Wrong Bed, Right Man Read online

  “I think there’s been a mistake.” She frowned. “You’ve got the wrong bed. The whole wrong apartment. I didn’t sell this to anyone.”

  “I talked to Jason,” he said, hoping to jog her memory. “I got it off Craigslist.”

  He waited for the woman to go, “Oh, yeah, I remember now! Sorry!” and smile and relax and get out of his way. He could still fix it and get a sale. It was still worth it to him.

  But the woman didn’t smile. Or relax. Or shrug like who cared, the bed was his problem now.

  He didn’t know if it was the word Jason or Craigslist or what, but she got this look like he couldn’t describe. Angry. If he had to guess, that was what he’d call it. Really fucking pissed.

  “That little shit,” she spat, almost like she’d forgotten Owen was there.

  He didn’t usually care about social BS like which fork went where. Or what events you weren’t supposed to show up at wearing jeans. Or what fake, pretend shit you were expected to say with a fake, pretend smile to make some fake, pretend asshole feel good.

  But even he knew this probably wasn’t the right time to shrug and start taking out his tools.

  “Something tells me this wasn’t Jason’s to part with,” he said.

  “It was mine.” Her voice was stony. “And it used to be perfectly fine.”

  He explained to her how one of the slats had seemed bent. “I must have slammed down right on it, and the whole thing gave out. You didn’t notice it sagged?”

  There was a pause. He wondered if he’d overstepped. Then she said, “I haven’t been sleeping here in a while.”

  Oh.

  Interesting.

  So, not Jason’s girlfriend/wife/whatever, which was what he’d thought—even if it didn’t square with Jason’s story about moving out.

  Jason’s ex?

  “He must have broken it. He still didn’t have the right to sell it. Even though—” She stopped.

  “Even though what?”

  She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  He agreed. It was none of his business. His curiosity about a beautiful woman had no bearing on what to do about her beautiful bed.

  But she didn’t deserve to walk in and find some stranger dismantling her things. Nobody did.

  “It’s because I found him with another woman.” She said it flatly, staring at the mattress on the floor.

  He let loose a string of expletives. He was not expecting her to say that. “Little shit seems kind of generous now, under the circumstances.”

  She looked up at him, not even a hint of a smile. “I couldn’t take everything with me when I moved out. I thought I’d come back while he’s at work to see about getting the bed.”

  Suddenly, things made more sense. Like the blank spots on the shelves. The fact that Jason, that asshole, didn’t give a fuck about the furniture that wasn’t his.

  “He could have told me to get it out of here,” she said, seeming on the brink of tears now. “It was my grandmother’s. After she passed away, my mom had it sent to me all the way from St. Louis. He knows I always loved it. It reminds me of her.”

  Great. The final fucking nail in the fucking coffin.

  What was he supposed to do? Take this almost-crying woman’s dead grandmother’s family heirloom right out from under her?

  But the alternative wasn’t great, either. He’d have to go home and tell his dad the whole day had been shot. He should have stayed in the shop, at least making progress on his one commission.

  “Did you already pay him?” she asked. “I don’t know if I can buy it back right now, but if there’s any way I could, I don’t know—an installment plan?” Her voice spiraled up. “Please? There has to be some way to fix it.”

  Owen wished he could tell her it was too late, sorry, better luck next time. Didn’t he have to look out for himself, his family, his livelihood?

  But he couldn’t do that to the woman before him. He may not have had a swanky Manhattan zip code or a closet full of silk ties, but he did have one thing. His integrity. His name.

  “I didn’t pay Jason yet,” he said truthfully.

  Her hand went to her heart. “Is there any way we can work something out?”

  Fuck.

  Owen pulled the check from his wallet. He was supposed to leave it on the table when he left.

  He knew he shouldn’t pass up this business. He couldn’t afford to go giving a shit.

  But right there, in some stranger’s bedroom, he ripped the check to pieces and put the useless confetti in the woman’s outstretched palms, trying not to notice how soft her skin was as his fingers brushed hers for a moment too long.

  Wasn’t this his business now? Three generations of Crowleys and it had all been passed on to him. His decisions, his mistakes. He’d just have to figure out some other way to make up the shortfall this month.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Rose,” she said.

  He curled her fingers over the voided check. “If you want, Rose, I can fix it for you.”

  Chapter Three

  Rose held the scraps of Owen’s check in her hands. It was one surprise after another.

  That this man was in her bed.

  That this man had almost bought her bed out from under her.

  That this man was gorgeous.

  That this gorgeous man was also kind.

  “How?” she asked, staring at him. “How can you fix it?”

  “It’s your lucky day. Well, obviously not.” He gave a rueful laugh. “But I make furniture, this little company called Crowley & Sons. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, but I know how to—”

  A small yelp escaped her. She tried to stuff it back in, but it was too late. He’d definitely heard.

