Truth or Dare (3 page)

“I tried to wait you out. Seriously I did. But the whole French retch combo—” He sent Ford a pitying look—which handily enough, doubled as another sweet dig at the cookie-baking crackpot—and shrugged. “It was too much.”

“Yeah, well…” Ford rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Sure.” Except Ty was pretty much willing to bet his left nut it was
exactly
what it looked like. The stuff of nightmares. An unholy meshing of mouths, spawned by desperation, and never to be revisited.

Definitely more action than he was getting, and incentive enough to keep it that way.

Fishing around his pocket for his keys, he nodded. “Whatever it is—”

Maggie snapped, “It’s none of your business,” as Ford assured, “It’s over.”

Tyler unlocked the door, doing his best to ignore the stilted exchange of quiet
thank you
s and muttered promises of
never again
taking place behind him. Then, standing aside, he waited as they filed in. Ford made a beeline down the first-floor hall, ducking into his apartment, and Maggie went for the stairs as Ty checked the lock on the security door to give himself a few extra seconds before following.

Not long enough, though. Because suddenly he was stuck with an eyeful of Maggie’s retreating form. And, hell, if that wasn’t the last thing he needed.

It was bad enough, the way he got off on their sparring. It started the first day he tracked her down, intent on apologizing for being such an ass when she’d shown up at his door, wanting to assure her it wouldn’t happen again. Only before he managed to get out the first word, Maggie let that caustic tongue loose in an assault the likes of which he’d never heard before.

She’d been vicious. Concise. Lobbing one low blow after another and, all the while doing it with that girl-next-door smile on her lips and demon glint in her green eyes.

After that, he’d been hooked. And who could blame him, really?

But while a heartfelt exchange of barbs was one thing, watching the gentle sway of her hips and spill of silky waves falling to the midpoint of her back was something else altogether. It was uncool. And totally unacceptable, considering the only thing he was after from Apartment Two was the vintage sour and spite she served him straight up every time their paths crossed.

At the landing, Maggie cast what she’d no doubt intended as a bored look over her shoulder. But something in her eyes said she was waiting…anticipating the next volley of trash talk, same as him.

Instead of giving it up for her at the first glare, he strolled past, eyes on the beige-and-rust-
flecked carpet running the hall and stairs. Only when the thin scrape of her key sliding home reached his ears did he look back.

“Gotta say, I had you pegged for a spinster all the way, but Ford’s a real catch. Nice going.”

Barely a beat passed and she was returning fire.

“Aww, thanks. And what’s this I hear about you and Rosie Palms?” she asked with a pointed nod at his hand, the saccharine sweetness all but dripping from her fangs. “Picking out rings, already?”

Nice one.
A classic that appealed to the undying adolescent within him. And all her narrow-eyed, arms-crossed action said she was ready with more. Could probably go head-to-head all night if he gave her the opportunity.

Tempting. But being the stand-up guy he was, wholly committed to the advancement of Maggie’s annoyance, there was only one thing he could do…

“Yeah, well, we’ve been exclusive for a while now,” he said, holding up “Rosie,” his right hand, and giving in to a grin as he started up the stairs. “Time to make an honest girl of her.”

…Steal her thunder and leave her hanging.

Boom.

Maggie tried to cover with a cough, but her laughter—too quick—slipped free from beneath it, ricocheting up the stairwell after him and following at his heels like a taunt. It was exactly the reaction he’d been going for—knowing the last thing she’d want was to give him the satisfaction—only now having earned it, that soft, full-bodied mirth layered with too many hints about a woman he didn’t want to know any more than he already did suddenly felt less like a victory than a loss.

It was a reversal of expectation that had become the standard in his life. One Ty ought to be used to by now but that somehow managed to continue blindsiding him.

Girl-next-door…easy smile…great laugh…sharp tongue…soft curves…sweet to about everyone but him.

Yeah, he knew too much about Maggie Lawson as it was. Like the fact that she was exactly the kind of chocolate-chip-
baking fantasy he’d always gone for. The kind of woman he’d figured he’d marry someday…and might have, if not for—

Shit.
Enough of that.

