Making Over Maris Page 3

  But Sara ignored him. “‘If Yes: Charm her from her bad mood. If No: Proceed with caution.’” Sara sighed and glanced up at him. “Proceed with caution? We’re not wild animals, Jack.”

  “You kind of are.” This he muttered. She didn’t hear. Or maybe she did. Maybe she was ignoring him again. She did that.

  With a derisive snort, she crumpled up his precious template for seduction and tossed it in the trash.

  With a strangled “eep” he dove in after it, dug it out, refolded it and tucked it back into his wallet. It had never worked but it was all he had. He needed it.

  She glared at him. And then for some reason she softened. “Women are not an empirical science, Jack.” She gestured to his wallet. “We’re not all alike. There is no ‘one size fits all’ approach to winning someone’s heart.”

  Yeah. He got that. “But you need to have a standard operating procedure—”

  “No, ya don’t.” She blew out a breath. He loved the way it made her bangs flutter up. “Don’t you see? This kind of thing comes off as cheesy. Planned. Practiced.”

  “And that’s…bad?” How could planning and practice be bad?

  “Women don’t want to feel like they’re an insect being dissected or analyzed. They don’t want to be one option in a sea of possibilities. They want to be special. They want a guy who responds to them on an instinctual level. A guy who is so interested, he can’t help but be charming. Not a guy who has to be reminded to be seductive—by an SOP.”

  He shook his head. This was all so…alien. “I don’t get it.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “No. You don’t. That’s the point. Oh Jack, I’m going to need a couple days to think about this.”

  His pulse stuttered. “But you already promised…”

  “No. I’ll do it. I did promise to do it. I just need to think about how to do it.”

  He relaxed. Okay. Okay. Okay. It would be okay. “Thank you, Sara.”

  “Yeah.” Her cell phone buzzed and she picked it up to check the screen. Her lips tightened and she set it back down. “No prob.”

  Damn. Why did she seem so dispirited? He’d seen the tears on her cheeks when he interrupted her meeting with Kat. He’d hated her tears. Hated even more that he didn’t have any right to wipe them away.

  “Sara.” He waited until she met his gaze. “Thank you.”

  This meant everything to him. More than she could ever know.

  “Sure, Jack. Give me a couple days to think about this.”

  “Sure.”

  She stared at him for a minute and then said in a very small voice, “You can go now.”

  Right. He could go. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to fold her in his arms and hold her and make whatever was making her sad disappear.

  He didn’t have that right either.

  And he never would.

  But for the next few months, he’d have her attention.

  And that would be worth a thousand trips to Paris.

  Chapter Three

  Three days—three agonizing days later—she finally got back to him. She found him having lunch in the break room and plopped into an empty chair at his table, dropping a heavy tote bag on the chair beside her. She rooted around in it and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which she shoved across the table at him.

  Jack took them with numb fingers. “What’s this?”

  Sara crossed her arms over her chest and gored him with a militant stare. “Step one. A diet and exercise plan. Follow it.”

  He scanned the sheets. His heart pounded. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “I can’t eat like this.”

  “You can and you will.” She frowned at his prefabricated microwavable sandwich. “If nothing else it’ll give you an appreciation of what women go through trying to look nice for you men.”

  Was that bitterness in her tone? Hard to tell, the way she snarled the words.

  “Um. Okay.” He could try the stupid diet. He scanned the sheet again. Ugh. Vegetables. He could probably try it. “Is that all?”

  “Not hardly.” She tried to hide her smirk but failed spectacularly. “Here.” She hefted the tote bag onto the table and thrust it at him. “Study these.”

  “What’s this?” He peeked in the bag. Books.

  Books?

  That was her big plan?

  Books?

  He pulled one out and glanced at the cover. Winced. It was ratty and old and entitled The Gentleman’s Handbook.

  She made a face. “All right, that one’s from the fifties. I know it’s outdated but hey, you gotta start somewhere. It’s a great reference on how to behave with a woman.”

  “Okay.” Sure. He’d read it. Because she thought it was important. He set the book aside and pulled out another.

  “That’s a collection of popular pick-up lines. Memorize them.”

  Jack flipped through the book, reading a line here or there. Awesome. Some awesome stuff. “Sweet.”

  “Memorize them Jack…and don’t use them.” Her voice warbled with intensity.

  “What?” He probably didn’t need to squawk. But seriously? These pick-up lines were golden.