  He raised an eyebrow. Her cheeks blazed. “You know it?” he asked.

  She nodded mutely, just a little. She was still trying to find her voice. “I’ve heard of you,” she finally managed to squeak.

  You’re on a list hanging up in my office. The Crush List. A list of businesses CUBE could do without.

  It wasn’t like one family operation out in Queens made a dent in CUBE’s bottom line. But add up the sales from all the small shops, and it was a different story.

  She should know. It was the basis for CUBE’s latest advertising campaign. They were angling to show how they were better than those little places. Why customers should shop with them instead.

  Jason would never sell something to a Crowley. But he probably hadn’t made the connection. Rose certainly hadn’t thought of it when Owen introduced himself. Crowley was a common enough name. In the moment she’d stumbled across him flung across her bed, CUBE and work and the Crush List were the furthest things from her mind.

  Not when she was trying to mask how surprised she was. How upset from watching the bed crack. And how flustered by the flex of his muscles as he pulled himself from the mattress.

  His eyes, it turned out, were sky blue. And judging by the brightness in them now, she could guess Owen had no idea whose apartment he was standing in. Or who he’d just given a ripped up check to, his fingers calloused and warm as he’d pressed his hands to hers.

  “I can’t ask you to fix it,” she said.

  “I’m the one who broke it.”

  “But I didn’t budget for anything like this. I can’t—”

  “Let’s see what we’re dealing with before we start getting into the details,” he said gently.

  She hated admitting she couldn’t afford it. But he sounded so nice about it. She was trying to insist, again, that she couldn’t accept his help when he slid the mattress down farther, exposing more of the wood underneath. The mattress was heavy, but he moved it like it was nothing.

  Rose wasn’t superficial or anything. She never went for the bulky
guys, the ones cut from hours spent preening at the gym. But it was clear that wasn’t where Owen’s body came from. His body came from using it—building, working, lifting. Just the simple gesture made her breath catch.

  She tried to tamp down the flutter. She couldn’t let her heart flop like a fish just because some guy flexed his biceps in her general direction. It was just her desperation talking, the kind anyone might feel after breaking off an engagement and wondering if she’d ever feel desire again. Or, worse, if anyone would feel it for her.

  But there was such a thing as jumping back on the horse too soon, before her wounds had healed. The fact that she was even looking at a stranger was a sign of how badly she needed to keep herself in check.

  Especially since Owen wasn’t looking at her that way at all.

  “That’s where the weak spot was.” He pointed to an area under the mattress. He clearly wasn’t having any trouble keeping this professional. His hands probably weren’t clammy or his heart beating like a drum. “If there was already a crack there, I helped it along.”

  But the bed had always been sturdy. How could Jason have cracked it? Had he done it just to get back at her?

  If he was that pissed, he could’ve scratched up the headboard or something petty and obvious. But that wasn’t his style. He was more the type to sell her possessions out from under her and then shrug and say, “It’s just business, honey.” It’s just sex. That didn’t shock her in the least.

  “How could that have happened?” she asked, more to herself than because she expected an answer.

  “Probably from force,” Owen said, and she was reminded that he knew what he was talking about. Which was why she needed to stop salivating and remember why she was here.

  “Force?” she echoed, not sure what he meant.

  A blush crept up his face, and she realized how stupid she sounded. Owen wasn’t talking about the force of, say, someone jumping on the bed—something Rose was not allowed to do when she was a kid.

  Her stomach curdled. She couldn’t believe Jason and Annabeth had fucked hard enough to crack her grandmother’s bedframe.

  It had to be them. Rose had never had break-the-bed sex with anyone. Ever.

  The thought that one could have break-the-bed sex had honestly never occurred to her until this second. The second Owen didn’t answer her question of how this happened, and his silence said everything he was too embarrassed—or too tactful—to spell out for her naive little ears.

  It took her right back to the sounds she’d heard coming from Annabeth as Jason went to town on her. The way her head had thrown back, her hips thrusting up. It wasn’t the look of someone faking it or exaggerating to soothe a guy’s ego. It was the response of someone truly transported. Not such a huge leap to imagine that kind of ecstasy leading to the split she now saw in the wood.

  Much as it felt like a million knives slicing through her to imagine it at all.

  “Let’s pretend I didn’t ask that,” she said bitterly. If only she’d been alone when she discovered the crack, so she didn’t have to be so embarrassed in front of someone.

  If only she’d taken the bed when she’d moved out, so Jason and Annabeth didn’t have the chance to use it again.

  If only she’d never gotten together with Jason in the first place.

  If only, if only.

  “What should I do?” she asked, trying to sound like she was still in control and not falling apart on the inside.

  “I can get new wood and rebuild the base. Other people would probably make you a lowball offer and then just seal the broken pieces back together. But it’s better to start over with something sturdy so it’s not weak along the cracks.”

  She waved a hand. This was all overkill. “I’m not going to break my bed from sleeping.”

