Out on a Limb Page 4

  Today, he’d take MaryJo home. Then—shoulders sagging, he admitted he’d probably continue working. There were far too many bugs in the program for this stage of the schedule. It had taken him twice as long as usual to get the commands working properly. About the time he fixed a problem and was ready to move on to the next, invariably someone on the team discovered a new glitch.

  Scratching out a heading for Monday, Travis turned to the window. The bare limbs of the Sugar Maple brought a reluctant smile to his lips. From now on, any time he looked out this window, he would think of MaryJo perched in it. Tapping his pencil, he forced his mind back to the new and improved Travis exercise. Mentally running down the list of issues, meetings and miscellaneous bullshit at work, he realized he didn’t want to write any of that down. He already knew those things. "What can you accomplish this week?" That would make him feel better? More human? Less frustrated?

  A vision of toffee eyes floated before his. He could check on MaryJo. "See how she's feeling. That's—human." It qualified as different from usual. And—it definitely wasn’t work related. "You could . . . return her hideous pajamas." And the ratty shirt. Nodding, he smiled and scribbled 'MaryJo'. Tuesday was easy. He’d have an overnight shift with the rescue squad. Wednesday—he would grocery shop after work. Nothing out of the ordinary there—so he would . . . speak to two different women at the grocery store about—something. "Vegetables . . . or a recipe." He sighed. Was basic human interaction really this difficult? "And you'll go for a run." Determined, Travis underlined that one. He needed to get back in shape.

  The plaintive meow from the doorway startled him, the sound so foreign to his existence that it felt out of context. He’d been so focused on his list, Travis hadn’t heard the turbo-charged purring until Jack finally yelped for more attention. "Hey, bud. Is MaryJo awake? Or did you just get lonely?"

  Entering the bedroom-turned-office, Jack meandered through the space, sniffing pretty much everything—including him, before he sank to the floor at his feet and began washing his paws. The purring sound was—nice. Sort of soothing. When it stopped a few minutes later, he glanced down to discover Jack staring at him. Not blankly—but like—with a motive. Expectant. "Do you want something? Because I’m not sure how to translate that look." Nope—not at all weird that he was talking to a cat. "I was never allowed to have pets growing up," he explained. "My mother married a dickhead. He claimed he was allergic to pretty much everything—especially if it was something I wanted. So—this is all pretty new to me."

  Pausing only to yawn, Jack kept staring. "Are you hungry?" Did cats eat more than once a day? Did they eat all day? Hesitantly, Travis reached down to scratch his head. Jack rewarded him with a nudge. "Okay. I can do that."

  They spent the next several minutes in contented silence. Or—at least Jack was content. Actually—as Travis thought about it, he was pretty content, as well. Jack’s body sprawled across his bare feet, which was keeping his toes warm. "I guess I could get used to someone like you."

  WINCING AS SHE ROSE quietly from the bottom step, MaryJo worried that Travis would end up catching her. He’d realize not only was she a trespasser and a pain in the ass who’d spent the night with him—but, he’d confirm she was nosy, too.

  She’d shuffled down the hall to the living room, thinking he might be there. "It's six am, doofus," she muttered. "Where did you think he'd be?" Though she’d slept half the evening away, Travis had gone to bed late—because of her. She sure as hell wasn’t about to wake him up at dawn to drive her home. Intent on slinking back to the guestroom to wait, she’d heard his voice. Without thinking, she’d promptly launched up the stairs. If he was already up, then maybe she could get out of his hair sooner rather than later.

  Two steps up, it occurred to her—maybe he was on the phone. Maybe he was half-dressed. Or maybe he didn’t want her snooping around upstairs. Backing down the steps, she'd realized he was talking to Jack. Her damn cat was upstairs bothering him. Smothering a sigh, her imagination took over—projecting the image of bumping into Travis in the grocery store in a few months. Seeing the relief in his eyes as he smiled and quickly bolted. "Nice to see you, MaryJo. Please don’t come any closer."

  Then she’d heard him speak about his stepfather . . . how he’d never been allowed any pets. And she sank down on the step, glued to the husky voice upstairs. Helpless to leave—despite knowing she should. He’d sounded so matter-of-fact about what was likely an unpleasant childhood. Somehow, his reasonable tone made it worse.

