Cake
Lauren Dane
Wren Davis believes in going after her dreams, which is why she’s working as a legal messenger to pay for art school. She’s also been having some pretty hot dreams about successful artist Gregori Ivanov.A celebrity, he’s known as a wild man because of his Mohawk, tattoos, and because he loves women like cake. Only, after a passionate night together Wren realizes how good they could be together…if she can convince Gregori not to run. – Other Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon & Cosmo include: Afterburn by Sylvia Day (August 2013), Fearless by Tawny Weber (September 2013), Everything You Need to Know by HelenKay Dimon (October 2013), Naked Sushi by Jina Bacarr (October 2013), Aftershock by Sylvia Day (November 2013)
She won’t be satisfied with just one bite….
Art student–slash–bike messenger Wren Davis pursues what she wants. And what she wants now is Gregori Ivanov, rock star of the Seattle art scene. With his tattoos, piercings and sensual sneer, Gregori is the ultimate bad boy. Wren’s gotten to know the man beneath the body art, too—and it only makes her crave him more.
But Gregori loves women like he loves cake and champagne—intensely, but only for the moment. And after Wren experiences just how scorching sex with Gregori is, she’s determined to show him that just one taste won’t be enough….
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon
www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo)
To my lovelies on the Loop That Shall Not Be Named for a trip to Vegas complete with inspiration via a red Mohawk and leather pants.
Dear Readers,
Cake started out with a sentence in my head—he loved women like he loved cake. I loved Gregori, this hard-edged artist with tattoos, piercings and a bright red Mohawk, and I loved that he had a thing for champagne and sweets.
What was the most fun was putting him through the paces my heroine had in store for him. Wren is a strong-willed, intelligent, independent artist in her own right. She wants him and she absolutely has no plans to let him wall her out. Especially once they manage to break past all his reservations and they end up in bed.
Wren isn’t a pushover. She’s not a doormat. She doesn’t let him push her away with all the exterior stuff he’d used to keep everyone thinking he was a shallow, selfish hedonist.
Now, she does enjoy those aspects of Gregori’s personality. The leather pants, the lines of Cyrillic winding up his body. The way he knows just exactly what to do with a woman’s best parts. They have smoking-hot sexual chemistry from the start. But Wren knows there’s more between them. He’s worth knowing, and she’s worth being loved, and they have to struggle some to find a way to make the pieces fit.
There is cake in the story. And champagne, and Ladurée macarons (admittedly, Gregori and I share a weakness for these things—write what you know!). But at its heart, Cake is a story about two people who seem like opposites on the outside but who connect in a way no one else possibly could.
Happy reading!
Lauren
Cake
Lauren Dane
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon
www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo)
Contents
Chapter One (#u53dd012e-c203-5da4-85cf-a06b25c8aaf0)
Chapter Two (#u9cb8dceb-f107-5b50-9b20-a1e52e6794ad)
Chapter Three (#u713bcf31-9bb3-53a3-abb2-715e0c9673bf)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Lauren Dane (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
She heard the music as she ascended the stairs and knew he’d be working. Her heart sped as she hastened her pace. Watching Gregori Ivanov work was a sensual treat. He tended to fall deeply into his work. The building could fall down around him and he wouldn’t notice.
There was something incredibly sexy about that. His intensity was a little overwhelming, but in the best sort of way.
Once she got to his floor, she didn’t bother ringing the bell—Gary Clark, Jr. was playing so loud Gregori wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
She let herself into the front entry of the massive space Gregori occupied. Three stories of windows washed the place in light. He took up a corner of the old building in Pioneer Square. Depending on where you stood, you could see Puget Sound or the redbrick buildings lining First Avenue.
She dropped the envelopes and the box she’d been delivering on the counter and wandered into his studio, leaning against one of his worktables to watch him.
Pale winter sun gleamed against his bare back. Ink trailed along his spine, over lean muscle. Lines of poetry, mainly in Cyrillic, wrapped around his forearms. Barbed wire marked his ribs, interspersed with more words. When he went shirtless, she’d discovered both his nipples bore silver hoops. He wore fingerless leather gloves, one hand grasping some sort of tool as he prowled around a large metal sculpture he’d been creating for the better part of the past three weeks.
