I Knew You Were Trouble Page 4

  Taylor returned to the kitchen, intending to text him that she wasn’t above uncorking the champagne without him if he didn’t hurry home.

  Then she saw the note on the counter.

  She wasn’t alarmed. Not at first.

  Sure, she and Bradley were usually more text/email people than handwritten-note people, but maybe he’d just jotted down that he’d gone to the gym. Or that he had to work late.

  But…

  She pursed her lips as she studied the fact that the note was in an envelope. Oddly formal. Still, her name scrawled across the front was undeniably in Bradley’s backward-slanted handwriting.

  This wasn’t a note. This was a letter.

  And this type of left-on-the-counter letter was something Taylor was all too familiar with, since she’d written more than a few herself.

  Refusing to let her hands shake, Taylor carefully pulled the nondescript piece of paper out of the envelope. Regular old computer paper, probably swiped from his office. No, their office. The office where they’d met. Fallen in love. Agreed to move in together. Today.

  Her eyes skimmed the contents, and she wondered how it was possible to be so thoroughly unsurprised and yet completely staggered by a few succinct sentences.

  Taylor,

  I’m sorry. You have to know how sorry I am. I can’t do this. I thought I could, but it’s too soon. And I know delivering the news this way is the worst kind of dick move, but I couldn’t face you. Not yet. I’ve been wrong about…things. I will explain everything soon, but please…don’t hate me, Taylor. I know my timing couldn’t be worse, but I will, of course, pay my half of the rent until you’re able to find a roommate. Or if you’d prefer to break the lease and move somewhere else, I’ll pay for that. All of it. Anything you need.

  Forgive me, Taylor. Actually, scratch that. Go ahead, hate me. God knows I hate myself.

  Bradley

  For one long, bitterly painful moment, Taylor wished Karen were here. Not because her aunt was the comforting, maternal type, but because she wasn’t.

  The woman who’d raised her would have known exactly what to say to push away the hurt—to remind Taylor that any problem could be solved just as long as you knew how to take emotion out of the equation.

  Over the years, Taylor had gotten good at it. Nearly as good as Karen herself. Because she’d learned the hard way that there were some situations where emotion simply couldn’t be avoided—Karen’s death six months earlier had been one of them.

  But this?

  This Taylor could handle. She simply needed to reframe the situation. This wasn’t Bradley leaving her; this was Bradley being a guy and freaking out. This was fixable.

  Taylor inhaled through her nose before giving a quick shake of her head and straightening her shoulders.

  Okay.

  Another deep breath.

  It’s going to be okay.

  So, yeah, this was a little setback to her happy ending. Or a big one. But she could handle it. Taylor handled everything.

  Taylor very calmly, very deliberately opened the package of plastic cups she’d bought along with the champagne, having known that neither she nor Bradley would be in the mood to start unpacking her kitchen boxes in search of her champagne flutes.

  She then moved on to the champagne, wrestling out the stubborn cork with the same relentless determination she applied to all areas of her life. It took several seconds, but she finally managed to get the damn thing to pop free….

  Only to have it clip her squarely on the side of the jaw.

  “Son of a—”

  Taylor held on to the bottle of champagne with one hand, but the other flew to her face, which was already throbbing.

  “I swear to God, if I get a bruise from a champagne cork, I will kill Bradley,” she muttered, going to the freezer for some ice.

  There was none.

  Brand-new appliances, but apparently nobody had turned on the icemaker.

  She slammed the door shut and, still holding her hurting face, grabbed the champagne bottle with one hand and stalked into the master bathroom to turn on the faucet in the tub.

  A bubble bath might not fix Bradley’s cold feet. But if experience was any indication, a long, relaxing soak would likely provide Taylor with plenty of inspiration for how she could fix his sudden onset of bacheloritis.

  She wasn’t even mad. Not really. As someone who’d once been a dedicated “runner” from anything resembling commitment, stability, and loyalty, she understood where Bradley was coming from.

