Page 4 of The Beat Match

He counted to five, making sure her verbal deluge had ended. Annie had three settings: Chatty Cathy, sarcastic comedienne, and pit bull. “What do you mean you’re late on rent?”

“It’s nothing. Just a small setback. All will be well tomorrow.”

“This isn’t a small setback. This is irresponsibility.”

She planted her hands her hips. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Wes.”

“No. You need me to rescue you.”

She added an eye roll to her confrontational pose. “I only called you because everyone else I know has a real job.”

Well, wasn’t that the cherry on this shit-flavored day. “Did you hit your head this morning? Is there some kind of frontal lobe damage I should be aware of?”

It would explain the wardrobe malfunction and the asinine comment. Annie knew Weston clocked upwards of eighty hours of work a week. She was well aware he ate, drank, and breathed his job. Aside from fitting in hours at his home gym, squeezing in dinner with her every couple of weeks, and the evening activities she’d never know about, his life revolved around Aldrich Pharma.

She sassed out her hip, a move that hiked her miniskirt farther up her thigh. A bike messenger whistled at her. Weston gave him the finger as the moron plowed into a parked car.

“Let’s dissect this, shall we?” Annie said, oblivious to the male chaos she was creating. “Did you have to tell someone, a boss for instance, you had to leave work?”

He glared at her, and she smirked.

“Are you worried,” she went on, smug as a Cheshire cat, “you might get in trouble for sneaking off? Be given a warning? Lose your job?”

He curled his lip at the implication. Just because he had freedom to come and go as he pleased didn’t make the demands of his job any less real. Or less stressful. He was being told to date, hopefully marry, a woman for God’s sake. But there was no point explaining his responsibilities to someone who flitted from job to job, barely making rent, quitting when anything got too tough. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Anthea.”

“Come on, Weston Aldrich. The word ‘rich’ is in your freaking name. You don’t know from real work.” The pit bull unleashed.

“And this outfit you’re wearing,” he said, unsure why he was getting so angry, “is that for a real job? One that won’t have your brother rolling over in his—”

Annie flinched, just enough for shame to silence him. Mentioning Leo was a low blow. Too low. They never outright fought. Ragged on each other, sure. Went out of their way to tease and torment. Something was different today, though—her outfit, this weird protectiveness that had him wanting to build a castle around her. With a moat. And sharks.

During the thirteen years since her brother’s death, he’d watched Annie grow out of her gawky limbs and boyish figure, into this…woman. He wasn’t sure when the change had fully struck him. It felt gradual, yet sudden. Expected, yet feared. Forward momentum he was powerless to control. The past year he’d found himself staring at her occasionally as she’d fuss over one of her scrapbooks, her teeth lodged into her bottom lip, T-shirt carelessly slipping off her shoulder. He’d forget himself when she’d laugh, the sound huskier than he remembered, her head tipped back and her throat open, so much easy joy in the sound.

Yeah, he’d noticed the burgeoning beauty in Anthea Ward, little sister of Leonardo Ward—in a totally platonic way—which meant other men had noticed, too. And here he was, tasked by her brother to ensure some idiot didn’t hurt her or take advantage. Near impossible in her current outfit.

“Just…please get in the car, Squirrel. We can yell at each other in there while you tell me about your new job.”

Annie didn’t glower or snark back at him. “Sure,” she said softly, her fierce eyes oddly downcast.

A weird ache pinched the center of his chest.

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2

Wes’s car still had that fancy new-car smell, like it smelled of money. Come to think of it, everything about Wes had a distinct scent: his cologne/soap mix conjured scenes of snow-drenched pines, a roaring fire, and a cocky man wearing an extravagant smoking jacket. His stark loft apartment was almost odorless, save for hints of lemon and lavender and subtle whiffs of ostentation.

Annie clicked on her seat belt and melted into his new Audi’s expensive-smelling leather. They probably stuffed hundreds into the cushioning for extra-special comfort.

“So,” Wes said, his hands on the wheel, eyes dead ahead, the car still in park. “Why are you late on rent?”

She rolled her head over the headrest and faced his stern profile. “That aromatherapy course set me back.”

“You told me you had money to pay for that course.”

“Yeah, but there’s a new craft store on 6th and it’s like being in a scrapbooking wonderland. I mean, only a cyborg would leave there without five bags of glitter and glue, and you should have seen their bowls of buttons.” Buttons so cute they’d be the envy of her online scrapbooking group. Craft supplies outweighed adulting times a million. You couldn’t put a dollar value on that level of awesome.

Wes shook his head. “Are you even planning to use the aromatherapy training? Or was that as big of a waste of money as your glass blowing class?”