  Owen gave her what she could only describe as a look.

  “I’m not,” she said again, more emphatic this time.

  “Your bed should be able to withstand everything you need.”

  Was he flirting with her? No, definitely not.

  Even so, her cheeks burned.

  “I should probably tell you something else,” she said quickly. She needed to make it clear who she was, where she worked, and stop whatever this was before it went too far.

  But Owen was already nodding. “I’ll say.” He pointed to the bed. What the hell was he talking about?

  She took a step closer.

  He’d pulled the mattress over another few feet, presumably looking for where the crack began. But that wasn’t the problem.

  As soon as she saw what he’d found, her whole face—her entire body—went up in flames.

  Chapter Four

  Well, damn. This day was turning out to be full of surprises. And not all of them bad.

  “Looks like we’ve found the original source of the problem,” he said and stepped aside to give her a better view.

  She probably expected something horrible, like termites. He’d seen that before. But he already knew that what was hiding under Rose’s mattress would surprise her more than anything running through her mind right now.

  She leaned forward and cocked her head, as if confused by what was under the mattress. And then, a shock of red bloomed on her cheeks.

  “Those aren’t mine,” she said immediately, taking a huge step back.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “No. I mean it.”

  “Trust me. I’ve seen worse. You should see some of the things that surface at estate sales. People’s grandparents’ stuff? It’s awkward for everyone.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “I’m just saying. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “I’m not!” she cried, her eyes flying open again. “I’m telling you. They’re not mine.”

  “And I’m telling you that I’m not judging.”

  “I’ve never seen them before. This is the first time I’ve seen anything like that.”

  Her embarrassment was adorable, but it bummed him out. Such a sexy woman, living in the lap of luxury, secure long-term relationship heading toward marriage—and she was that freaked out by leather restraints? Seemed like a shame.

  The restraints had been attached to the base of the bed, back when there was still a base intact. They could loop around the mattress and secure a participant’s wrists. Or be discreetly tucked away with none the wiser. Owen wondered how long they’d been there. How much had Jason Fucking Harris used them with women who weren’t Rose?

  How much had Rose missed out on by being with some guy who had no idea what she was worth?

  “Jason is such a freak,” she muttered, the bitterness surprising and sharp.

  “Hey.” Owen held up his palms. “He’s a cheating sack of shit, but let’s not confuse the issue.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care what you do in your spare time. But I’m not like that.”

  He wasn’t going to push it. Not when Rose looked like her teeth were about to fall out of her jaw, she was grinding them so hard.

  But he was intrigued. By the restraints, sure, but even more by the woman before him. The one trying desperately to control her features. And failing miserably.

  He unclipped the restraints, pulling them through the broken slats. Normally, when a person bent over backward to deny that something was theirs, that meant it definitely belonged to them.

  But the shock on Rose’s face couldn’t be faked. And, underneath it, the hurt that came from finding out yet another thing that asshole ex had hidden from her.

  It was a good thing he’d only emailed with Jason. If he ever met that guy in person, the first thing he’d probably do was clock him in the face.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said.

  “What?” She sounded wary, like she was trying to figure out how h
er day could possibly get any worse.

  But Owen wasn’t in the business of making people miserable.

  Besides, he’d already lost the bed, the rest of the furniture in the apartment, and any hope of salvaging a sale from this day. He might as well go all the way.

  “I’ve already got my truck here. I’m going to take your furniture back to my workshop. I’ll make the bed better than new. And then I’ll bring it all to you.”

  She shook her head, not even thinking it over. “I already told you. That’s too much work. I’ll figure it out.”

  “You can’t hire regular movers to get this out of here. You’ll risk even more damage. And if someone cheap says they can fix this—trust me, Rose. You don’t want that. Not with a piece this nice.” He paused then added, “The only thing is that I’ll need to hang on to it for a few days.”

  And I’ll need to see you again.

  Could he really pretend that thought hadn’t crossed his mind before making the offer? He wasn’t just losing time and money with every second he spent in this apartment. He was also losing brain cells, so that all he could think about was how not to let Rose get away.

  She tried to argue. But he argued right back.

  “You’ve got to get your stuff out or Jason will think he can just find another buyer. I’m already here, and I know I won’t break it. Well, anything else, I mean.” He tried not to blush, thinking of the bed.

  But she was the one who was reddening. “I already know I can’t afford what you’re worth.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  But she was insistent. “I’m not going to owe you. I’ll pay you what I was going to spend on movers.”

  “Fine,” he said. “But I’m still fixing the bed—since I’m the one that broke it.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Then you can throw in one thing more.”

  She held up her hands. “Anything to make it right.”

  He swallowed. Watching her lips form around that word, hearing the breathy “anything” come from her mouth…

  It made his dick respond like it thought the word actually meant something. Meant what, under any other circumstances, he might have wanted it to.