His hair, currently scarlet red, stood up in liberty spikes, but other days he didn’t bother with the full Mohawk effect and he put it in a ponytail to keep it from his eyes. On many it would have looked ridiculous. But on Gregori? It worked. Like really, really worked.
He wore eye protection, but she knew beneath the goggles his eyes were hazel, fringed with sooty lashes usually at half-mast like he was thinking of something particularly dirty.
He worked in jeans so old they bore threadbare spots in all the right places and, though he often went barefoot around the loft, today he wore work boots.
In short, he was a visual buffet. And she was really hungry.
He stalked and paused. Bending to tug on something. Or to grab more tools and sharpen a piece. Wren just watched. Fascinated by the way he created.
It went on this way for another twenty minutes until he finally looked up and noticed her there.
He slid the goggles up, a smile marking his mouth. “Wren. How long have you been here?”
His accent was jagged. Like he was. He spoke in staccato bursts, the sharp twists of his words sliding through the air between them.
“I don’t know. Twenty minutes maybe. Half an hour? I brought some paperwork by and a box. Kelsey says you need to sign the papers in the red envelope and get them back to her.” Kelsey was Wren’s cousin and Gregori’s personal assistant.
He often proclaimed to hate signing things and attending to the business side of his art so she wasn’t surprised when he sighed, taking the goggles and gloves off.
Ignoring the sigh, she stepped closer. “Can I?” Wren tipped her chin toward the sculpture.
He shrugged, pleasure mixing through his annoyance. “Sure.”
She took it in. A man, crouched in the grip of briars and something else she couldn’t make out. The metal was polished in some places, hammered in others. Sharp edges fanned out here and there. “Like flames,” she murmured.
“Yes. Exactly.” He moved closer and his scent caught her attention. Sweat, soap, the product he used in his hair. The fuel from the welding stuff he used. It all married together and became essentially Gregori.
“This is brilliant.” Wren wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t a lie. He was a genius. One of those rare few who not only made a living at what he did, but had ascended to art celebrity.
He made a sound. A growl of sorts. “It’s missing something.” They both looked at it for some time longer until he sighed. “Come have tea with me.”
He issued the invitation like a command. He tended to be imperious at times. But she rarely took him seriously, so she let it wash over her and perhaps might even have liked it. A little bit.
“While the water is boiling, sign that stuff or Kelsey will only send me back here.”
They’d known each other for a year or so by that point, she having met him by bringing things to his loft several times a week. Over that time they’d developed a flirty back-and-forth and the more often she came to his place, the deeper the sexual undertones began to dig.
He looked up from where he’d been spooning the loose tea into a pot. “Do you have other things to do instead?”
“Are you asking if I have anything else but bringing papers, checks and doodads to Gregori Ivanov in my life?”
He laughed. “Do you?”
“I do. Shocking, I know, to imagine a world outside running errands for an eccentric artist, but there it is.”
He sniffed, his lids falling as he took in the scent of the tea. “Bergamot. I love it.” His eyes snapped open, gaze homing in on Wren, who’d perched at the nearby table. “What’s a doodad?”
“Little bits of this and that.” At his puzzled look, she got up and moved into the main room. He had a collection of what looked like gears scattered across a shelf. She pointed. “Like this. A generic term for bits of stuff. One of my moms says doohickey or thingamabob.”
“Hmm. I like those terms. I do suppose you bring me all manner of little bits on a regular basis.” The teapot whistled and he turned to deal with it. “There may be something to eat in the fridge.”
She moved to the sleek, stainless-steel work of art that filled her with refrigerator envy every time she saw it, peeking inside. For a supposed wild bachelor, he had a lot of really good things to eat. “Cheese, honey and nuts?”
“Hmm, yes. There are crackers in the cabinet.”
She began to pull things out, pouring nuts into small bowls, hunting down the honey.
“How’s school?”
Wren was going to art school at Palomar, an arts college. Her messenger job paid part of her bills and had the benefit of being flexible around her classes. She was also working on her newest graphic novel and a few digital side projects. It kept her ridiculously busy, but she was never bored.