  Moving in together was a big step—one she’d never taken before, and, to her knowledge, one Bradley hadn’t taken either. He was thinking it was all happening too fast, and that emotional entanglements could get messy, especially with a co-worker.

  But what Bradley was apparently forgetting was that Taylor wasn’t interested in emotional entanglement. She just needed to remind Bradley of their initial conversation—that this was simply a mutual arrangement between two people who were perfectly suited to companionship.

  She needed to remind him that she wasn’t sniffing for a ring and babies. She was just a little tired of being…alone.

  He’d understand. She’d make sure of it.

  But…

  Taylor turned on the bathwater and surveyed the rather awesome, rather expensive master bathroom, as practicality kicked in.

  If it took longer than anticipated to remind Bradley of their compatibility, Taylor would have to be sensible.

  Shit. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before giving in to an urge that would have her aunt rolling in her grave.

  She lifted the expensive champagne to her lips and took a swig, straight from the bottle, and accepted her new reality.

  She needed to find a roommate.

  Chapter 2

  “Hot damn. Is it Pretty Woman theme day? I didn’t get the memo, but I am loving this hooker look.”

  Taylor was opening and closing every drawer in the Oxford break room when the sound of a gravelly masculine voice gave her something to be irritated about besides the fact that she couldn’t find any freaking Scotch tape.

  Great. Just what every girl needed in this moment. Her archnemesis.

  She turned around, unsurprised to see his gaze lingering unapologetically on her ass before meeting her eyes with a bored expression. “Ballantine.”

  Nick grinned, slow and cocky. “Morning.”

  Gross. Only he could take an innocuous greeting and make the lone word sound like it had just rolled out of bed with a wink and morning wood.

  He stepped into the kitchen and plunged straight white teeth into an apple.

  She narrowed her eyes as she gave him a once-over. “What’s with the suit? You covering for one of the regulars again?”

  He watched her as he chewed. “Don’t look so pissy about it. Thought the stuffy-suit vibe made your skirt fly up.”

  Her eyes narrowed further, but she didn’t deny it. Nothing wrong with liking a guy in a suit. No shame in appreciating pressed collars, the tidy knots of silk ties, the look of prestige and success.

  Normally.

  But on Nick Ballantine, the suit was…well, not out of place, precisely. She’d occasionally seen him wear one before. And if she was going to give credit where it was due, the man wore the suit exceptionally well.

  He was just so different from Bradley.

  Her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend?—was all sexy dimples and easy charm.

  There was nothing easy about Nick. Not a year ago, not six months ago, and definitely not now.

  As usual for him, his dark hair was always a couple of weeks past an ideal trim. The stubborn jaw was not quite sporting a beard, but not clean-shaven either, as though he meant to shave and just didn’t give a crap.

  Or more likely, he knew exactly how good the slight scruff looked on his jaw, and left it there to taunt her.

  It wasn’t that Nick was more masculine than Bradley. Nick was just…rougher. Less predictable.

  “I
thought we had an agreement. You warn me when you’re going to show up,” she muttered, turning back to her hunt for the tape.

  “Why, so you can put your best panties on?”

  She gave him a withering look. They’d always been antagonistic, but it had gotten worse in recent months.

  Starting with that day in her office when he’d…

  She didn’t like to think about that day. Not ever. For many reasons.

  Still, it never failed to annoy her that she never knew when he was going to show up. He was still doing the contractor thing, dodging Cassidy’s request that he join the team for real. So far he’d stuck to his flighty lifestyle: part-time writer, part-time bartender, full-time ass.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked in a bored voice, taking another bite of apple and propping his feet up on a second chair.

  “Talk about what?” she snapped, still digging around for Scotch tape.

  “What’s got you extra snippy this morning. The dress cutting off circulation?”

  Another woman might have glanced down nervously at the dress, maybe smoothed a self-conscious hand over the fabric tightly skimming a curved hip. Taylor wasn’t one of those women.

