and dusted it off. The woman would never be confused with Martha Stewart. Rocki tossed the selection of undergarments into her weekender along with a few pairs of jeans—something he’d never seen her wear—sweaters, and, to his surprise, a white cotton granny nightgown.
She didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who wore granny nightgowns to bed. No, he’d pegged her for something sheer and silky, or nothing at all. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, but damn, anything was better than the Grandma Moses thing she held.
Slater kept his eyes trained on his screen and thanked God his peripheral vision was exceptional. She moved around the place with a nervous energy that made him wonder if it was more the rule than the exception. “What’s the number for the restaurant downstairs? I’ll call in an order—it should be ready by the time you’re done packing.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat anyway.”
“Fine.” Rocki grabbed her phone. “I have it on speed dial—I’ll order. What would you like?”
“Just order me whatever you’re having, I’m not picky—just make sure they give me a fork. I can’t drive and eat with chopsticks.”
“I hope you don’t mind it spicy.”
Spicy worked for him. “I can take anything you can dish up.”
“I guess we’ll see.” She dialed the phone, shoved clothes under her arm, and headed to the bathroom speaking Chinese.
Well, shit. This woman was just full of surprises.
“It’ll be ready in five minutes.”
He heard the bathroom door close and stopped pretending to be riveted to his computer and stood. He had five minutes, so he took the time to study the studio apartment, looking for anything that would tell him who Rocki O’Sullivan was—other than a bit of a slob.
Sheet music littered the piano. He paged through it and realized it was all original work. Serious work. Amazing. The woman not only played classical music, but she also wrote it.
One piece rested on the music rack and looked as if it was a work in progress. She’d titled it “Him.” Him who? The paper had been erased more times than a grade school chalkboard and showed some serious wear. Entire bars had been scratched out and rewritten. Notations in the margins pointed out which parts needed more work. He scanned the room looking for any evidence of a man in her life—after all, she’d written the piece for someone.
Slater sat at the piano more confused than ever, took a deep breath, and let his eyes wander. Rocki must have spent a lot of her time sitting right here, considering the amount of music she’d written. His eyes landed on a photograph—the only one in the apartment.
He slid off the bench, skirted the piano, and picked up the four-by-six shot of Rocki on top of a ski slope with a blond-haired man. They had their arms around each other, as if they’d stopped midrun for a kiss and a cuddle.
Rocki looked happy—too damn happy in Slater’s opinion. Shit. He put the picture back where he’d found it. The sight of Rocki touching another man—any man that wasn’t him—did funny things to his insides. Things he wasn’t used to feeling. Feelings so foreign to him, he wasn’t sure he even recognized them. All he knew was that he didn’t like whatever the hell it was. If Slater had been standing next to them, he’d have put his fist through the guy’s face and ripped Rocki right out of his arms. That knowledge alone was enough to make Slater want to get as far away from Rocki as humanly possible. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave. He would be stuck like Velcro to the woman for the next day or two at the very least. “Fuck.”
“Problem?”
Slater turned so fast he almost tripped over his size-thirteen feet. “No.” Other than he’d just freaked himself out. “I didn’t hear you.” When he got his balance—both physical and, he hoped, mental, he wondered how much of his klutziness she’d seen. He pulled himself together, took a good look at her,
She didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who wore granny nightgowns to bed. No, he’d pegged her for something sheer and silky, or nothing at all. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, but damn, anything was better than the Grandma Moses thing she held.
Slater kept his eyes trained on his screen and thanked God his peripheral vision was exceptional. She moved around the place with a nervous energy that made him wonder if it was more the rule than the exception. “What’s the number for the restaurant downstairs? I’ll call in an order—it should be ready by the time you’re done packing.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat anyway.”
“Fine.” Rocki grabbed her phone. “I have it on speed dial—I’ll order. What would you like?”
“Just order me whatever you’re having, I’m not picky—just make sure they give me a fork. I can’t drive and eat with chopsticks.”
“I hope you don’t mind it spicy.”
Spicy worked for him. “I can take anything you can dish up.”
“I guess we’ll see.” She dialed the phone, shoved clothes under her arm, and headed to the bathroom speaking Chinese.
Well, shit. This woman was just full of surprises.
“It’ll be ready in five minutes.”
He heard the bathroom door close and stopped pretending to be riveted to his computer and stood. He had five minutes, so he took the time to study the studio apartment, looking for anything that would tell him who Rocki O’Sullivan was—other than a bit of a slob.
Sheet music littered the piano. He paged through it and realized it was all original work. Serious work. Amazing. The woman not only played classical music, but she also wrote it.
One piece rested on the music rack and looked as if it was a work in progress. She’d titled it “Him.” Him who? The paper had been erased more times than a grade school chalkboard and showed some serious wear. Entire bars had been scratched out and rewritten. Notations in the margins pointed out which parts needed more work. He scanned the room looking for any evidence of a man in her life—after all, she’d written the piece for someone.
Slater sat at the piano more confused than ever, took a deep breath, and let his eyes wander. Rocki must have spent a lot of her time sitting right here, considering the amount of music she’d written. His eyes landed on a photograph—the only one in the apartment.
He slid off the bench, skirted the piano, and picked up the four-by-six shot of Rocki on top of a ski slope with a blond-haired man. They had their arms around each other, as if they’d stopped midrun for a kiss and a cuddle.
Rocki looked happy—too damn happy in Slater’s opinion. Shit. He put the picture back where he’d found it. The sight of Rocki touching another man—any man that wasn’t him—did funny things to his insides. Things he wasn’t used to feeling. Feelings so foreign to him, he wasn’t sure he even recognized them. All he knew was that he didn’t like whatever the hell it was. If Slater had been standing next to them, he’d have put his fist through the guy’s face and ripped Rocki right out of his arms. That knowledge alone was enough to make Slater want to get as far away from Rocki as humanly possible. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave. He would be stuck like Velcro to the woman for the next day or two at the very least. “Fuck.”
“Problem?”
Slater turned so fast he almost tripped over his size-thirteen feet. “No.” Other than he’d just freaked himself out. “I didn’t hear you.” When he got his balance—both physical and, he hoped, mental, he wondered how much of his klutziness she’d seen. He pulled himself together, took a good look at her,
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