“Fine. I’m really digging my autobiographical comics course. I’ve got a digital-imaging class I’m learning a lot from.” She shrugged.
“You should bring more for me to look at. You haven’t in a while.”
It made her uncomfortable. Not to seek his opinion. She respected him as an artist. But she knew others took advantage and she never wanted him to think of her that way.
He had a hot button about it. Being used. It was part of the reason he always wore his reputation as the chain-smoking, hard-drinking, inked-up wild man in bed to keep people back. He shared part of himself with others, but he controlled just how much. She’d rather have this connection, sitting, drinking tea and eating cheese and crackers, than the bored celebrity with the big dick.
“Maybe next time.”
He took the tea to the breakfast nook and sat. She joined him, nibbling on the cheese and crackers while her tea cooled.
“What’s this piece for anyway?”
“A commissioned piece. Rich guy wants it for the front of his office building.” He shrugged.
He always acted like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Nice. That piece will absolutely make the front of any building look amazing.”
He ducked his head a moment, sipping his tea until he looked up again, gaze locking on hers. “Tell me about your work. You don’t only do what you’re told to in class. You had a graphic novel. What’s the status with that?” His tone, to an outsider, would have been imperious. An order given to an underling. Even a slight emphasis on the what you’re told to that made it clear what he thought of her need for school. It was partly the Russian in him, partly the artist thing and partly because he was one of the most supremely self-assured people she’d ever met.
At first, when she’d started delivering things to him and he’d addressed her in such a way she’d thought he hated her. Or that he was a rude asshole. Or both. But after a while she realized it was just his delivery.
When it came to his perception of art school he was most definitely abrupt. He was old school and in his opinion you had it or you didn’t so why waste time in classes? Given his path—self-taught, sold his first piece at fifteen and now routinely sold pieces for six figures—it would have been a waste of time.
But she’d been exposed to so many things in her program. So many paths she could take. She’d learned about types of art and design totally out of her major, but that would serve her anyway. What she did was different from what he did. How she took in information was part of her process.
“I’m still working on it. I’ll have it finished in a few weeks I think.”
“I want to see it. You’re very stingy with it, Wren. Didn’t I just show you mine?”
“Are you offering to show me yours if I show you mine?”
He paused, thinking over what she’d said until his mouth curved into a slow grin. “Ahh, well.” He shrugged but managed to make it dirty and suggestive. “But I did show you mine, didn’t I? Unless there’s something else you’d like to see?”
She blushed straight down to her toes. Flirting with him was big league. “Maybe so. I’ll bring it by sometime.”
“Bring it next time you come. Kelsey always has something else to make me sign so it will be soon enough.”
“All right.” She finished her tea and dusted her hands off. She didn’t want to rush off, but she’d been there nearly an hour and she had work to do. He kept getting a faraway look on his face and she knew he was thinking about his own work.
She carried the dishes back to his kitchen. “Thanks for the tea.” She moved to the entry counter and indicated the envelopes. “I need to run and you need to sign these papers.”
He frowned. “Always with the signing.”
“Poor you.”
“You have no sympathy. A hard, hard woman.” One of his brows rose as she snorted.
“Kelsey will kill me if I don’t return with these. And, if I have to come back, you have to pay a delivery fee the second time. You sign the papers, she takes care of things and makes your life easier. Seems to me, buster, you need to stop crying and pick up a pen.”
“Other people are nice to me.” He read through the papers, signing where he was supposed to.
“Meh. Stop pretending you’re not business savvy. I know you and your game. As for other people?” She rolled her eyes. “Other people want things from you. I just want your tea.”
“I have better things to offer besides tea, you know.” He waggled his brows and she laughed, though she couldn’t fight the flush building through her belly.
“Yeah? You offering any of that up?”
He signed the last sheet, tucked all the papers back into the envelope and turned to face her. “I’m not sure you have enough time for all I have to offer.”
She stepped close enough to touch the envelopes, which put her just an inch or two away from his body. “Try me.”
The moment stretched taut between them, heating slowly, deliciously. Until he stepped back with a raised brow and a harrumph. “Go on then, Wren. Bring me something more fun next time.”
She took the envelope, tucking it into her bag. “I already bring myself. Nothing is more fun than that.”
