The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

He held out but finally gave in with a sigh. “The truth is that what happened with Irena humiliated me.” Tyler stared off in the distance, a scowl forming between his brows. “Do you know what Sawyer said after he’d told me what happened?”

He looked her square in the eyes now, and she shivered. There was so much pain swirling in his inky-blue depths, her heart ached for him.

“He said it’s better I found out now she was just in it for the money. They’d all overheard her talking and knew she wasn’t right for me. My best friend had known my fiancée was only with me for my money, and he’d never once said a word? That’s not what I call friendship.”

She blinked. “But what if he’d hoped he was wrong?”

“Would you let Kiki marry some guy you knew didn’t really love her without telling her? Wouldn’t you at least share your fears with her?”

Well, that cut to the heart of it. She tried to imagine Kiki with some creep and no, she wouldn’t. The job of best friend wasn’t always to tell them what they wanted to hear. Sometimes, you had to be the one to save them from themselves, too. Tyler was right. Sawyer hadn’t been much of a friend if he’d known what kind of person Tyler’s fiancée was and said nothing. And it sounded like even though they were closer again, they still hadn’t talked about what really upset Tyler. Because to hear Hudson tell it, well, the story was very different.

She reached and placed her hand over his. “No, I wouldn’t.”

The only sound in the kitchen was the boiling water on the range. The moment stretched, something unexplainable passing between their gazes that neither of them wanted to examine too closely. It almost felt like friendship.

The sizzling splash of water overflowing from the pot on the range startled both of them. Tyler rushed to it, grabbed an oven mitt that, not surprisingly, was one of many in a stack by the stove, and took the pot off the flame. Unable to sit b

y and watch, she hustled to his side and took the colander off the hanging rack, setting it in the sink. Tyler poured the pot’s contents into it, and she turned on the cold water, rinsing the pasta so it would stop cooking. Not that it did much good. By the time he’d turned off the range and she’d finished draining the pasta, it was more than a little overcooked.

Standing next to her at the sink, Tyler poked at the twisted, soggy mass with a fork. “I blame you for distracting me.”

“Uh-huh.” She did a light hip check. “Keep telling yourself that. Where’s the sauce?”

Tyler opened up a cabinet, clanked a few bottles together as he searched, and finally pulled out—a bottle of ketchup. “I don’t think we can use this, but it’s as close as I’ve got.”

“God no.” That was just nasty, so much so she couldn’t help but laugh. “Butter?”

He put back the ketchup, pivoted, and opened the fridge, staring for a minute and turning back to her with a sheepish grin. “So in addition to not being a great cook, I kinda suck at grocery shopping.”

Searching her memory banks for anything helpful, she finally hit on one last option. “Olive oil?”

Tyler opened another cabinet, peeked inside, and then shook his head. “Sorry,” he half said, half laughed. “It’s been nuts lately, and I’ve been eating out a lot.”

The entire situation was ridiculous. It was pasta. How did you mess up boiling noodles? The cooking gods had cursed the man. She looked down at the mushy, kinda slimy spaghetti and started giggling. She clamped her mouth shut, trying to hold it in, but all it took was one look at Tyler, and the giggles were fighting to get out again. Tyler walked over to her side, snatched a wet noodle from the colander, and waved it at her with an evil wiggle of his eyebrows. It was too much. The laughter escaped.

Once they both had caught their breaths, she asked, “Alternatives?”

Tyler dropped the piece of spaghetti back into the colander and opened the cabinet next to the sink, bringing out two boxes of instant oatmeal. “Peaches and cream or apples and cinnamon?”

“Peach me up.”

A few minutes later they were sitting around the island, each with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of wine. The combination wasn’t exactly high class, but she was willing to roll with it—especially since she was starving. The usual tension that surrounded them had abated, and they ate for a few minutes in comfortable silence. Everly had just gotten the first peek at the bottom of her bowl when Tyler shifted in the seat beside her, drawing her attention.

“Look, I know you have your reasons for thinking I’ll screw over Alberto, but I won’t.” He used his spoon to push the little bit of oatmeal around in his bowl. “All I’m asking for is the opportunity to have a little face time. I won’t even bring up business. I just need an in so I can finally get an appointment with him, that’s all.”

Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice. Maybe it was the fact that she realized now that they had something in common. Maybe it was the fact that the man was in such desperate need of a cooking class. Maybe it was because all he wanted to do was get his foot in the door, and she knew exactly how that felt. It was just an introduction. There was no guarantee Alberto would even meet with Tyler later. Whatever the reason for her second thoughts, she couldn’t deny she was feeling a lot more open to the idea than before when she’d lost the coin flip in the gallery.

“Flip you for it?” she asked, not sure where in the hell that came from beyond her wanting—for once—to leave the final call up to fate.

“I’ve won the past two flips in a row. Doing it again doesn’t seem fair,” he said with a growly little tease in his voice. “Tell you what, how about you do this favor for me and I’ll do one for you.”

This should be good. She leaned forward, the move bringing her in closer to him. “What’s that?”

“I’ll get the landlord to cover your first triple net fees.”

Her back stiffened. That scumbag landlord. The company wasn’t supposed to share confidential information like that with other tenants. She was going to nail the sucker who leaked that information, just as soon as she dragged it out of Tyler. “How did you know about that?”

Gathering up the last of his oatmeal in his spoon, he kept his gaze lowered. “I own the building.”