He just looked at her.
So he was one of those people who used silence as a weapon. She hated that. “I’m not leaving,” she said again, firmly. “I’m staying. Forever.” His words surprised her.
“Don’t you think we’d make good neighbors?” he asked.
His eyes mocked her, dared her to protest. But Trisha had adopted a new policy in her life, and she refused to be cowed by anyone. “I think we’d make rotten neighbors.”
His gaze remained directly on her, his hands in his pockets, but she could feel the inexplicable sensual tug between them as if they had been wrapped around each other.
She wasn’t sure it was an entirely bad feeling, which annoyed her into baiting him. “I won’t change my lifestyle.”
Though he didn’t crack a smile, he was definitely amused. She could see it in the line of his straight shoulders, in his easy stance, in his shining green eyes. “You mean you’ll continue to peek through holes at me while I’m in the bathroom? You’ll crank your music until the windows shake? You’ll manage to destroy every floor in your apartment? Or…” And now his gaze did dip, ran with leisure over the peekaboo lace camisole revealed by her scoop neckline. His amusement vanished and the heat of his gaze scorched her skin. His voice seemed husky, thick. “You’ll continue to model your stock on a regular basis?”
“All of the above,” she assured him softly, only marginally satisfied to see that his breathing was as uneven as hers. This is crazy. We don’t even like each other, and we’re hopelessly attracted.
“Well, then,” he said in a soft voice. In a move that surprised her, he reached out and playfully tugged a strand of her hair. “I guess we’re in for an interesting time of it, aren’t we?”
They were in for an interesting time, no doubt about it. In fact, Trisha thought about little else as she drove into work the following morning. And as she told her story, to her assistant and dearest friend in the world, she couldn’t help but wonder what would come of it.
“He’s movingin?” Celia’s mouth fell open, revealing the pierced stud in her tongue. “The spacey scientist is moving in below you?”
“He’s not a spacey scientist, Celia,” Trisha said, feeling a twinge of guilt as she replaced a stack of thigh-high stockings on the shelf. After all, hadn’t she called him that very thing before she’d met him? “He’s a space scientist. And his name is Hunter,” she added primly, sorry she’d given him the unfair nickname.
Celia laughed and her jet-black spiked hair shook while the row of silver cuffed earrings lining her earlobe jangled. “Hell of a name for an old, stuffy, scrawny guy with spectacles.”
“Uh… he doesn’t wear spectacles.” No, Hunter’s green gaze had been sharp as a tack. And he’d been the furthest thing from scrawny she’d ever seen. “He’s not old either.” She set a sapphire silk push-up bra on a shelf, then yanked at her own scooped neckline, happy with her lace camisole, unhappy with how much of it showed out of her sundress.
“Not there,” Celia said, moving the bra over on the shelf so that it complemented the matching swatch of panties. “There. So he’s not old and he doesn’t wear glasses. What does the spacey – er, space scientist do? Measure molecules?”
Trisha pictured the undeniably sexy Hunter Adams hunched over a microscope. “Maybe.”
“So, are there going to be rules where you live now? No music after nine o’clock and stuff? Good Lord, Trish, after what your God-fearing aunt Hilda did to you in the name of religion, I’d have thought you’d run screaming from another authority figure. Wait!” Celia pried a red satin teddy from Trisha’s crushing grip. “Now I know you’re upset. You’re mutilating the goods.”
“I’m not upset.” A big, fat lie. She hadn’t lied to her friend since the third grade, when Aunt Hilda had prohibited her niece from playing with Celia simply because Celia’s father was from Puerto Rico and unemployed.
“You’re lying to me,” Celia said with certainty, worry filling her dark eyes. Hastily, in the interest of damage control, she reached for the rest of the stock in front of Trisha. “I had a dream about this.”
Trisha rolled her eyes.
“No, I swear. There was this little mouse, and she had this great big mean aunt mouse who -” She broke off at Trisha’s long look. “Well, I did.”
“You’ve been reading that dream-interpretation book again, by that New Age guru Dr. What’s-his-name, haven’t you?”
“So?”
“Honey, you have way too much time on your hands.”
“Tell me what’s the matter,” Celia said stubbornly, uninsulted.
“Nothing.” Trisha let Celia take over displaying the stock. How could she concentrate on silky underthings when at this very moment, her new neighbor – and the bane of her existence – was moving in? Rules? The very thought had her insides tightening uncomfortably. She’d had enough rules to last her a lifetime. “No rules,” she vowed, not realizing she spoke out loud.
“Right.” Celia smirked. “Landlords always have rules. And now you’re going to live with yours.”
“I’m not living with him, just above him. And I’m a grown-up. I’ll do what I want.” A little sliver of doubt crept up her spine. Too many years under unrelentingly strict authority, she thought miserably. It wouldn’t start again, it wouldn’t.
“It’s not an easy thing,” Celia commented, watching her carefully. “Doing what you want. Not when you’ve never been allowed to.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“Yeah. Now that Hilda’s dead and buried.” Her voice was soft and kind, and so was the hand she laid on Trisha’s arm. “I’m proud of you Trish, real proud. You’ve created a life for yourself, and you deserve that more than anyone I know. But as much as you pretend to be wild and free, just below the surface lives that repressed, frightened girl you used to be.”
“I’m not repressed and frightened,” Trisha protested, self-consciously yanking down the upward-creeping hem of her dress. “Look,” she said, gesturing to the lace peeking out her cleavage. “Does this look like a woman who’s repressed?”
Celia laughed, her eyes warm. “Sweetie, I know you. You’re constantly checking to make sure you’re not showing too much. Didn’t you just return that fabulous leopard shipment because it seemed too daring for the shop? Face it,” she said gently. “It’s not easy for you to let go.”
“I’m selling lingerie, aren’t I?”
“Yes, and you’re doing a wonderful job. But you’re still not comfortable with it. That’s okay, it’ll come. But let this landlord thing slide off your back. Don’t let him get to you. There’s always another place.”
“No!” Trisha took a deep breath and forced herself not to yank up the bodice of her dress. She’d moved eighteen times in eighteen years and had promised herself never to do it again. She loved her place, and Eloise had wanted her to have it.
She wouldn’t move. “I just want to be free to do what I want. That’s all. It’s not asking too much, I know that.”
“Well, you’ve done what you want here,” Celia said, glancing around the shop. There were at least eight people milling around the small place and it was only noon. “We’re keeping our heads above water. Most businesses fail in their first year, but not this one. Thank God, since we’ve both grown fond of eating. Some of us more than others, of course,” she added with a grimace at Trisha’s lean, petite figure, then down at her own slightly too curvaceous one.
With a sense of satisfaction Trisha looked around the shop. Organized chaos reigned. Leather and Lace was located in the very favorable area of Old Town Pasadena, where locals and tourists alike walked the quaintly gentrified streets night and day. As a result, she was almost always busy. Her clientele ran the gamut from businessmen to college students, and all their trade was equally important to Trisha. She loved this shop with a passion that didn’t surprise her, since the place signified her first taste of freedom.