One corner of his mouth rose. “I bet.”
She turned, heading out, but paused at the door. “One of these days, you should see for yourself.”
Chapter Two
It wasn’t until she’d gone that he realized he’d forgotten to give her the tickets for his show. Or even let her know he had a show coming up.
He stalked back to his workroom, pausing for a cigarette after he was sure all his welding supplies were shut off.
French. One of his small indulgences. He slid one from the pack and the scent of the Turkish tobacco rose. Distinctive. Connected to his work.
He loved the act of tapping the edge against his lighter. The ritual of putting it between his lips, the flick of the lighter and that first rush of nicotine into his system.
Yes. He knew they were bad for him. His dentist told him so every six months. His doctor told him so. He’d cut back to two or three a day. Almost always while he worked.
The light was good, he thought as he smoked, looking at the flames of metal. The color was also just right. Nearly bronze in places.
He smiled as he thought of how Wren had understood nearly immediately that he’d been creating flames. Intuitive, that one.
He really didn’t need to have tea. He’d known exactly what needed to be done next. But more and more often as their friendship had grown, he found himself delaying her departure to spend time with her.
Gregori picked up one of his hammers and moved to his worktable where several sheets of metal he’d cut earlier that day sat. He worked, still thinking of her, of the way she’d teased him and of how he’d teased her back.
It wasn’t that he never flirted. He was rather shameless about flirting, as it happened. He loved women. Came by that love honestly as he got it from his father. He flirted as easily as he breathed.
But with her it was different. She wasn’t world-weary. Wasn’t a social climber. She flirted back but it was…not pure, no, he was quite sure Wren Davis knew what she was doing. It lacked artifice. Which made her dangerous.
The artist, named after a bird, who delivered packages and envelopes to pay for art school. He stubbed the cigarette out, exhaling the last of the smoke from his body as he thought of her.
Long and tall. She moved as if she knew exactly where she was going and what she planned to do once she arrived. She often had her hair braided, held back from her face, exposing that beauty so easily.
Freckles danced over the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, bold and bright blue, took in the world all around her. Gregori always got the feeling she weighed, accepted, approved or rejected things as she went.
She wore jeans a lot, though in the summer she’d worn shorts. She had lovely legs. Powerful, probably from bicycling up and down the hills in downtown. He liked the warm days because she wore T-shirts and tank tops, exposing the outline of some seriously gorgeous breasts.
Glasses often perched on her nose. He wondered why she hadn’t gotten the surgery to fix her eyesight. Glasses worked for her in any case, though he wondered how they affected her when she worked on her animation for long hours at a time.
Art school. He scoffed as he began to pound the metal, shaping it, giving it texture. He’d gotten a few peeks at her work. She had a lot of talent. She didn’t need art school.
Wren was vibrant and clever and certainly one of the best parts of his day when she stopped in. A constant in a world he knew was filled with mostly temporary people and experiences.
He blew out a breath and fell back into his work. He’d deal with the tickets the next day.
Wren found her friends already seated in a booth near the back windows of the tavern. They waved, calling her name as she made her way through the already burgeoning Friday night crowd.
The music was loud, but not so loud she couldn’t hear Kelsey tell her they’d just ordered her a margarita.
“Yay.” She shimmied from her coat and ordered tacos when the server came back with her margarita. She sipped it happily, leaning forward to listen to Kelsey talk about her new boyfriend—apparently now ex-boyfriend—and the way he’d sprung on her that he lived in his mom’s garage.
“He tried to say it was all right because it has its own entrance. I wasn’t impressed because she came in to do laundry when we were about two minutes away from pants being off.”
“Well, at least when you smell Tide the next time, you’ll have happy thoughts.”
Kelsey took a drink. “Not only does he live in his mom’s basement, but he tried to get me to see if Gregori could get us into Fixe.”
Fixe was Seattle’s hottest nightclub. Gregori knew the owner so he hung out there from time to time.
“Well, this is the guy who used a coupon to pay for dinner on your first date.”
Wren had nothing against coupons. After all, they were all at the tavern just then because it was happy hour. Half-price drinks and four-buck appetizers were a great deal. But coupons for dinner were a long-term couple thing. Or a high school thing. And you didn’t use your girlfriend to see if her boss could get you into nightclubs.