  She knew the dress fit like a glove. She also knew she rocked it. Eat your heart out, Bradley, she thought, faking confidence she no longer felt.

  Taylor had convinced herself that she was likely to come into her office today to a bouquet of apology roses, Bradley begging her to forgive him for his hasty mistake.

  Nope.

  She hadn’t even seen the guy.

  The coward was hiding.

  She’d expected a bit more balls from the man she was in…love with.

  And since Bradley wasn’t here to snap at, she directed all that frustration at someone who most definitely deserved it.

  “You checking me out, Ballantine?” she asked, giving Nick the side-eye.

  His smile was slow and wolfish. Sexy, if you liked that sort of thing. Which she didn’t. She wanted predictable. Nick Ballantine didn’t qualify.

  “Always,” he said. “Your body’s the best thing about you.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes, resuming her rummaging through the drawer. Her fingers touched Scotch tape. “Aha! Victory!”

  Taylor pulled off a piece, then picked up the flyer she’d printed from her work laptop earlier that morning and marched to the refrigerator.

  “What’s up, Carr? You lose your dog?” Nick asked, finishing the last of his apple and neatly hurling the core into the trash can at the opposite end of the room.

  She crossed her arms and turned to face him. There was a taunting note to his words, as though he knew perfectly well what she’d lost.

  He lifted his eyebrows, waiting. When she didn’t reply, Nick gave a weary sigh, letting his feet hit the floor as he stood, crossing toward the fridge and setting a hand on her waist to move her aside.

  She batted at his hand, resisting the urge to block the flyer from his view, to prevent him from seeing that her life was just a tiny bit less than perfect.

  Nick held her aside easily as he read the flyer. “Roommate needed. Gorgeous prewar two-bedroom, original crown molding—”

  He cut her a look out of the corner of his eye. “The original, you say?”

  She refused to engage, and he returned his attention to the flyer.

  “Available immediately, month to month, no deposit required.” He whistled. “Sounds like a desperate situation, Carr.”

  Taylor had just opened her mouth to tell Nick that her situation was not, nor would it ever be, his business, when he glanced over at her again and did a double take.

  Before she could dodge, he reached out and gently touched her face as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  She batted at his hand even as he brushed a thumb gently over the spot on her jaw where the cork had thwacked her. “What happened here?” he asked quietly.

  Taylor wrinkled her nose, even as she cursed the Sephora girl who had claimed that the thick-as-mud concealer would cover up anything.

  “Nothing.”

  “Taylor.”

  “Nick.”

  Their eyes held in a silent battle of wills, interrupted only when someone else walked into the break room.

  Taylor glanced over, then sent up a silent Really? to the heavens when she identified the newcomer.

  The very man she’d been waiting to get alone all morning was here, just as Nick Ballantine had his hands all over her face, with her desperation posted as a backdrop on the refrigerator door.

  No, not desperation, Taylor reminded herself. Pragmatism.

  Karen would remind her that there was nothing wrong with being financially responsible. And finding someone to shoulder some of the hefty rent was definitely responsible.

  Bradley froze when he saw her, and she was pretty sure she saw the urge to turn and run flicker across his face.

  Again she felt a stab of disappointment. In him. And in herself for apparently having misread him. She’d thought he was better than this.

  Bradley’s eyes moved between her and Nick, and though he didn’t look all that surprised at seeing them bickering, his gaze grew hard as he saw Nick’s hand on Taylor’s face.

  Nick, naturally, took his sweet time removing it, and she resisted the urge to kick his shin.

  “Morning, Bradley,” Taylor said, pleased that her voice sounded calm and friendly. As well it should. She’d had plenty of practice over the better part of a year pretending that she and Bradley were nothing more than colleagues.

  Other than a few close friends who knew they were dating, they’d done a mostly decent job of hiding their romantic relationship from co-workers. Better than she and Nick had done hiding their antagonistic one.

