Dream Maker Page 2

  Or, probably more accurate, I was going on a blind date with Lottie’s commando friend after my brother freaked me out about some text I’d be getting where I’d have to “do right,” whatever that meant.

  And since Mick Gardiner hadn’t done right since he was around the age of two, his version of doing right did not bode well for me.

  I’d pushed the wand into the tube and was about to grab a wipe and take all the makeup off, add some moisturizer (again: Denver) and maybe some powder so I wasn’t all shiny, and that was it, when someone knocked on my door.

  I looked down at my phone on the basin, touching it to activate the screen.

  6:04.

  “Hell,” I whispered, tossed the tube in the basket that contained my measly collection of cosmetics, grabbed my lip treatment that was a shade called “buff” and dashed out of the bathroom.

  I slicked on the gloss as I shoved my feet in chili-red Rothy’s points, grabbed my blazer that was on the bed and rushed out of my bedroom.

  I tossed the blazer on the kitchen counter, the lip gloss on the blazer, at the same time I hesitated because I realized I hadn’t put on any jewelry and considered running back to my room in order to do that really quick.

  This was when another knock sounded at the door (apparently Daniel Magnusson was not patient).

  This possibility led my mind to race to the hope that, regardless of his apparent impatience, Mag was like Mo.

  Maybe not as humongous as Mo (though, that wouldn’t be bad, Mo didn’t seem cuddly as such, more like terrifying and able to tear you limb from limb with his bare hands, but he looked sweet and openly happy anytime Lottie cuddled him).

  But definitely as soft-spoken and gentle and loving as Mo was with Lottie.

  I mean, it would not suck having a man in my life, that man being like Mo.

  I could pay my own bills (and sometimes my mother’s, and a lot of the times, my father’s, this being the reason why it was taking forever to earn my degree—I kept having to sit out semesters because of lack of funds, the sole reason why I stripped, because I didn’t make Lottie-style tips, but strippers at Smithie’s made a bucketload).

  I could take out my own trash.

  But it’d be nice to have someone around.

  Okay, so maybe it would be nice to have someone around to listen to me bitch about my delinquent brother or my user mother and the many times they inveigled (or out-and-out connived) me into getting involved in their messy lives.

  But it also would be fun to cook with someone again.

  Or have someone to go see movies with, then dissect them after.

  Or go out and enjoy some really good food together, good food that came with good conversation.

  Or take a vacation and not think of anything but whatever excursion we’d planned that day.

  So, all right.

  Maybe I should give this a real shot.

  Lottie was good people, a good friend, a good woman.

  She wouldn’t steer me wrong.

  I went to the door, looked out the peephole and froze stiff.

  Mo was six five, bald, with unique but handsome features (when you got past the terrifying) and was the aforementioned humongous.

  The man outside was not any of that.

  He was…

  He was…

  I watched as he lifted his hand again to knock, I unfroze, unlocked and threw open the door, blurting, “I forgot to put on jewelry.”

  His chin jerked into his throat, his torso swayed back, and his electric-blue eyes did a slow sweep of me, from hair to Rothy’s. Those eyes grew alert, then they grew appreciative, and after that, his mouth curled ever so slowly into a sexy smile.

  Ohmigod.

  Oh man.

  Oh hell.

  Damn.

  He was…

  He was…

  All that dark hair, longish, flipping and curling and falling into his eyes.

  Tall, maybe not as tall as Mo, but not too far off.

  Way taller than me, and I was five nine.

  Fit.

  Oh God.

  So fit.

  Not humongous, but lean, broad of shoulder and chest, trim of waist, and bulky of thighs.

  Dark gray trousers, light-blue button-up, and he’d done a French tuck.

  The Queer Eye boys would give him an A++++.

  “Evan?” he asked.

  “Danny?” I mumbled.

  “Mag,” he stated.

  “Uh…” I kept mumbling. “Lottie said—”

  “Lottie’s bustin’ my chops,” he told me then softened his next with a grin. “No one calls me Danny but Mo’s sisters and that isn’t at my request.”

  “Oh,” I whispered.

  “You forgot your jewelry?” he prompted.

  My hands flew to my earlobes as I said, “Right. Um, come in. I won’t be a second.”

  I stepped back, opening the door wide for him to enter.

  He walked in and looked around.

  I closed the door.

  “Let me guess,” he said as he stopped looking around and turned to me. “You drive a Prius.”

  “Well, yeah,” I replied.

  He busted out laughing.

  My nipples tingled.

  Ohmigod.

  What was happening?

  He was so not my thing.

  I was a freak.

  I was a geek.

  And as such, I was into freaks and geeks.

  Stick with what you know.

  But the sound of his laughter…

  The look of it on his face…

  Okay.

  I changed my mind.

  I was not giving this a shot.

  No.

  Absolutely not.

  My brother was in jail (again).

  My mother was unemployed (again).

  My stepfather (this one number two) was undoubtedly stepping out on her (again) so she’d dump him (again) only to take him back (again).

