Nicole Helm - Falling for the New Guy

The other was to ignore that urge. Let her come in. Comment on his apartment again. Infiltrate on some crazy chance they both knew they couldn’t let happen.

“Thinking awfully hard there for a door opening.”

“Just thinking about how I was swindled,” he lied, poorly. Ill-advisedly.

Tess laughed, picking up her end of the couch again. “Oh, my God, you did not just say swindled . Are you living on the prairie?”

“It’s a legitimate word,” Marc grumbled. He didn’t need her help to get it in the apartment, but he didn’t say anything. Except, “I could make my own damn chair for half the amount of this stupid couch you talked me into.”

Tess snorted. “Sure, Ron Swanson.”

“Huh?”

“You, sir, need an education. Friends , Parks and Rec , The Office .”

“I prefer reading, thanks.”

“Strike three. You’re out,” she puffed out as they maneuvered the couch into the apartment. They dropped it in the general area in front of the TV. “Besides, if you prefer to read, why do you have a TV?”

“Sports.”

Tess rolled her eyes. “Oh, be a little less stereotypical.”

“My e-reader is full of romances.”

Her eyes got comically wide. “Really?”

“No. I actually prefer nonfiction. Biographies and stuff like that, but that’s probably stereotypical.”

She collapsed onto the couch, throwing her arm dramatically over her forehead. “Oh, and here I got all excited you had some secret poetic side to you.” She peered out from under her arm. “You know, I should hate you for not paying the delivery fee and making me help.”

“I should hate you for talking me into a couch when I only needed a chair.”

She stretched her long legs out. She was wearing loose jeans with random rips across the thigh and knee—which actually looked like use, not some attempt at fashion. All he knew was, on more than one occasion it had given him a glimpse of skin.

On more than one occasion, he’d had to tell himself to stop staring so damn much.

“You can’t stretch out on a chair,” she was saying, folding her arms behind her head. “You can’t nap or curl up with a fascinating biography of...” She looked at him pointedly, as if he was supposed to supply an answer.

“Lyndon Johnson.”

“Ugh. Worst president ever.”

“I think worst is a bit of an exaggeration.”

“I watched this show once that gave evidence to how he was behind the JFK assassination. It seemed pretty legit.”

“Please tell me you are not serious right now.”

“Okay, this right here is another reason I should hate you—I’m lying on your couch debating about history. That is the last thing I ever want to be doing on a guy’s couch.”

“And what’s the first thing?” Danger. Accident ahead. Like a flashing sign, only he couldn’t backtrack and take back those words, so he had to stand in uncomfortable...uncomfortableness.

“Hmm.” Her smile went sly, reminding him of that first night he’d met her in the hallway. Despite bleeding and being pissed, she’d smiled as if she had the world in the palm of her hand.

She could smile like that even though it was so obvious she didn’t. He couldn’t understand that. He was having a hard time resisting it, too.

“Pizza?”

She pushed herself into a sitting position, and glanced at the door. “I never say no to pizza.”

“You can go, if that’s what you want.”

Her eyes moved from the door to him, all sly smiles and confidence gone. Just gray eyes wide and something he was having trouble resisting, too. Like what paltry help he offered mattered, meant something.

He helped a lot of people, but it never felt as though it...resonated. People moved on, people kept focusing on other people. Having someone see the effort he was making was...why did that make him feel ridiculously good?

That probably made him a dick, because helping was supposed to be something you did without the hope of thanks or retribution, but he couldn’t deny he was desperate for a little thanks, a little gratitude.

Christ. Pathetic to the extreme. At least that was another reason not to like her. Chatty and made him consider uncomfortable truths about himself. Too bad he couldn’t get that message through all the ways he did like her. He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, to get out of Pathetic Land, but she beat him to it.

“I know, I should get out of your hair.”

“No, I wasn’t saying it because...” Jeez, now he really sounded pathetic. “You were looking at the door. You are welcome to stay, but I don’t want you to feel obligated. I have eaten many a meal on my own. It’s not half-bad.”

“I just...” She looked down at her hands, pressed her palms together before looking back at the door. “I need to stay away from my phone. If I can do that for a little while longer.”

Marc felt as though he’d done an admirable job keeping his mouth shut—he was damn good at it, after all—but the trepidation in her voice, in her movements made him realize keeping quiet went against everything he stood for.

He didn’t let people get hurt if he could help it. While Tess was an adult and her father was her business, even if he did hurt her, Marc couldn’t stand by silently if she was afraid.

“Does he harass you?”

She went completely still, presumably because he’d broken the silent agreement not to discuss what had actually happened and what it meant.

“It’s not like that,” she said lamely. She got off the couch, pushing her hair back and linking her hands behind her head before letting them fall at her sides. “He calls and asks for help. I need...” She shook her head. “He’s an alcoholic, Marc. He’s sick. I’m all he has. It’s sometimes a bit much and I need a break.”

“You...” Part of him was desperate to keep his mouth shut, to keep out of this, to help in only the most peripheral ways possible, but it wasn’t a big enough part of him to keep his mouth shut. “I know it’s none of my business, but him having a fight with that scrawny guy at his apartment complex? It may not just be alcohol.”

Her shoulders slumped and she turned away from him. “I know. That’s new. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Marc. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I have things under control.” Her head bobbed as if she was nodding to herself. Then a sound escaped her mouth—not really a laugh, not a sob. He wasn’t sure what the noise was.

“God, what a joke. I don’t have a damn thing under control anymore. I’m not even fooling myself.” She sniffled. “I’m not doing this again in front of you. I’m going home. Look, I’m sorry. I need to get out of here.” She moved for the door, but he was—thankfully—faster and got there first. Blocking it.

What the hell are you doing?

He had no idea. He only knew he couldn’t let her leave. “Tess.”

Even though she’d sniffled, she wasn’t crying. Yet. Her eyes were shiny with tears. “Marc, let me go, okay? I’ll handle everything. I always do. I...have to.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, hands shaking.

The little voice in his head kept repeating the same question over and over— What the hell are you doing? Only it didn’t seem to change the fact he was doing it. He reached for her shoulders, fingers curling around them. Even though her body trembled, she felt so damn strong under his hands he just wished he had answers.

He could only do his best, which would never be good enough, but maybe it could be something. “Surely there’s someone who can help—”

“I don’t have anyone who can help us,” she choked out, dropping her hands from her eyes, a mix of determination and defeat. How did she do that?