeing his expression. Pulling the mass of hair over her shoulder, she proceeded to braid it, grateful for something to do with her hands. It didn’t take long for her arms to begin aching, reminding her how long she’d been clinging to that branch. Involuntarily, she shivered.

  "Are you cold again?"

  "My arms hurt. I was just remembering dangling from your tree." Sensing him watching her, she glanced up. "I- I really don’t know how to thank you. I never should have been trespassing-"

  When Travis knelt on the floor near the couch, she startled when he took her hand. "Hey- it’s seriously no big deal. I’m glad I heard you. What if you’d fallen and I wasn’t there?"

  What the hell? She really couldn’t embarrass herself any further this night. She’d pretty much won that prize earlier. "I might have preserved my dignity, but then again, I probably would have frozen to death, too." Raising her gaze to his, she grinned. "I guess if I had to drop in on a neighbor, I’m glad it was you. Are you always this accommodating?"

  "I don’t know," he admitted. "I haven’t met many of my neighbors since I moved in last year." Giving her hand a little squeeze, he suddenly seemed to think better of it and quickly released it. "Can I get you anything before we turn in?"

  Travis’ voice hadn't changed—husky and concerned. Pleasant. But something had. It felt as though there was a little less oxygen in the room. As though he was suddenly crackling with tension. And for the life of her, MaryJo didn't know what it meant. Probably, that she'd overstayed her welcome. Maybe—he was second-guessing his generous offer to a pain-in-the-ass neighbor. If there was ever a time she wished she could see his face, this was it. Not that she would've been able to translate his expression into knowledge of what it meant.

  MaryJo knew a great deal about guys—but solely from the angle of buddy. She knew how to argue with them about sports. Commiserate with them about their girlfriends—despite not really understanding what they complained about. Mostly about their expectations. About phone calls. And text response times. Gifts. Drama about making plans. And there was the gripe about spending too much money on shoes.

  But, with a domineering man like Sean Mullaney as her father—she'd ceased being a girl when her mother Isabella died. From the age of nine, Mariela Josefina Mullaney had done her best to fulfill Sean's unrequited wish for a son. Any lady-like or remotely female tendencies that might have blossomed under the tutelage of her mother, had withered and died. As the years passed, Mariela Josefina had slowly faded into the background and Mojo had sprung into her place.

  Being a tomboy had served her well as she grew—and grew—and grew. Taller than all the girls in her class, MaryJo had thrown her gawky frame into sports, her father's belligerent but caring voice on the sidelines of every sport she played. Basketball in the winter. Softball in the spring and summer. Soccer in the fall. Staying busy in sports meant less time to socialize—or more correctly—to acknowledge she wasn't socializing. That she wasn't invited to parties.

  College, unsurprisingly, had been more of the same. Mojo the jock—not MaryJo the girl. At the mercy of a persistent roommate, she'd learned to use makeup—sparingly. She'd tried, with limited success, to imitate her hall mates’ behavior—in the whole business of flirting and meaningless banter like the girls she observed at the frat houses—where she'd been dragged repeatedly by her determined roommate. But—flirting with guys who were already hammered didn't mean she’d actually succeeded in acquiring any female skills. It just meant the guy she practiced on didn't give a damn which girl he ultimately ended up in bed with.

  Now, at thirty-one, while MaryJo pretended she knew what made men tick, she really didn't know jack. Talking scores and pitching reports and the player draft with her guy friends at work . . . that was easy. Analyzing and reviewing financials with the intimidating, mostly male executives at work—not hard. Knowing what to wear on a date—petrifying. Not that she had to worry about that very often. Discerning the change in Travis' tone only a moment ago—impossible.

  "MaryJo? You okay? Do you need anything?"

  "N-no, thank you." Flustered by her own confusion, she tugged on the too long sweatshirt. "You've done enough already. I'm sorry to keep you up so late."

  His shadow moved to the chair where he'd been seated. Powering down a laptop, he snapped off the light. "Okay. Well, I guess we should try to get some sleep. Once it's light out, I'll find your glasses and then I can give you a ride home."

  "S-should I—is this okay? If I stay on your couch?"

  He shook his head. "I've got a guest room down the hall. I think you'll be more comfortable there."

  "You've already gone to so much trouble-" When his hand appeared before her eyes, she accepted it as he helped her to her feet.