  Wanna have breakfast sometime? Should I call you or nudge you? Classic.

  “I’m serious.” Her button nose wrinkled up. “Never use these lines. Women have heard them all before and they come off as cheesy.”

  He added the book to the pile on the table and fished out another. The cover featured a blazing display—a half-dressed wanton in the arms of a beefy shirtless hunk. He blanched. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a romance novel, Jack.” She said his name as though it tasted bad. “One of the best ones ever written in my humble opinion.”

  “You want me to read a romance novel?”

  She drummed her fingers on the table. The rhythm resonated through the small room. “Are you questioning me?”

  Jack stilled. Heat scoured him. His cock stirred. It always did when she used that tone of voice. He dropped his gaze and shivered. “No.” A whisper.

  “You’d better not. I told you I was going to work you, Jack. And I meant it.”

  Another shiver. He glanced up at her. His mouth pooled with drool and he swallowed heavily. She was so beautiful when her eyes gleamed with that commanding light. When her nostrils flared delicately with annoyance. When her fingers drummed on the table.

  So beautiful he could barely stand it.

  “Think of it as research.”

  “Research?” Research, he could handle. He loved research.

  “Yeah. Research into the psyche of women.”

  “Okay.” Because he couldn’t bear the intensity of her expression—when he could look at her but never touch—he turned his attention to the other books, pawing through the seemingly bottomless bag. It held books on a variety of topics. Body language. Nonverbal cues. Emotional intelligence. The list went on and on. “This is…a lot of books.”

  “You have a couple weeks. I want you to study them. Study them all. And you’d better do a good job. There will be a quiz.” She frowned. “Do you understand?”

  His throat worked; it was clogged with something that tasted like lust. So clogged he was barely able to form a response. “Yes…” He didn’t say the other word, the word he was longing to say. But it hovered there on the tip of his tongue.

  He set his teeth and clenched his muscles to hold it back.

  If he said that word it would ruin everything.

  And probably piss her off.

  She raked him with a scorching scrutiny. “When I get back, I expect to see results. Don’t disappoint me.” And then she stood and left the room.

  Jack watched her walk away, trying to ignore the ball in his gut. He wasn’t sure if it was sheer panic at the assignments she’d handed him or the sharp edge of arousal caused by her bossy attitude. Or the pain of watching her walk away.

  Whoo, boy. What had he gotten himself into? The next few weeks were going to be pure hell.

&nbs
p; And damn it all. She wasn’t even going to be here to watch.

  * * * * *

  Jack followed her diet plan diligently for two weeks, making it a game to seek and destroy the carbs and fats in his pantry. The ritual sacrifice of his snack cakes was even kind of fun—after he discovered they were extraordinarily flammable. The funeral pyre he built in his fireplace burned for hours.

  He filled his fridge with the vegetables and fruits on her list—especially those he discovered he actually liked.

  The third week he struggled because word came from Vermont that she was staying another two weeks. He let himself pout—for about five minutes—and then redoubled his efforts.

  Whenever he wasn’t at work, he was at the gym. And when that became annoying, he went out and bought exercise equipment and weights, cleared out a space in his basement and created a gym of his own at home.

  And then he began taking projects home. So he could exercise when he was stumped, or when he wasn’t. Or when he needed to think. He replaced the comfy leather chair at his desk with a balance ball so he could work on his core ten-to-twelve hours a day.

  He was slowly but surely getting used to that hideous low-carb diet, even coming to enjoy some of his meals. Food started tasting…better. He wasn’t sure why.

  The interns teased him at first when they saw him eating salads at lunchtime and popping edamame between meals. He ignored them and eventually they laid off.

  No one in the office noticed the difference but Jack didn’t let that bum him out. He just worked harder. By the time a month and a half had passed, he’d dropped twenty pounds and could actually see his ribs.

  But there was more to it than that. He felt better. Sexier. More attractive.

  People on the street—women on the street—actually caught his gaze, held it.

  Or maybe it was him. Maybe he was the one not looking away.

  He’d read her stupid books too—several times—especially the romances, and then went out and bought some more. To his surprise he found he liked the novels. He liked the sex scenes the best but studied the other parts with equal fervor. He paid special attention to the heroes, highlighting passages and making notes in the margins until his eyes were bleary. And then he finally gave up on notes in the margins and created a spreadsheet to track the data. Then wrote an analytic program to quantify the vectors.

