Infatuation. Alison Kent
here he was sweating out the submersible idea. Then again, he pretty much sweated everything during the weeks it took to put together each one of the shows.
He didn’t have to do it; even the conversions that bombed were a big hit with the viewers. The show’s audience loved seeing the modification process and watching the crew put the tricked-out vehicles through their paces.
And Rennie, well, he loved getting his hands dirty taking care of his own, doing something that gave so much to so many people including fans, employees, family and friends.
In college, that had been Milla’s role, the nurturer, the caretaker, the one who kept friendships from falling apart, who everyone looked to for answers.
He’d been the one living a dull and colorless workaholic existence. And look at them now, he thought as he sipped at his drink. It was role reversal in action.
When Milla had shown up so unexpectedly and propositioned him yesterday, he’d grabbed at the chance to finally work their past out of his system. Not that it was holding him back, or that he’d let those years eat at him all this time. Not that he hadn’t moved on with his life.
The past was just there, and it didn’t need to be. But now…now he wasn’t so sure he was going to be able to walk away with a clear conscience without knowing more.
Because if there was anything he’d learned in the past twenty-four hours, it was that somewhere, somehow, Milla Page had been broken. And that was the most unexpected discovery he’d made since seeing her again.
“Sorry to take so long,” she said, walking into the living room from the hall.
Nearly choking on his drink, Rennie clicked off the television, hoping he’d been fast enough to keep her from seeing his face or anything of the garage on the screen. He glanced at his watch—he’d been lost in thought for forty minutes—before he drained his glass and turned.
He found her struggling to tug the strap of her shoe up over her heel, found her wearing bright cherry-red. The color had always been one of his favorites. He wondered if she remembered, if she’d dressed with him in mind, if he was going to manage to get through the night without touching her.
When she straightened, her hair fell to frame her face, the shorter strands brushing her chin, the longer sweeping against her neck. In college, her hair had been soft and feathery. Now it was smooth, the ends stylishly flipping this way and that.
She looked great. She looked better than great. The light of which he’d only seen glimpses was back in her eyes. It set his blood to stirring, his fingers to itching, and his body began to warm.
He left the remote on top of the television and crossed the hardwood floor, returning his glass to the kitchen, turning to find she’d joined him. She’d grabbed her purse from the secretary and was now transferring the contents to a smaller bag.
He sat beside her at the table. The piece of furniture, not surprisingly, was painted white, the top inlaid with tiles the color of Ivory Snow. He watched as she sorted through her things. “Don’t you get cold in here?”
She glanced up briefly. “Not really, why? Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.”
“I’m not talking about the temperature. I’m talking about the igloo look you have going on.” His encompassing gesture included both the kitchen and the living room beyond. “Or is white the new black or something?”
This time when she looked up, she seemed confused, but she did study her surroundings for several seconds before returning to the task of switching one purse for the other. “The place had just been painted when I bought it. The kitchen was newly tiled and the countertops were still being installed.”
“Did it come furnished?”
She shook her head. “You can blame me for the dreary decor. I’m not here enough to really notice it, and it doesn’t seem that important when I do. I’ve got too much else going on to worry about adding splashes of color.”
He took that in, but didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. This was her home. Her supposed castle. He would think it would matter more than it did. “How long have you been living here?”
She closed up the purse he assumed she was carrying tonight and sat back, arms crossed, the fabric of her dress pulling tight over her small breasts. “It was a year in September.”
Fourteen months without pictures. Without color. He wanted to know what kept her too busy to pay attention to her home. Then he changed his mind. He wasn’t here to learn more about her. He was here to deal with what he already knew.
“Not a bad place,” he said. “A little icy. A little plain.”
“Some would say understated. Minimalist even.” Her defensive posture tightened further.
“I’d say boring.”
“What happened to icy and plain?” she asked, one brow lifting.
He shook his head. “Changed my mind.”
“Spoke your mind, you mean,” she said, and crossed her legs.
“Always have.”
“I remember it well.”
“Do you think that’s why we fought so often?” He ran an index finger along the edge of the table’s tiles, watching her eyes as they flashed. “Because I tend to say what’s on my mind?”
She took several seconds to gather her thoughts, smoothing the hem of her dress as she answered. “I think we fought because we were up against more than either of us was able to deal with.”
He snorted. “You mean, you cheating on your boyfriend with his roommate and me going behind Derek’s back to do his girl?”
“Yes.” Her gaze snapped to his. “That’s what I mean. And when you put it like that—”
“How else should I put it, Milla?” he interrupted to ask. “Isn’t that exactly what happened?”
She glanced down at her hem again, glanced back. “Like I said, I don’t think either of us knew how to deal with it then. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever be able to. Or if we’ll be stuck with each other forever.”
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