  Inhaling a sharp breath of pain, she muffled it with her hand as she gingerly rose from the bottom step. She had no business being there. Drifting back to the kitchen, she released the breath she’d held. Raising her fingers to her cheekbone, she winced. Lord only knew what her face looked like. Her body felt as though she’d been mowed down by a speeding car. Her legs still felt rubbery. After this stunt, she’d likely be hurting for a few days. But, it could’ve ended worse.

  Cautiously, she glanced around. Travis’ kitchen was clean, but sterile looking – as though not much cooking took place there. The French doors overlooked a nice backyard—blurry, of course, but large and private. She wondered where her glasses were. Probably close to the tree. They hadn’t flown off her face. Just slid down her nose as everything had grown cold and slippery the previous night.

  Damn it. Her keys. MaryJo groaned, forgetting she was trying to be quiet. Had she lost them out there as well? They’d been in her pocket. But, Travis hadn’t mentioned finding any keys. Of course—she hadn’t exactly been conscious for most of the events the previous night.

  Hearing sudden footsteps on the stairs, she turned from the view to see Travis skidding into the kitchen. "Are you—okay? I thought I heard you groan."

  Her cheeks flushing with heat, she nodded. Bothersome neighbor strikes again. "I just realized I might have lost my keys out there last night. Unless—maybe you found them?" She raised hopeful eyes. "They were in my pants pocket."

  He shook his head. "If they’re out there, we’ll find them. Actually, let me throw on some shoes and I’ll go look now."

  "No—Travis. It's dawn. You should be sleeping."

  Slipping his arms into his coat, he grinned. "I wasn’t sleeping anyway. Too much work to do on this launch." Five minutes later, he reappeared on the deck, her glasses in one hand and her house keys in the other. "Good news—your glasses are intact. They weren’t far from the base of the tree and your keys were pretty close by, too."

  She offered a silent prayer of relief. Saint Simeon had been watching. Doubled over laughing, probably. But, watching, too. She carried her glasses to the kitchen sink to wash the layer of mud from her lenses. As she dried them, she turned around, finding Travis standing expectantly at the counter. "What?"

  "Put them on," he urged.

  "I'm pretty sure they'll fit over the bruise." Was this a lack of sleep thing? Or just one more guy thing she didn’t understand?

  Shrugging out of his coat, he smiled. "You said you’re half blind, right? So, if we met on the street tomorrow, you wouldn’t even recognize me." He raised an eyebrow. "I think you should at least know what I look like before you leave. Since we spent the night together."

  Smiling as understanding finally dawned, MaryJo slipped them on, wincing as they brushed against her bruised cheek. "Wow—you really are tall." And seriously hot. In a lanky, loose-limbed, easy-going, tousled hair, dimple-cheeked, five o’clock shadow sort of way. Did he have to be so gorgeous? Familiar with the fluttering nerves in her chest, she stuck out her hand. "Hi, MaryJo Mullaney."

  "Travis Lockwood," he answered, his eyes heating with amusement. "Thanks for spending the night."

  Prying her gaze from his, she deliberately focused it anywhere else. Despite his deceptively casual stance, she sensed he was the sort of guy who could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Feeling heat flooding her cheeks, MaryJo confirmed the awkwardness train had returned—right on schedule. Geek girl was back. "Your kitchen is gor
geous. Do you cook much?"

  "Not really. Lots of take-out or stuff I can heat up," he admitted, settling against the counter. "But—I like the idea of cooking. I’d like to learn how. I think I’d enjoy it."

  "You could go crazy in here." She trailed her fingers over black, granite counters. Despite its modern lines, his kitchen still managed to be cozy. The stone floor was covered with a colorful hooked rug and the rough-hewn dining table lent a rustic tone to balance the sleek countertops and cabinets. "I guess you’d call mine functional. It’s certainly not pretty to look at."

  Her natural curiosity taking over, she retraced her steps to the living room she’d inhabited the previous evening. "Travis—this is beautiful. Did you design all this?" The stone floor in the kitchen matched the oversized stone fireplace in the living room.