“I know.” Kelsey nodded. “You told me he was bad news.”
“But he has a great ass. And good hair. Did you dump him?”
“Yes. When his mom opened the door to the house and yelled down at him to change the laundry over when the buzzer sounded, I made my escape. He had the nerve to call me today to ask about Fixe. You know, since we’re still friends and all.”
“Get out!”
“I wish. Anyway, I managed to find it in me to laugh as I hung up on him.”
Zoe, Wren’s roommate, raised her glass. “Good riddance.”
They all joined her in the toast.
“So now that we’ve heard Kelsey’s news—” Zoe leaned closer “—what’s today’s hot Russian artist update?”
“Working shirtless when I went to his loft. Sweaty, but in the right way if you know what I mean. Man.” Wren fanned her face. “He gets so intense when he’s working. All that focus on what he’s doing. It’s so sexy. Makes me wonder—” like every twenty minutes “—if he’s that intense in the sack.”
That got a laugh, but plenty of quiet moments afterward as they all totally went there.
“He made me tea. Flirted as usual. But he didn’t pull the trigger. He flirts with everyone, though. I don’t read anything into it. Though I’d like to.”
“He does flirt with everyone. But he talks about you differently than the scores of chicks he’s got on his speed dial.” Kelsey shrugged. “He’s got you in the employee camp. So you’re safe to flirt with because he tells himself nothing is going to happen.”
“I’m not his employee.” Though she’d be lying if she denied the image of some naughty boss fantasies hadn’t just run through her head.
“Nope. Just keep at it. He’ll see it eventually. I mean, maybe. He’s…well, you know. He’s not a permanent type of guy. He’s one of those live-in-the-moment people.”
Sure, sure, Wren knew that. Knew he’d tried marriage once, years before and that it had ended up a smoldering pile of rubble. Knew that ex of his had meant his distrust of people had grown.
But she wasn’t his ex. She wasn’t his employee. She liked him. Wanted to know him better and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to imagine that he wanted to know her, too.
“I’d tell you not to go getting hurt, but you’re not a dummy. Still, he’s sort of…magical. Alluring with all those pheromones of his rushing around when you’re near him.” Kelsey shrugged. “He’s a total handful. I like him. He gives great holiday presents and he pays me well. But I would not want to manage a man like him.”
“Gregori is not a man to be managed. He’s the one who likes to be in charge.” Wren waggled her brows as they all laughed. “That’s okay, I don’t mind a man in charge. Well, in bed I mean. I can pay my own bills and order my own dinner. Anyway, he’s an interesting, titillating part of my week. He’s in a totally different world with models and hipster girls and jet-set travel.” He was fun and sexy, but she knew reality from fantasy. Flirting was great, but Kelsey was right and Wren had no intention of getting serious about a dude who was a fun crush.
The conversation shifted to Zoe’s new job at a design firm in town. Wren and Zoe shared a two-bedroom apartment just a few blocks away from the school where, up until a few months ago, both of them had attended.
Chapter Three
Just a few weeks after that girls’ night out, Wren was in the student lounge, working on her sketch pad when her phone rang with Kelsey’s number on the screen. She put aside her pad and answered.
“Wanna make Gregori your last stop of the day? I just got some contracts he should probably see this week. If not, I can take them by.”
“I can do it. I’m done anyway. I was just hanging out and working on some sketches. I’ll stop by his place on my way home.”
“Great. I’ll call it in for you.”
But when Wren arrived at Kelsey’s apartment, which also served as her office, she interrupted a hostile phone call.
Kelsey made the wrap it up move with her hand to whoever it was she was talking to on the phone. “We’ve covered that. No.”
Wren sat across from her cousin, watching the interplay.
“If he wanted you to know his new cell number, he’d have given it to you.”
Kelsey paused, holding the phone away from her ear. The yelling from the other side was audible.
“I’m his wife! I need to talk to him.” Oh, her.
Kelsey rolled her eyes and, the genius was, it sounded in her voice, too. “You’re his ex-wife and if you have a message you’d like me to pass on, I’m happy to do so.”