  "It's no trouble. I'd rather know you're comfortable." Hesitating while she stood, he waited for her to steady herself.

  Biting back a moan as every muscle in her body protested the movement, MaryJo inhaled sharply. "Wow—that first step is a doozy."

  "I hate to say it," Travis confessed, "but you'll probably feel worse in the morning." Guiding her through the darkened hallway, he flicked on the nightlight in the hall bathroom. "Just in case you need to get up during the night." Allowing her to pass, he waited at the door of the bedroom. "If you need anything, just yell. I'll probably hear you upstairs. I don't sleep much, and when I do, it's not very soundly."

  "I would hate that," she admitted, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She could easily make out the double bed. There was also a dresser, not that she had any clothes with her.

  "Work stress, I guess. I've been like this for years. I get too keyed up to sleep."

  "What do you do?" She realized she liked the sound of his voice in the dark. Low and husky, yet still approachable sounding.

  "I'm a software designer. I'm working on a program we're supposed to be launching in three months." Leaning against the doorframe, he folded one arm over the other, his lanky frame appearing loose-limbed and relaxed. "How about you?"

  "Financial analyst. Basically, I’m an accountant—for a financial services company."

  "What do you analyze?" His expression seemed to indicate a flicker of actual interest behind the blue beauty of his eyes.

  Spoken like a true non-accountant. Smiling, MaryJo sank down on the edge of the bed. "For the most part, I analyze potential acquisitions. And I put together the financials for my division."

  "Do you like messing with financial statements?" Travis interrupted his question with a yawn. "Sorry—my hours tend to be crazy, so sleep is typically the first thing to go."

  "Numbers make sense to me—usually more than people do."

  "I totally get that," he admitted. "Not the numbers part. For me it's software code. That makes sense."

  Sensing a smile in his voice, she searched his face, despite knowing she wouldn't be able to confirm it. "What is it?"

  "When I heard you outside my window tonight, I thought you might be one of my competitors—dropping in to steal my work."

  "That must be some software you’re working on." Releasing a sigh, she was again reminded how much trouble she'd caused tonight. And how lucky that Travis hadn't called the cops. "No competitors. Just the crazy neighbor. If there's anything—seriously—anything I can do to make it up to you, I hope you'll ask."

  Travis retreated a step. "You never know. Maybe I'll take you up on that." Moving into the hallway, his gaze locked with hers. "Goodnight, MaryJo."

  Chapter 3

  Travis continued working through the night. Since he likely wouldn’t have slept anyway, he may as well get some work done. Glancing up from the screen, he stretched aching shoulders, finally noticing daylight c
reeping around the blinds. Once he drove MaryJo home in a few hours, he could fall into bed and crash. Saturdays were typically low-key. If he hadn’t been working on a product launch, weekends were spent catching up on sleep, going for a run or hitting the gym. Then, wrapping up a lazy Sunday by watching sports with his ever-present laptop. Multi-tasking had become a way of life. On the occasional Saturday, he’d pull a weekend shift volunteering at the rescue squad. At least there, he had company, watching games with the guys on the squad between ambulance runs.

  Frowning, he digested the acknowledgment that he’d increasingly evolved into something of a loner. A loner with no outside hobbies, except the rescue squad. "It wasn't always like that." But, he’d developed a bad pattern over the past few years. Success had changed everything. Success had left him wealthy . . . yet always in the elusive chase for the next big thing. He'd truly believed partnering with Patrice on this latest project would ease the burden—freeing him to pursue new interests—or revisit old ones. Since the money wasn’t all that important, he’d been more than willing to share it. Instead, the partnership now took even more of his time. More energy. Putting out fires instead of stoking the creative ones. 'Handling' Patrice, instead of developing the talent on his team. Worse—he’d grown even more isolated.

  Smirking, Travis shook his head. What did it say about him that it felt surprisingly good to share his rambling house with someone? Despite that someone being a virtual stranger. "It says you’re a loser, bro." Maybe—he could use the anomaly of MaryJo’s visit to jumpstart his intentions. Instead of talking about change; thinking about doing something different—this time he’d actually take the initiative to force a change.

  Maybe—he’d make a schedule for the upcoming week—a list of incremental accomplishments that could start him on a return to a sense of normalcy. Help him regain focus. Fumbling in the drawer, he found a scrap of paper and a pencil.