  "Not really," he admitted, following her into the living room. "I described what I liked to the designer and this is how it turned out."

  Her gaze sought his, forgetting for a moment that she was easily flustered around gorgeous men. But—she loved this room. Loved how it was both modern, yet warm and inviting. "Did it turn out the way you envisioned it? Is this you?" When sky blue eyes shifted their attention to her, MaryJo reminded herself not to get flustered. Travis wasn’t exactly a friend yet, but he could become one. And she was always comfortable talking with guys who were safely planted in the friend zone.

  He was slow to answer, his eyes studying her, but his brain elsewhere. His expression reminding her of a distracted college professor. "I think so," he finally said. "This feels like home when I walk through the door. But, I learned I like the warm features even more than I thought. If I were doing it again, I’d go even more rustic."

  Nodding, she took a step toward the mantle, admiring the weathered style. "Everyone is crazy for modern, but I think this is so much more restful. You've managed to blend the best of both."

  "Are you hungry? Can I get you anything for breakfast?"

  Reluctantly, she turned to face him. There was no doubt about it. Travis Lockwood was truly a beautiful specimen. But, he was way out of her league. And it was way past time to make her escape. End on a high note . . . before she did something embarrassing. It had been nice, she decided, when she couldn’t see him. The brief respite when she’d suspected he was attractive, but she’d been too cold and sick and dopey. Her true personality had remained well hidden. But the longer she remained, she risked him confirming the truth. And for reasons she’d rather not admit, his opinion of her suddenly mattered. "I've already ruined half your weekend," she pointed out. "I should clear out so you can get back to your Saturday."

  "YOU HAVEN'T RUINED anything," Travis assured. "Can I get you coffee?" Sensing her sudden apprehension, he wondered at the source. It was a shame, because he was enjoying himself. Talking with her. Watching expressions dart across her face. She was sexy and tousled— her long limbs lost in his giant sweats. The straight fall of perfumed hair still mussed from sleep, her pretty face flushed pink. Despite the painful looking welt on her cheek, MaryJo was surprisingly attractive. Her expressions magnified by her glasses, the warm, brown eyes were friendly and—approachable.

  A sexy librarian—smart, confident and not afraid to show it. There were moments where MaryJo's features were lit with animation—almost seeming to forget herself, lost in the moment. The next, she'd turn skittish and shy—as though suddenly realizing she was out of her element.

  Unable to pin down why, Travis wanted her to see him—not just the blurry outline—but all of him—to confirm whether her eyes held interest. It was a weird sensation—one he'd never experienced. When she slipped on her glasses, he’d actually held his breath. She was still basically a stranger. Yet, she didn’t feel like a stranger. When she’d asked about cooking—when her long, graceful fingers trailed his expensive, unused counters, he’d conjured a crazy image of them—cooking in his kitchen. Laughing. Sipping wine. Kissing her as they prepared a meal together. They would chop and taste and sauté- A meal together after a long day—and she would be good company.

  What the hell? What was going on with him? For the past twelve hours, Travis hadn't felt quite normal. Hadn't felt himself. Ever since MaryJo fell into his life. Somehow—everything felt different. Or maybe, he was different. He couldn't shake the feeling of being at a crossroads—at work and home. The more time he spent with her, the more fascinated he grew.

  Guilt flashed over her face. "I'm sure you have things I'm keeping you from. I think I should go."

  Strangely deflated, he nodded. Okay—so, maybe she didn’t like what she saw. Remembering her grimace when her glasses bumped the bruise on her face, Travis realized he was being selfish. MaryJo was still in pain. She probably wanted the familiarity of her own surroundings. "I’ll get my keys so I can drive you home."

  A few minutes later, woman and cat were piled into his car. Jack did not go quietly, nor willingly. Glancing over his shoulder, Travis discovered the cat staring at him balefully. "Will he be okay back there? He sort of looks—like he wants to take a chunk out of me."

  "It's not you," she admitted. "Jack's not fond of car rides." Shifting in her seat to face him, MaryJo wasn’t exactly the picture of confidence. "He’ll probably stay put, but he’s going to howl about it."