Kelsey examined her nails as the yelling continued. Finally she’d reached her limit after a particularly vicious spate of epithets was hurled her way. “Nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth? Classy. This call is done now. I’ll let him know you’re looking for him. Don’t call back.” She hung up.
Kelsey snorted. “The last thing he needs is that crazy bitch back in his life. Ugh.”
The crazy bitch was Prentiss Ivanov, Gregori’s ex-wife. Wren was biased, of course, but she thought the way Prentiss kept pulling Gregori back into her life when she got bored was selfish and petty. Every time they reconciled he devolved into too much everything and yet not enough. Too much partying, too much anger and public scene making. Not enough work on his art, not enough happiness or stability.
“I thought they were done for good. Why’s she calling you?”
“After the last time they had one of their reconciliations, he cut her off. He changed his number, had the building owner change the codes and locks on the outer door at his place. He’s done, thank god. Anyway, she’s getting his message and she doesn’t like it. I think she truly thinks if she can get him face-to-face, she can pull him back in.”
Wren took the envelope and a few other packages. “I hope she’s wrong. I don’t think it’s good for either of them. I have one other delivery to make and then I’ll go to his place. Call me if anything changes.”
It was an hour or so later when Wren buzzed up from downstairs as the main door to the street was locked. He didn’t respond so she used her key and let herself in. Her arms were full so she took the elevator, hearing the music before the doors even slid open on his floor.
It was a guess that he was working. He often didn’t come to the door when he was. She had a key but the last thing Wren wanted was to let herself in and interrupt some makeup sex if the crazy ex had gotten past Gregori’s protests and back into his bed.
She kicked the door because her hands were full. No answer. There was only one other tenant on his floor and the building had good security, so it wasn’t a risk to leave stuff. She scribbled a quick note and then texted him, informing him there were deliveries on his doorstep.
As she headed back to the elevator she heard his voice, raised, arguing in Russian with someone. His door opened and he stormed into the hall. His face…she froze at the anger on his features. But then it was chased away as he recognized her.
“Wren!”
Standing, her hand on the doorknob of the stairwell, she was able to tear her gaze from his face to find him, barefoot, in threadbare jeans and a snug T-shirt, his hair in a ponytail, eyes ablaze with emotion. The intensity of the entire package continued to freeze her in place.
“Yeah?”
He lifted a shoulder and she saw beneath the hard outer shell, into the vulnerability beneath. “Why are you running off? Why didn’t you let yourself in?”
She blew out a breath. “I didn’t know if you were working or if you…had a visitor.”
He snorted and jerked his head toward his door. “Come.”
“I really should go.”
He put a hand on his hip. “Why?”
“I have a job. Other deliveries to make.”
“Your hands are empty.”
She sighed, annoyed. “Of course they are. I delivered your things.”
“Do you really have another delivery to make right now? Or can you come in for a bit? I need a break and you’re good company.”
She should have said she did. But instead, she narrowed her eyes. “Sounds like you already have company.”
“Me? No. I’m alone.”
She took a few steps closer. “I just heard you yelling.”
He shrugged. “I do that. It was a phone call.” He turned, bending to pick his things up. “Stop hovering five feet away as if I’m going to gobble you up. Come in. I have baked goods. Is your bicycle all right? Do you need to go bring it up?”
She’d left her bike in the lobby. It was locked in a rack. Everything was fine. He was her last delivery of the day. Not that he needed to know that.
“It’s fine. It’s locked up downstairs.”
“Why are you hesitating? Do you think I’m going to pounce on you?”
She wished.
“What sort of baked goods?”
“Macarons.”
“Well, you should have said.” She moved inside, closing the door in her wake. The place was a disordered mess. Not his usual.
“My mother came over this morning with them. Had I known it would take so little to lure you inside, I would have ordered them straight from Paris.”
She rolled her eyes. “Who were you yelling at?”
Wren followed him into the kitchen.
“I have coffee instead of tea. Would you prefer I make tea?”
“You’re awful accommodating today.”
“I’m accommodating every day.”
She barked a laugh. “You’re imperious every day. Two days ago you took the envelope from me, snorted and closed the door.”
