Nicole Helm - Falling for the New Guy

“Do your parents live back in Minnesota?”

“Yes.”

“Did you move here to be closer to your sister?”

He was quiet for a while. So much so, she had to glance back to make sure he was still behind her.

His expression was grim and something she couldn’t read. Maybe as if the superhero let everyone down.

“You could say that.”

Which was such a strange answer, purposefully vague and a little cryptic. Marc definitely had some issues of his own. People weren’t so tight-lipped about their lives if they weren’t hiding something.

Tess would know.

Was it a bad something, like a parental monkey on his back, or was it innocuous? Embarrassing, but not like hers. Not painful and potentially life damaging.

It would be best not to know.

“You said you didn’t have a sister, but any brothers?”

Before yesterday she might have considered that question making progress. He so rarely asked her for more information than she willingly gave. But yesterday had changed things, because today he was asking not out of curiosity or the desire to get to know her better, but because he wondered about her relationship with her father. If there was someone to step in and save the day.

“Nope. Just me.” In more ways than one.

She shouldn’t give him any more than that, should be as terse and tight-lipped as he always was, but there was a too-big part of her that wanted him to understand, or see, or something. This thing with her father, as pathetic as it was, wasn’t something she chose.

“Mom left when I was little, so it’s always been just Dad and me.”

She wouldn’t say more than that, because it was all that needed to be said. Maybe he would understand, and maybe he wouldn’t. But she’d given him enough information to know this wasn’t pathetic. They really were all each other had, and she was the responsible party.

Whether she wanted to be or not.

Marc didn’t say anything, so she focused on running. Hard. So her muscles would be nothing but jelly and hopefully her brain would follow suit.

When they reached the apartment complex, Tess was breathing hard enough talking would be difficult, and she was gratified Marc was in about the same shape.

“Christ, how often do you do that?” He huffed.

Tess grinned, bending to the side to stretch before her Jell-O muscles got tight. “Couple times a week. Depending.” On Dad. A few months ago it had been once a week tops. This month? Three to four times per week.

Things were bad.

You need to help him. Fix this. You cannot ignore him. You’re all he has. This is your responsibility.

But she didn’t want it anymore. For once in her life she wanted to make a decision not based on her father’s fragile mental state.

Forgetting the rest of her usual stretches, she pushed inside the building. She felt too raw to have Marc’s scrutinizing eyes around.

“No wonder you’re in such great shape,” he muttered, and she had a feeling she was not meant to hear that, as she was inside when he’d uttered it. Which managed to cheer her a little. Pathetic, yes, but, hey, she deserved a little pathetic.

She glanced back at Marc following her, and though he tried to hide it, he’d very obviously been staring at her ass.

Pathetic isn’t all you deserve.

No. No, no, no cops. Not some arbitrary edict. It was necessary for career survival. So Marc could stare at her ass and be nice and hot and whatever. Her reputation was way more important than some guy.

Regardless of the size of that guy’s shoulders. Or thighs. Or biceps. Mmm. Biceps. Get a grip, Camden.

She reached the top of the stairs, probably only a few feet from her tired legs giving out completely. “Well, thanks for the company. I needed it.” She looked at her door, dreading facing the phone on the other side. Dreading the weakness inside her that would grow, fester, until she’d give up and go over there. Until she’d lose at convincing herself she couldn’t help him.

“I’m buying a chair,” Marc said out of nowhere. “Maybe a table. You...”

She turned to stare at him. “I?”

“If you’re looking for something to do.” He shrugged those big yummy shoulders she really needed to distance herself from. “I could use some help. I’ve never picked out furniture before.”

Tess’s throat got tight, but she swallowed through it. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a marshmallow?”

“No,” he said, so seriously, so disgustedly, she had to laugh despite the warmth of gratitude clogging behind her eyes as tears.

“Well, you are, and I appreciate it. I’ll even buy you lunch.”

“Look, to be clear...”

Tess had a feeling she knew where this was going, and if she were noble she might have saved him the discomfort, but a mess of a girl needed a little something to make her feel a pinch in charge of her life. “Clear about?”

“It’s not...it’s not a date. That’s not what I’m... Friends. We should be friends. Not dating...things.”

“God, you’re cute.”

“Tess.”

“No worries. I don’t date cops, even if I want to. So you’re safe no matter how much you’re nice to me.” Though she couldn’t resist one little flirt. “Or how many lusty vibes crop up.”

“I’m really starting to hate that word,” he grumbled. “Noon. I’ll meet you at my truck.”

Tess nodded and did her best not to saunter to her apartment door, not to swing her hips or bounce her steps, no matter how tired her legs were, but she could feel his eyes on her, so it was hard.

Well, welcome to life. Hard.

* * *

“PIVOT.”

Tess started giggling, which was not pivoting so they could get the damn couch up the stairs. A couch she’d somehow talked him into. He didn’t plan on having company. It was just him. Why would he need a couch? A chair would have sufficed.

“Why are you laughing?” Marc grumbled, the bulk of the weight of the couch resting on his shoulder. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, that run this morning had kicked his ass—physically and emotionally and whatever feeling was ignoring your hot neighbor/coworker’s hotness.

Something akin to wanting to crawl out of one’s skin. Or sex. Sex would be good.

He gritted his teeth and Tess got a better grip on the couch. “I take it from the grumpiness you never watched Friends . You know, Ross yelling at everyone to pivot in the stairwell?”

“No, I’ve never seen it.”

“How is that even possible? I’m not sure I can trust someone who’s never seen Friends .”

“I’m not big on TV.”

“Strike two, Santino. Next up you’ll tell me you don’t like dessert and I’ll be forced to hate you forever.”

“Depends on the dessert.” Which was not sexual innuendo. And it didn’t sound like it, either. Not to her. Not to him. Nope.

“Okay, so what’s your favorite?” They got the couch around the stairwell turn.

Sexual innuendo? Oh, no, dessert. “Cannoli.”

They reached the top and Tess dropped her end. “Ooh, Santino. Cannoli. Italian. Is your family in the mafia? The Minnesota mafia. And you’re a dirty cop!”

“No. Apparently you watch too much TV.”

“No fun.”

No, he wasn’t. But she was. He’d pity invited her on this shopping outing, one he’d mostly been dreading since picking out crap and spending money were two of his least favorite things, and she’d made it fun. He’d laughed.

He was so inherently screwed.

He unlocked his door, twin urges surging through him. One was the one he should listen to. The one to tell her she’d helped, and now she could leave, because he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t dying.