Out on a Limb Read online

  Why the hell had he even brought it up? His temper smoldering, he sighed. Patrice never missed an opportunity to try to drive a wedge between him and his co-founder. His friend Chuck Shea had made a fortune when he'd sold out to him five years earlier. And was still making amazing money now- - as his vice president. Chuck hadn't wanted the burden of ownership. Chuck's wife hadn't liked the idea of risk.

  Travis could understand the burden. He lived the burden. The day-to-day running of his company was what he liked the least. Because it sucked. And people like Patrice made the situation worse—by glossing over the fact that it sucked—by boiling down a complicated situation to a convenient sound bite.

  Swallowing his resentment, he couldn't resist the bait. "Chuck was fine with my decision. I own the company, remember? Your shares have made you both wealthy—and I'm happy for you. But—I don't want to sell. I've never wanted to sell. If you're operating under the mistaken assumption you can convince me to do that, you're going to be disappointed, Patrice."

  Eyes narrowing, she finally removed herself from his space, flouncing to the chair near his desk. "Where are you on the beta, Travis? We have customers expecting to see this release on May fifteenth. By the look of it, you're running way behind."

  "The testing is taking way too long. Every time I fix something, it seems as though something else stops working."

  Waving elegantly manicured hands into the space between them, she smirked. "I'm not the one who set this schedule, Travis."

  "I'm aware of that." Why the hell had he allowed Chuck to talk him into bringing Patrice Reynolds into the fold? When they'd been fine without her. Hell—she'd already driven away two coders he'd valued. But, Chuck had dangled the thing Travis valued most before his nose. Freedom. Time. To work on new projects. To follow whims. To train his team to think creatively. Chuck had promised those things. 'Patrice is great,' he'd said. 'Patrice will rein in all the chaos. She'll develop policies. She'll tighten controls. She'll be the bad cop', Chuck had reasoned. The one who could take care of the day-to-day, time-sucking, boring stuff he hated.

  Hell. Maybe he was being unfair. Patrice was playing the role they'd hired her to play. Bad cop. Even to him. She was holding him accountable. Though, if she'd known him better, she'd realize no one could beat the hell out of Travis Lockwood harder than he did. "Alright, Patrice. I get what you're saying. I'll huddle with the team Monday and we'll get the schedule back on track."

  Her eyes widened, surprise coloring her cheeks. Caught off guard—that he'd acquiesced so quickly. Definitely not his usual style, especially in his dealings with her. Lately, they'd required Chuck's presence to run interference between them. But, Travis was tired. He needed a nap, not a lecture. The sooner he slept, the sooner the brain fog would lift. The sooner he slept, the sooner Saturday afternoon would melt into Saturday evening. He was surprisingly eager for Saturday evening. His date with MaryJo.

  Leaning back in his chair, he watched Patrice, cataloguing her expressions. She was beautiful—in a brittle, high maintenance, inflexible sort of way. She reminded him of a sharpened pencil—utilitarian, thin and strong. But, bend her far enough and she'd snap in two. Even now, she was calculating—trying to get a bead on him. What was Travis playing at, she was wondering. Because with Patrice, there was always a motive. Every action was calculated. Every word carefully vetted before spoken.

  The day she'd walked through the doors at Tiberius Software, the guys had fallen all over themselves. Geeks. Jocks. Nerds. She had the same effect on all of them. Even the women were in awe, their fear of her stronger than their dislike. And Patrice encouraged it. She was a woman exceedingly confident in her magnetic attraction. Some of her appeal was legit. She was smart. When she wasn't bitching at them, she could be funny. But, she was demanding, wielding her power like a club. And ruthless. When she lost her temper, the phrase 'crazy bitch' sizzled along the grapevine faster than a lightning strike. Her admirers tended to cower in her presence. And that's how she liked it.

  Invariably, Travis' thoughts turned to MaryJo. Though he didn't know her well yet, she appeared to be nearly the opposite. She was warm. Awkward. Uncertain. Definitely a little shy. Pretty—but not in a way that automatically turned heads. Athletic rather than graceful. A terrible dresser, he added to his mental list, a smile twitching his lips as he remembered the ridiculous frog pajamas.

  "What's so funny?" Patrice's accusatory voice disrupted his thoughts, forcing him back to reality.