“I did?”
She simply raised a brow and waited.
“I’m sorry. I get wrapped up in work.”
“Apology accepted. Coffee is fine. I have work to do tonight anyway.”
“Night deliveries?” He frowned. “Is that safe?”
“No, I’m done working for the day. I have schoolwork to do. I’m meeting someone I’m doing a group project with. I have time to eat cookies, but I need to bike back home in a bit.”
“I’ll give you a ride. It’s raining.”
“It’s Seattle—it’s always raining.”
“What is this project?”
“It’s a short animated film. Shane, my partner, is doing all the edits so I’m going to his apartment to see the progress.”
Gregori glowered a moment.
“Why are you grumpy? Grumpier than usual, I mean.” She grabbed milk from his fridge for the coffee.
“What makes you think I’m grumpy?”
“I have eyes. Milk?”
He nodded and she poured him a dollop before putting the carton away.
“You’re frowning at me. Excessively.”
“Did you bring your art to show me?”
She sipped her coffee. “I might have some in my bag. If you, say, wanted to tell me why you’re grumpy.”
“Oh, so it’s like that?”
She laughed. “Yes, yes I think it is. Maybe I don’t want to show it to you when you’re testy. What if you hate it and then you frown at me over it? I could get a complex. And wouldn’t that be a shame?”
He grinned, the dark cloud of his mood chased from his features. “I highly doubt you’re capable of complexes.”
“Hmm. You should know a hell of a lot more about women, buster. You’re constantly drowning in them, so why are you acting like you’ve never seen one?” She winked. “I’m not superhuman. Of course I’m capable of complexes. Back to you and your issues, please.”
“It’s complicated personal business.”
“Personal.” She rolled her r like he did. “Your ex-wife.”
One of his brows rose. “Well, aren’t you industrious?”
“I’m totally industrious. It’s a gift. However, I know she’s in town because she called to yell at Kelsey when I was there earlier.”
“She yelled at Kelsey? About what?”
“Oh, no thank you. I’ve already told you more than I should have. Kelsey is a badass. She can handle your ex-wife.”
“She’s difficult. At one point I suppose I found it exciting. Now it’s just exhausting.”
“Stop getting back with her then.”
“Are you giving me relationship advice, little bird?”
Little bird? She fought a blush.
“Sure, why not?”
“Can I give you relationship advice, too?”
“Sure. If I have one, you can give me advice on it.”
“I do not get back together with her. We’re divorced. She wanted it, but years later, I’m certainly relieved I gave in.”
“I’ll be blunt. Stop having sex with her. Ex sex is never a good thing. You fuck her a few times and then it always crashes and burns. It’s not like you’re hurting for company.”
He supposed, though, that he was. Not hurting precisely, but he was lonely. Prentiss was someone he’d known, intimately, for several years. Sometimes that was comforting. Not so much these days. He’d grown up, but she hadn’t. It was less exciting and more vexing.
The truth was, he found the woman across from him far more interesting than the one he’d left several years before. Apparently his mother had been right and he was finally growing up.
“Also? You’re not a nice person when you two get back together.”
He paused. “I’m not?”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
Wren looked up from her cup and right through him. “You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t. Be honest.”
“You’re a selfish dick when you’re with her. You drink way more. You party too hard. Harder than you already do. She wrings you out and fucks you up and toys with you and then she leaves and you have to put yourself back together again. Your work suffers. You’re not even like those artists who work better when they’re depressed.”
He sucked in a breath. He’d told her to be honest. She’d taken him at his word.
“It’s been a year since the last time. I’m not interested anymore. That’s why I’m grumpy. She’s persistent.” A year ago it would have worked. Now it agitated him.
“So you yelled at her in Russian?”
He laughed. “I did. It’s my emotional language. When I’m really pissed off, I end up thinking and speaking Russian. She doesn’t speak it. But she gets the swear words and the tone. She went through my mother to get my new number. I don’t like that. I’m trying to keep her away.”
“That’s why the door downstairs was locked.”
“Yes. I don’t want her stopping by.”
His ex-wife was a drain. On his life. On his bank account. On everything.
“That’s good. Locking the door, I mean. Try not answering her calls. You know, to underline it.”