  “Hey, Taylor. Nick,” Bradley said.

  He entered the room and reached for a coffee mug, turning his attention toward the other man. “Didn’t realize you’d taken on another assignment. What for?”

  “Not sure,” Nick said, checking his watch. “Have a meeting with Cassidy in a few to find out.”

  “Here’s hoping it’s an offsite gig that takes you far, far away. Maybe he needs someone to cover Siberian winters,” Taylor said to Nick, even as she watched Bradley out of the corner of her eye.

  “Don’t need to travel to find severe winter. It doesn’t get any chillier than right here,” Nick retorted, waving his hand over her head in a storm cloud gesture.

  She shoved his hand aside, her attention still on Bradley, who was determinedly avoiding her gaze.

  Coward.

  It was going to be darn hard to get him to see reason when he wouldn’t even make eye contact.

  Nick, ever too perceptive for his own good, noticed the tension and gave a quick look between her and Bradley, his gaze turning speculative.

  She shot him a warning look that clearly said, Don’t.

  He shot an answering smile that clearly said, Watch me.

  “Bradley, don’t suppose you’re in the market for a roommate?” Nick asked, his voice deceptively casual.

  Bradley’s head snapped up, and finally, finally his blue gaze collided with Taylor’s. Damn it. Why did he have to be so beautiful? He was like a mischievous angel, all twinkling blue eyes, dimples, a sexy cleft in his chin, dark blond wavy hair…

  “What?” he asked Nick distractedly, still looking at Taylor.

  “Taylor here wants to share her original crown molding with someone.”

  Bradley winced, and Taylor felt a little surge of gratitude toward Nick. He couldn’t have known it, but it was the perfect jab. She and Bradley were both into prewar architecture—had eaten up the broker’s description of all the building’s original elements.

  Taylor should be sharing that crown molding with Bradley. And he damn well knew it.

  His eyes met hers in silent misery—an apology that she wasn’t quite ready to accept. Heck, she wasn’t even ready to acknowledge it, because she had no intention of being dumped. Not by him
, not by any man.

  Taylor ignored the guilt written all over Bradley’s face as she held his gaze. “Yes, it seems I unexpectedly have a free bedroom and more rent than I can afford. If either of you knows anyone looking for a roommate…”

  Bradley’s handsome face twisted regretfully, and he set his coffee aside, taking a step toward her, apparently forgetting—or not caring—that Nick was still in the room.

  “Taylor. Damn it. I told you—”

  “Actually, I do,” Nick said, interrupting.

  Taylor forced her gaze away from Bradley’s pleading face toward Nick’s smug one. “You know someone who needs a roommate?”

  “Yup.” He crossed his arms and watched her.

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Who? It can’t be one of your ex-girlfriends—I don’t want to inadvertently hear any gross details about you. And not one of your frat-boy guy friends—my living room isn’t cut out for Call of Duty.”

  “Yeah, because that’s all I do all day.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, for real, who is it?”

  His grin was slow, sly, and the very definition of trouble. “Me.”

  Chapter 3

  It was a toss-up who was more shocked by Nick’s pronouncement: Taylor, Bradley, or Nick himself.

  Nick sure as hell hadn’t meant to volunteer to shack up with the most aggravating woman he knew. He’d barely survived the suggestion of it; no way would he survive it if she accepted.

  Which she wouldn’t.

  Taylor Carr’s feelings toward him were the perfect match of his toward her—somewhere between contempt and pure loathing, with a splash of regret that neither acknowledged.

  But regardless of how he felt about Taylor, he couldn’t stand Calloway at all. Everything about the account executive rubbed Nick the wrong way. The guy was too smarmy, too slick.

  Too cozied up in Taylor’s bed.

  And yet Nick was damn curious about what was going on with the two of them.

  It was obvious Bradley wanted Taylor to remain roommate-less. What was less obvious was why. Why didn’t the fucker just volunteer to move in with her himself?