  "Nothing. Just thinking about something else." Rising to his feet, he concluded what had the potential to be a long, drawn-out session. Even when she won an argument, she liked to bludgeon her opponent with the victory. Travis was going home. He was going to nap and shower and then he was going to go eat chili with MaryJo Mullaney. "See you Monday, Patrice."

  WATCHING HIM SAUNTER through the double doors, Patrice frowned as she heard the elevator ding, announcing its arrival on the fourth floor. On restless legs, she quickly moved to the bank of windows, waiting to trail Travis' progress to the parking lot. Today had not gone as planned. She'd anticipated stress over his self-imposed schedule. She'd been pushing him hard. At this point—she'd anticipated haggard. With every roadblock she'd thrown at him, Lockwood should be bordering on exhaustion by now. "He should be at the breaking point," she muttered. She'd predicted surliness—his normal, combative manner in dealing with her. Today's conversation should've been enough to provoke a confrontation. An argument that would plant the seeds of selling Tiberius. She smirked. If only to get rid of me. But somehow, he'd failed to take the bait.

  "Bastard," she muttered. The company's valuation was high. A new product in the pipeline—nearing completion. She hadn't gotten into this gig for the long term. She wanted to cash out. Move on. Despite her churning frustration, she managed to remain motionless as she trailed him to his stupid sports car. The idiot could afford to drive anything, yet the boor chose a relatively non-descript vehicle—like his bland, middle-class home in that ridiculous neighborhood. Lockwood was a multi-millionaire, for God's sake. Why couldn't he at least respect the role he was supposed to play? Money was absolutely wasted on him. And power—what a joke. Leadership was a foreign word to him. Travis preferred teamwork. He liked being friends with his employees. A tight smile playing around her lips, she allowed one irritated hand to drum the window ledge, despite the threat to her fresh manicure. "Well, not for long."

  As his vehicle left the parking lot, Patrice crossed the room, her legs scissoring at double speed in a futile attempt to release pent up energy. Snatching the phone from her desk, she punched in the extension she wanted. "He just left." Rolling her eyes over the babbling, eager voice, she quickly grew weary and interrupted. "It didn't go well. Something's up with him. I didn't get the reaction I expected. We need to step up the heat." Waving her hand impatiently as her partner attempted to rationalize the ramifications of her plan, she contained her sigh of aggravation.

  "Yeah—great. If we had another six months to waste." Wimps and idiots—content to wait for another opportunity. Content to allow him the opportunity to launch the next project. If it were up to him, Travis would slip through their fingers. The time to sell was now—with his stupid game ready to hit the market. Her partner's dithering would drive her crazy. "No—while you waste time, I'll come up with a new plan. In the meantime, I want someone watching him—effective immediately. Can you at least handle that piece?"

  A million more questions. Patrice sighed. "It needs to be discreet—not some thug sitting outside his house." Resisting the urge to slam down the receiver, she stared at the phone. Picking it up, she dialed again. "It's me. Care to go a few rounds? I need to exhaust some energy."

  "YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'RE going to the gym," MaryJo muttered to her reflection in the mirror. "After gaining ten pounds." Scattered on the floor around her, the pile of cast-offs mounted. Stripping it off, she added the gray t-shirt to the pile. The 'hipster-pottery-class', baggy flannel; the 'showing-off-my-boobs' red swe
ater; the 'what-was-I-thinking' tunic. She glanced at the tag before tossing it. "Oh—it was on sale." The 'I've-basically-given-up' henley. She thumped her forehead.

  "Holy cow—is that the time?" MaryJo groaned as her gaze froze on the clock. "He'll be here any minute." Her heart lurched into panic mode. At this rate, she'd be answering the door in her bra. "Which—he's already seen."

  Squeezing her eyes shut in frustration, she snatched the sweater from the pile. Okay—so she was trying too hard. It was better than not trying at all, right? And if Travis looked at her boobs, then it might take his mind off her chili—which, despite all precautionary measures, had turned out a little spicier than she'd planned.

  When the doorbell rang five minutes later, her stomach lurched. Panic, combined with eagerness. Dread suffused with hope. "Please, let this night go well," she prayed. "Please let me not make a fool of myself."

  Pausing in the foyer, MaryJo inhaled and released three dizzying breaths. He's a friend, she reminded herself. Only a friend. Crossing herself over the boob sweater, she opened the door. "Hi, Travis. Ready for the game?"