“That’s some pretty sage advice. Do you have a pesky ex I don’t know about?”
“No. My life is considerably less exciting than yours. I’m a woman. I think she’s going to keep coming at you until you finally underline your no. That back-and-forth has been part of your relationship. Part of the zing.”
He paused. That part was true. And maybe his hunger for someone who knew him as more than the guy in the headlines. But really, Prentiss didn’t know him that much better than the hangers-on did. Not anymore. It’d been a long time since he was the man who she’d been married to.
“Maybe at one time. But I’m too old for it now. I just don’t have the energy for it.”
“So stop having sex with her.”
He leaned back, feeling a lot better. “It was good sex.” But the emotional hangover wasn’t worth it.
She rolled her eyes. “Pfft. Good sex isn’t that rare. I’ll never understand men who keep going back to the crazy-ex well. Jeez. Then you all act so surprised when she goes nuts.”
“Enough about her. Show me your work.”
She put her cup down and pulled a pad from her bag. But she didn’t hand it over right away, clutching it to her chest. “Some of this is still rough.”
He leaned forward, totally unable to resist. “I like it rough.”
She sucked in a breath, a pretty flush building up her neck. She thrust the pad into his hands and grabbed her coffee.
He paged through, impressed. Her work had a sense of humor but with an edge.
“Do you handle all of this? The story and the drawing? Or is this a group project thing?”
“That’s all me. A new series I’m working on. Once it’s polished I’m going to shop it around. Time to really get out there and see if I can do this for a living.” She shoved a cookie into her mouth and jiggled her knee.
Why she was nervous he had no idea. He paged through, amazed and impressed by her work. “I like this a great deal.” Her protagonist was an artist who bore a strong resemblance to the woman sitting across from him. Right down to the Docs on her feet. An assassin but not always a very good one.
“Yeah?”
“The story is interesting. Will there be sex scenes?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Maybe.”
“She’s very sarcastic. I wonder where you get all the material for her.”
She snickered. “I’m really only at five or six on the sarcasm scale when I come to see you. You should see me when I’m not working.”
He should. He got the feeling it would be a hell of a lot of fun to see Wren Davis when she wasn’t on duty.
“You don’t need company manners here with me.”
“Oh, don’t worry, these aren’t my company manners. I’d never tell any of my other clients to stop fucking their crazy ex-wives.”
He nearly choked on his coffee. “I think I’m flattered by that. Give me a while to really be sure though. I might have some contacts. Publishing ones, I mean.”
She shook her head, reaching for the pad, which he kept because he wasn’t done looking.
“No. It’s okay. I can do this on my own.”
“Of course you can. But why not let a friend help you? Do you think this business isn’t rife with connections and networking? Isn’t that part of why you told me you went to school? The connections?”
“I appreciate the offer, but for now, I’m fine.”
“Other people would jump at that offer.” Was his help so terrible?
“I’m not other people, Gregori. I’m not your ex-wife. I’m not a hanger-on. I’m not a groupie.”
He was quiet a while as he continued to look through her work. Yes, she was most definitely not other people. Which fascinated him even as he knew he should be wary.
“I’ll offer again, when you’re closer to sending the project out. In the time between now and then, I want you to think on accepting help when it’s offered. If I wasn’t genuinely interested, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
She sighed. “I’ll think on it. Thank you.”
“Good. If only you always agreed with everything I said, imagine how much easier things would be.” He winked, his bad mood long gone. “I’m having a show next week. Friday night. I meant to ask if you wanted tickets when you were here last but I forgot.” He got up and grabbed the envelope. “I have four but I can easily get more.”
“I’d only need two. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
He handed them her way. “Only two? Will you bring a date then?”
“Do you recommend it? A date to this show?” Her smile was lopsided and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the dimple there on the right side of her mouth. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?
“I don’t know. If it’s just you, or you and your roommate, you could always come out with me afterward. To Fixe. There will be a party there.” He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant when he suddenly felt anything but. “I mean with a group. There will be others along. I think you’d like many of them.”
He’d invited her to one other after-party, but he’d seen her there for all of five minutes and when he’d looked up again she’d been gone.
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