  My father was a professional pothead disguised as a guitar teacher, and underlying all of this, for decades, he’d been a grower and dealer. But now, since marijuana was legal, he worked part-time at a dispensary, and he’d started that because he thought he’d get an employee discount but stayed because he enjoyed communing with his brethren.

  Last, my little sister spent all her time attempting to garner followers on social media as well as get on reality programs, therefore how she paid her bills, I had no idea, but if my mind went there, it grew troubled.

  Oh, and I was going to get some text from someone, and my brother needed me to do right by him, which undoubtedly would not be right by me.

  I did not have the time, or the inclination (that last was a bit of a lie) to be charmed by, become besotted with and put the effort into taming a brokenhearted manwhore who was so pretty, my heart wept just watching him laugh.

  But in the end, that heart would just be broken.

  Because he’d break it.

  “What’s funny?” I asked.

  “You might have wanted to leave some of the stock of Urban Outfitters for the other nostalgics,” he answered on a grin.

  Did he…

  Actually…

  Say that?

  “Some of it’s from Anthropologie,” I sniffed.

  He busted out laughing again.

  “And some of it is vintage,” I snapped over his hilarity.

  Now, he looked like he was fighting bending double with his amusement.

  “What do you drive?” I queried.

  “F-250,” he answered, still chucking.

  “Sorry?”

  “Ford F-250. A truck. A big one. And no, it’s not diesel and it absolutely does not plug into anything.”

  I felt my lips thin.

  He grinned again.

  “I see we’re gonna discuss global warming over dinner,” he noted.

  “There’s nothing to discuss. The globe is warming. Thus, we all should take some responsibility for turning that around. End of topi
c,” I retorted.

  He was still grinning when he said, “Chill, Evan. I’m teasing you. Your pad is tight. I like it. And cross my heart,” and he did just this with a very long, well-shaped forefinger, “I put all my leftovers in those reusable ziplocks Mac bought all the guys, and as often as I can, I refuse a straw.”

  “The end of the world as we know it isn’t funny,” I informed him.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  I studied his face in an attempt to ascertain if that was a lie.

  He was apparently being honest.

  Or he was a good liar.

  He smiled at me again and said softly, “Your jewelry.”

  “Right,” I muttered, turned and walked back to my bedroom.

  My mind ran amok (mostly with thoughts about how soft his hair might be, then trying to stop thoughts of how soft his hair might be) as I put my little gold ball studs in my ears and one midi-ring on my left forefinger that had a line of tiny emeralds across the front.

  This completed my outfit of army-green crop pants, gray scoop-necked, relax-fit tee (which I’d also given the French tuck), and the sand-colored blazer I was going to don when I got back to the kitchen.

  I walked out and I did so carefully because Mag was still standing in my living room, he was watching me, and I was known to be a klutz and I did not want to date this guy, but I also did not want to make a fool of myself in front of him.

  I went to the kitchen to shove my phone and lip gloss in my little bag and put on my blazer.

  As my kitchen had a huge opening to the living room over a counter delineated by a column at one end, Mag asked through it, “Did you put on your jewelry?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause then, “Did good, babe. As gorgeous as you are, you don’t need much.”

  My fingers stilled.

  I wanted to be offended he’d called me “babe” and thought I needed his approval of my accessorizing.

  All I could hear was the word “gorgeous.”

  And this was the charm I needed to guard against.

  The problem with that was it felt too nice aimed my way.

  I didn’t know what to do, or say, so I looked down to my bag, fumbled my lip gloss, it fell off the counter, I bent to retrieve it…

  And then, typical, within minutes of meeting him, I gave him a massive dose of the real Evan Gardiner.

  This being, I slammed my forehead into the edge of the counter.

  And that hurt.

  A lot.

  “Shit. Evan,” Mag called.

  But I did not reply because I was in the midst of overcompensating the recovery. Staggering back, I slammed into the counter behind me, the edge of it digging painfully into the small of my back, and between the crack on my head making me dizzy and the sting in my back, I went down, flat on my ass.

  Fabulous.

  Mag was there in what seemed like half a second, crouching beside me, his long, strapping thighs splayed wide, his trousers molded to the curves and dips of his clearly muscular knees, his hand coming toward me.

  I started to rear away from it, and he murmured, “Whoa,” and again moved fast so I banged the back of my head into his palm, which cracked against the cupboard.

  I heard Nancy Kerrigan’s plaintive cry in my head, but mine had to do with why I’d given in to this date.

  “Oh God, sorry,” I muttered, totally mortified.

  “Just…don’t move,” he ordered, taking control of my chin and lifting it slowly.

  I forced my eyes to his face to see him examining my forehead, but that close, I could see how curly his eyelashes were.

  Not good.

  Because they were awesome.

  “Smacked yourself a good one,” he murmured.

  Man.

  This was just…

  Humiliating.

  “I think you need ice,” he went on.

  “I—”

  I stopped speaking because he moved fast again, doing this to pick me up.

  Pick me up.

  One arm under my knees, one at my upper back.

  I was so stunned by this maneuver, not only him doing it, but his being able to do it, I said not a word as he walked me to my couch, laid me down on it, then strode back to the kitchen.