  "Probably?" Her expression indicated hope more than certainty about the outcome. "Where could he go?"

  Her teeth worked her full bottom lip, reminding him how nice it could have been if she'd stayed. "He could . . . leap up on your shoulder."

  "My shoulder?" He swallowed a bubble of laughter over her earnest expression. "That would involve claws, right?"

  "Or—he could dive under the seat." Ignoring his question, she focused on the more hopeful outcome. "Or, he could just sit tight . . . on your leather seats." She glanced away.

  "Also involving claws."

  Animated, brown eyes widened. "I could—walk him home. It's only a few blocks."

  He started the engine. "I’ll try to get us there fast." Seconds later, the yowling commenced. "Oh yeah—this is gonna go really smooth," he muttered. "No problem at all." When MaryJo shot him a guilty glance, his lips twitched in an unwilling smile. As Jack’s keening cries grew louder, she smothered a giggle and turned to look out the window. By the time she cautiously glanced back, he was cracking up, too.

  Still wearing his baggy sweats, she was shoeless in the seat next to him. Since her slippers had been unsalvageable after the storm, she’d also borrowed a pair of socks for the trip home. He was hauling her and her screeching cat in his ridiculously expensive car. If his brain had been firing this morning, Travis probably should have thought to lay a towel across the seat. It would be a miracle if Jack didn’t take a leak on the backseat. Or worse. He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe this normal life thing wasn’t actually something he’d been missing.

  "I’ll wash your clothes and return them to you." Pretty eyes flared with concern. "Your socks are going to be ruined-" There was a long pause as she tilted her head to read the name of his alma mater on her borrowed sweatshirt. Glancing up, she scowled. "Oh my gosh—you went to State?"

  Nodding absently, Travis was more focused on the directions she offered—haphazardly, and for the most part, at the last minute—as though she had trouble focusing on the task. She didn’t appear to live far from him. As the crow flew, it was just through the woods. But, the streets in her neighborhood seemed to twist in circles. "Yeah. How about you?"

  "This changes everything." She sighed. "I still owe you for saving me—and for letting me stay over. And for rescuing Jack," she tacked on. "But-"

  Hearing the trace of amusement in her voice, he played along, pausing at the stop sign to stare at her. "What?"

  "I went to the University." Solemn, chocolate eyes attempted a serious expression. But, the cute smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose undermined her attempt. "We’re sworn enemies."

  "You have something against winning sports teams?"

  That
made her smile. "We concern ourselves with academic excellence."

  "Meaning . . . you're used to losing?" He chuckled. "You’re good at all the snob sports."

  "Smart people are good at lots of things," she pointed out. "Turn left here."

  "I suppose this means we can never be friends." He complied with her last-second directions. "Like a Yankees/RedSox thing."

  "Capulets and Montagues," she suggested.

  "You're referencing Shakespeare? What an egghead."

  "It's probably for the best." A dimple winked in her cheek. "If you'd fallen for my fugly pajamas and black eye—we would've had this Romeo and Juliet thing going on."

  "That is for the best. Don't they die at the end?" He shot her a glance. "Not that we ever read Shakespeare at State—but, I've heard rumors." Travis enjoyed teasing her, especially since MaryJo had gone all shy on him before they left the house. Her laugh was a rich, throaty sound that slid over him like a nicely aged Glenfiddich, warming and jolting at the same time.

  Her playful glance suggested MaryJo Mullaney might have difficulty resisting a challenge. "I'd heard that rumor, too-" She shook her head. "It's a shame State grads don't know how to read."

  "That's . . . understanding of you," he admitted. "Especially when I've heard U grads have such big egos."

  "Okay—fair enough. I started this." Shifting in her seat, she poked his arm, surprising him. "But, we’ll see who’s laughing tonight, Travis."

  Enjoying the way her eyes sparked, he finally remembered. "The game—that's tonight." The game. The biggest rivalry of the season. Two years earlier, he would've blocked his schedule at the start of the season. He would've planned the road trip months ahead of time. How had it gotten this bad? That he'd forgotten it? "I actually had tickets," he muttered. Great tickets. Awesome seats. Yet, this season, he’d caught only one game.