  "I brought a change of clothes," he warned. "Just in case your team's lackluster performance provokes a chili-dump." A dimple winked in his smiling face. If it were possible, Travis Lockwood had grown more attractive in the hours since that morning. His eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, were lit with a smile. The bluest, friendliest eyes she'd ever seen.

  "That won't be necessary." Her pulse skittering, she ignored it, feigning a calm she didn't feel. Yet. But, she was going to enjoy every moment of their evening. Even if it killed her.

  "I saw these and thought of you." Travis presented her with a bouquet of flowers. "Since you're making everything, it was the least I could do."

  Momentarily dumbstruck over his gesture, MaryJo buried her nose in the spicy, fragrant blossoms. Guys still bought flowers? "That was so thoughtful, Travis. I love flowers."

  The cute dimple returned. "I especially liked the colors. I thought you'd appreciate them."

  Raising her gaze, she read his amusement. "Hey—these are State colors." She shook her head when he chuckled, enjoying the sparks fizzing through her. "I don't care. I still love them," she insisted. Moving through the foyer, she spoke over her shoulder. "But, they won't help you win tonight."

  "For a girl who claims she's gonna win, you sound a lot like someone worried about losing." As they entered the dining area, Travis sniffed the air appreciatively. "Something smells amazing in here."

  "That would be my University chili and cornbread," she replied. For a woman who typically found herself tongue-tied around gorgeous men, MaryJo was actually enjoying herself. Travis shrugged out of his leather jacket, his eyes questioning where to put it. Taking it from him, she resisted the urge to bury her nose in the warmth. Like the previous evening, his scent emanated from the worn leather. Whatever it was, she liked it. It was clean and fresh—as though his leather jacket had captured all the scents of a beachy day. And it was uniquely him.

  "University chili? After tonight, you might be forced to rename it," he warned, his blue eyes sparking warmth.

  "A new name?" His challenge provoked a smile. There was something irresistible about talking with him she couldn't quite pin down. Travis made her feel comfortable, instead of awkward. She was definitely not herself tonight. But, unlike her usual social encounters, she was enjoying the feeling of dancing on the edge of a cliff. A ridiculously handsome man. A social situation—almost a date, really . . . and she wasn't hyperventilating. Yet.

  "Maybe you're right," she conceded breezily. His expression suggested he wasn't falling for it. "Maybe State's-Going-Down chili?"

  "How about Better-Luck-Next-Year chili?" Arms folded casually, he leaned on the dining chair where his coat rested. He'd changed into a blue, striped button-down that did wonderful things for his eyes.

  Momentarily forgetting her nerves, MaryJo took a step closer. "How about Fat-Chance chili?"

  Raising his gaze to the ceiling, he smiled. "Why don’t we call a truce—at least until the game actually starts. Until then—maybe you should call it Trash Talk chili?"

  How perfect was that? "Trash Talk. I love it. That name works for just about any sporting event."

  "You're a sports fan?"

  She debated the merits of lying. "I'm afraid so. I love college basketball. I like football," she confessed. "I even like hockey."

  He didn't seem deterred. "What about baseball?"

  "I don't like it on TV, but I love going to Sox games." There was no sense giving him the impression she was girly. Better to clarify that one right out of the chute.

  "Whatever you decide to call it-" He glanced to the stove. "I've been looking forward to eating it all day," he admitted, his gaze moving to her, a smile in his eyes. "Why don't we start over?"

  "Start over?" MaryJo paused, wondering if she'd missed a social cue.

  "I've neglected to tell you that you look very nice," he said, eyes gleaming over her confusion. "Are you feeling any better since your adventure last night?"

  Her cheeks heating with the compliment, she tried not to fluster. He's being nice, she reminded herself. "I had a long soak in the tub this morning after you dropped me off. After that, several ibuprofin seem to be doing the trick. I'm only groaning half as much as I was earlier."

  "I still haven't gotten around to washing your clothes. If it's okay, I'll drop them by in the next few days." A sudden grin lit Travis' face, making him appear five years younger. "You look nice in jeans, but I'm sure you miss your pajamas."

  "I only wear those on laundry night," she reminded, "so—I have a few days before I need them." Surprising herself, she did a little twirl to show off her jeans. "I guess after fuzzy frogs, my choice of clothing could only improve, right?" .