  I heard the ice machine grinding and then he returned with a bundled dishtowel.

  “Lay back,” he demanded.

  I reclined against my fringed toss pillows and Mag gently set the bundle on my forehead.

  “You need at least fifteen, twenty minutes of that, which means we’re gonna miss our reservation. I’ll order a pizza,” he declared. “Let me guess. Your half, veggie.”

  I was not thrilled (at all) that I’d blown this date the way I had.

  But one could not say I wasn’t thrilled I’d blown this date and now had a real excuse to get out of it.

  In an effort to do that, I peered out from under the towel and started, “Danny—”

  “Mag.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What?”

  “What?” I parroted, because he wasn’t close, but he was not far, and I could see how curly his eyelashes were again.

  “You said my name.”

  “I did?”

  His eyes narrowed and he stopped bending over me, holding the ice to my head, and bent into me, pulling the ice away and staring into my eyes.

  “What day is it?” he asked.

  “Tuesday.”

  “Who set us up?”

  “Lottie.”

  He held three fingers up to my face. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Three, Mag, stop it. I’m okay. I just…”

  I didn’t finish.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Just…”

  I again didn’t finish.

  “What, Evan?”

  God, really, was he actually that handsome?

  And right there, hovering over me, looking concerned, which made him even more handsome?

  “Evan?” he called.

  “Your eyelashes are very curly,” I whispered.

  That was when he did it.

  His gaze changed, it was an amazing change I felt in amazing places, it shifted to my mouth, and I felt that too, it was also amazing, and last, he murmured, “Baby.”

  “I’m not your baby,” I breathed.

  His gaze shifted back to my eyes, and he rumbled, all sexy, hot and sweet, “Oh yeah, you are.”

  My toes curled.

  “Danny—”

  “Mag.”

  “Mag, I—”

  My phone buzzed with a text.

  He looked to the kitchen counter, to me, put the ice back on and ordered, “Hold that.”

  I did as told, and he straightened and took the single step it took him with his long-ass legs to get to the counter.

  “What the fuck?” he asked.

  I kept the ice where it should be but tipped my head to look at him only to see him reading my screen.

  Yes.

  Reading my screen.

  “What are you doing?”

  His eyes dropped down to me. “Who you gonna meet at Storage and Such on East Colfax at eleven fuckin’ thirty, Evan?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Why you gonna meet someone at Storage and Such on East fuckin’ Colfax at eleven fuckin’ thirty?” he continued.

  I pushed up and reached out a hand. “Give me my phone.”

  “Answer me,” he demanded testily.

  I twisted in the couch to put my feet on the floor, saying, “I’ve known you all of ten minutes. You can’t read my texts and it’s none of your business who I meet where.”

  “You got a situation?” he asked.

  I didn’t.

  My brother obviously did.

  “No,” I semi-lied.

  “You keep bad company?” he asked.

  I didn’t.

  But my brother totally did.

  “No,” I did not lie, though I had a feeling, if I went to Storage and Such on
East Colfax, I would be.

  My phone chimed again with another text and his eyes went direct to it.

  Now…

  Really.

  I stood, pulling the ice off my head and snapping, “Danny!”

  He looked to me and growled, “It says meet outside unit six and come alone.”

  I slowly closed my eyes and let my head fall back.

  “Evan.”

  He was still growling.

  I said nothing.

  Come alone.

  Mick, what mess are you in now? I thought.

  “Evie,” Mag clipped.

  I opened my eyes and righted my head.

  “There’s a favor I need to do for my brother.”

  “At eleven thirty on East Colfax?”

  I tipped my head to the side and shrugged, but that was a sham seeing as a chill was racing up my spine.

  “Lie down. Ice on,” he bit out.

  “Danny—”

  “Lie your ass down and get that ice back to that bump, Evie, then we’ll talk.”

  “We won’t talk, you’ll just go. Obviously, the date’s off for this evening. We’ll reschedule.”

  Or we would not.

  “Mac says you’re a genius,” he announced, apropos of nothing.

  I blinked and asked, “What?”

  “Lottie. She says you’re a genius.”

  Wow.

  That was nice.

  “She says you told her that you took apart a radio, and put it back together,” he carried on. “When you were six.”

  I did do that.

  My mother thought I was a freak.

  My father bought every broken radio he could find at thrift shops, brought them home, made me fix them, then sold them at triple what he bought them for.

  I didn’t, incidentally, see a dime of those earnings.

  I was six, but, you know, allowance.

  Maybe?

  Mag continued talking.

  “So, genius, look at my face and tell me if I’m leaving.”

  I looked at his face.

  I then became suddenly exhausted as the weight of my visit with my brother and all that might mean settled hard on my shoulders, and I decided to stretch out on my couch and put the ice on my head.

  “Good call,” he muttered.

  One could say I was correct in my concerns about Daniel Magnusson.

  I didn’t know if he was toxic.

  But he was a bossy damned alpha.

  And meddling.

  “I don’t like you,” I told the ceiling.

  “You like my eyelashes,” he said as I heard him settle in my armchair.