Inside, the stillness and order of his apartment worked to smother the last echoes of Maggie’s reluctant laughter, tamping down those unwelcome details he didn’t have room for in a space already too full with everything he couldn’t have.

The keys hadn’t even finished their first revolution around the wide-mouthed catchall beside her front door before Maggie was hit with a condemning, “I feel dirty.”

Ava. Shaking her head from her perch on the couch, where she’d no doubt been watching the closed-circuit security feed from the front stoop.

She should have known. Because this night just got better and better.

It wasn’t enough to have been within a hairsbreadth of tasting the physical manifestation of Ford’s disgust. Or that her least favorite sour-patch stud, Apartment Three, had gone and pissed all over her hard grudge by making her laugh. Flashing his bit of humanity and humor around like…like…like he was human or something. Which he wasn’t.

The jerk.

Nope. What she needed was another witness.

Sliding her purse off her shoulder, Maggie tucked it on the secretary’s low shelf and then turned to face her accuser. “So maybe you shouldn’t have broken into my apartment to spy, huh?”

Though on closer consideration, she didn’t actually mind Ava seeing that train-wreck-in-
action kiss. If Maggie and Ford were forced to endure it, Ava deserved to share in the post-traumatic suffering as well. The pact had been her idea.

Ava shook her head. “I didn’t break in.”

From the back of the apartment, Sam called out, “It wasn’t breaking. I used my key.”

Oh, well then. Except…“What’s he doing in my bedroom?”

“Checking to see if that three-pack of condoms I bought you was still in your bedside table. We thought you might have been…you know, hopeful or something.”

Really, it should have felt like a violation, but compared to having Ford’s tongue in her mouth, this paltry bit of B&E barely ranked.

Leaning back a step, she called down the hallway, “The rubbers are still there.”

“Yeah, found ’em already,” came the enthusiastic reply. “I’ve moved on to your panty drawer. And how about a
hell, yes
for the racy stuff at the bottom.”

Heaving a deep sigh, she staggered into the living room and snuggled into her favorite cushy chair. “So how bad was it? Did we at least look kind of sexy?”

“Not even close, no.” Sam strolled down the hall, wearing a beat pair of faded jeans the same color as his eyes and a plain white long-sleeve T-shirt that told the story of a career rooted in manual labor without bragging about it. His hair was its usual tousled mess of sandy blond and his face sported a just-back-from-
the-beach warmth that was a gift of his natural complexion.

“It was bad, Maggie,” he said. Then elaborating as only he could, added, “Like blunt trauma to the eyeballs—bleach-scrub-fo
r-the-brain bad. Seriously, I don’t get why you keep doing this. You sucked face with Ford, a guy you have zero romantic interest in, for the sake of some stupid pact. Why don’t you girls stop trying to force something that isn’t ready to come and wait for a guy who actually does it for you? I mean, if you were getting an itch scratched once in a while, I suppose it would be different. But with the rules—”

Suddenly he broke off, a curious look fixed on his face. He turned to Ava. “Where
do
you get your itch scratched?”

Ava froze, her big brown eyes gone saucer wide.

Aha!
Someone else on the hot seat tonight.

But before Maggie could get too excited about the coming squirm, the front door swung open and Ford stepped in, looking suspiciously…clean.

And totally oblivious. “Who’s got an itch?”

“Did you…shower?” Maggie asked, her ego more than a little dinged.

Ford at least had the courtesy to look apologetic when he raked his hand through the still-damp strands of his dark hair. “Sorry. I felt dirty.” Then, grasping for a distraction, “Ave, you have a rash or something?”

Sam had an unholy glint in his eyes, and apparently not willing to take any chances, Ava cut in with a delighted smile. “Maggie was thinking about letting Apartment Three scratch her itch for her.”

N
OVEMBER

“God, I hate that guy.” Maggie stood by the bay window looking down at Apartment Three, his Adidas planted on the gate’s stone footing as he leaned into his post-run stretch. He was still running in track shorts, his only concession to the changing seasons a long-sleeve running shirt.