  Travis contemplated her look. "I don't know. You set the bar pretty high with the dancing frogs."

  "For tonight, I've planned ahead," she confided, amazed she was calm enough to banter with him. "This sweater is chili-proof—in case it turns out you have trouble with the 'perfect gentleman' thing." When his gaze shifted to her boob sweater, MaryJo realized it probably hadn't been the ideal thing to blurt. Ten minutes in—and she was embarrassed. Heat reigniting in her cheeks, she motioned him to follow her to the kitchen. "Come on in."

  With her back to him, she utilized her momentary search for a vase to regain a semblance of composure. Once she'd filled it with water and arranged the flowers, she set them on the counter. Travis was nice, damn it. You deserve this, Mojo. A fun evening with a nice man—who also happened to be sexy as hell. "What can I get you to drink?"

  "I'll have whatever you're having." Glancing around to familiarize himself, he smiled. "We basically have the same layout in our kitchens."

  Nudging the fridge door with her hip, she withdrew two beers. "Yeah—the basics, maybe. The big difference is that your kitchen is twice the size and it's gorgeous."

  "But unlike mine, yours smells way better," he pointed out. "And I suspect—delicious things miraculously appear from it."

  She popped the caps and handed him a bottle. "Didn't you ask your designer for the magic kitchen?"

  "Unfortunately, she never mentioned that option." Accepting the beer, he waved away the glass she offered. "Where's my buddy, Jack?"

  "Probably sprawled by the fireplace with Danielle." She nodded to the living room. "They're resting up for the big game."

  Travis raised an eyebrow. "Danielle? You have a roommate?"

  Sipping her beer, she started to set it on the counter, but thought better of it. Her fidgety fingers needed something to do. "Danielle is Jack's sister," she corrected. "Her name was originally Daniel, until we visited the vet after the adoption."

  "Jack and Daniel-" His smile widened. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

  "My favorite drink in college," she admitted. "Now, it's Jack and Danielle."

  Resting against the counter, Travis gave her the once-over. "I'm having troubl
e picturing you as the belly button shots girl during beach week."

  Blushing furiously, she raised her gaze to the ceiling. How did a conversation about her cats turn into this? Now—she'd be unable to shake the vision of Travis doing that to her. His hair just a shade too long . . . falling over beautiful, blue eyes as his amazing, smiling mouth lowered to her stomach- Heat suffusing her, she suddenly wished there was a place to hide. "That was a very long time ago," she protested, suppressing the pleasant shiver coursing down her spine. "I only made it to beach week once." Her father wasn't paying for spring break fun. Sean had expected results. "I was more the studious-internship-at-a-serious-accounting-firm girl."

  Travis' expression suggested he wouldn't give up so easily. "So—no belly button shots there?"

  She laughed at the mental image. "I can't reveal all my secrets in one night."

  "I think I'm going to enjoy getting to know you, MaryJo," he teased, seizing advantage of her flustered state.

  Time to change the subject. She smiled in spite of her nerves. "I—should check on the chili. Are you hungry?"

  He pushed off the counter to follow her. "Can I help with anything? I was hoping you could give me a few pointers in the kitchen."

  Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she formulated a plan. "We have—ten minutes on the cornbread." She set her beer on the counter. "So, I was going to put the extras into little serving bowls."

  "Extras?"

  "Like grated cheese, onions, sour cream," she explained. "Everyone likes different stuff on their chili—so you could help get the bowls ready?"

  "Okay—show me what to do." Setting his beer next to hers, Travis unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and began rolling up his sleeves.

  Wow. Seriously nice forearms. The random thought popped into her brain as she reached for serving bowls. Though a great deal of the previous evening remained a blur in her memory, the mortifying events she did remember could be grouped in the practically naked category. When he'd held her up in the shower. When she'd yanked her sweatshirt off. Those were memories she would be grateful to suppress. But, the memories of Travis—his capable hands—the weight of them on her hips. The confident steadiness as he'd held her up in the shower. Those memories were ones she wished to preserve. Resting her head against his chest—another keeper. Ironically, MaryJo wished she'd been more alert for that part of the evening. Yet, if she had—she likely would have ruined it by acting awkward. Maybe the only way she could get close to a guy was by landing on his doorstep, frozen and comatose. "We—um—can grate this block of cheddar to sprinkle on top."