  It was all very scientific.

  He even casually interviewed his female coworkers, especially Kat and Shannon. Because they were women.

  By the time Sara returned, he felt as though he’d made progress. Which was probably why, when she ran into him in the hallway that Friday morning and she studied him…and snorted, he was annoyed.

  Hell.

  After all that work?

  A snort?

  She was supposed to look at him and see him. See him as a man, for God’s sake.

  His mood plummeted. For the first time he faced the possibility that this idiotic plan wasn’t going to work.

  The sense of hopelessness was stultifying.

  His depression sent him to the freezer.

  As luck would have it, Sara caught him in the act, in the break room with his grubby paws all over his go-to food—a prefabricated microwavable sandwich. He nearly dropped it when he got a load of her expression.

  “Jack!” The way she said his name, that sharp tone, made his nerves jangle. “What are you doing?”

  He hid the sandwich behind his back. “Nothing.”

  Her eyes narrowed. The jangle became a thrum. “Oh. My. God. Are you cheating?”

  “No.” Heat prickled the back of his neck.

  She thrust out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  Funny thing was, it wasn’t guilt washing through him. It was arousal. When she was bossy and demanding—damn.

  “Come on, Jack! Hand it over.”

  He did.

  He handed it over.

  He would have done anything she asked at that moment.

  She glared at the cellophane-wrapped package and tossed it in the trash. “Do you know how many nitrates those things have?”

  Jack blinked. Nitrates? Who the hell cared about nitrates? She would destroy him long before any nitrates could clog his heart. Standing here next to her, drawing in her scent was killing him. He wanted so badly to touch her. Kiss her. Worship her.

  “And calories from fat? Please tell me you haven’t been eating these.”

  “I haven’t.” He gazed longingly at the trash can. “I only wanted to hold it.”

  “Damn it, Jack. You asked me to help you but you have to help yourself.” She stepped closer and waggled her finger in his direction. “I’m not going to let you weasel your way out of this, buster.” God, she was hot. “If you cheat and fail, you’re still paying me. You got that?”

  He looked away. Had to. She was so damn sexy when she wagged her finger at him. Lust coiled in his belly. When he thought of the other things she might wag in his direction, he got weak in the knees. In fact…

  “Jack! Are you even listening?”

  “Huh? Yeah. Sure.”

  “You’re still paying me. Even if you cheat. You got that, Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes narrowed on his chest. “What are you wearing?”

  “My favorite t-shirt.”

  “Your favorite?” She rolled her eyes. “All your base are belong to us? It’s not even good English.”

  “It’s a meme, Sara.”

  She ignored this, leaning in to sniff him. As exciting as that was, his mood plummeted when she winkled her nose. “When’s the last time you did laundry?”

  “Laundry?”

  “Yeah. You know that thing where you clean your clothes on a regular basis so you don’t smell like a Sasquatch?”

  “How do you know what a Sasquatch smells like?”

  It was a serious, empirical question. Enquiring minds wanted to know. No hard data on the bigfoot phenomenon existed but conspiracy theories flourished on the web.

  He didn’t understand why she bristled like a hedgehog.

  A hedgehog on its period.

  He decided not to share the analogy with her, which was probably for the best. She was a little cranky.

  She yanked open the fridge, pulled out his salad and thrust it at him. “This is your lunch.”

  He took the salad and slunk back to his office, trying to appear chastened. But inside he was nearly delirious with joy.

  Because Sara was back.

  Damn Jack.

  Sara fumed as she stormed back to her office.

  She’d been so angry when she walked into the break room to see him fondling that stupid sandwich.

  Part of the anger, she had to allow, was at men in general. The whole time she’d been gone, Todd hadn’t called or emailed or texted her once. She hadn’t expected him to—not really. But she had hoped.

  And as usual she was disappointed.

  And Jack—that was icing on the disenchantment cake.

  She should have known. She should have known giving him a diet and workout plan was a stupid idea. Men were so weak when it came to self-discipline.

  Hell, they were weak when it came to everything.

  She should have known her plan wouldn’t work. That he wouldn’t let it.

  She’d made a promise.

  She’d done her best.

  She’d be damned if she would let him ruin everything. He would not cheat her out of that trip.

  It had become something of an obsession with her over the past month—the glimmer of hope. The dream of Paris.

  During the past few weeks, she’d spent a lot of time reviewing her life. Reviewing one’s life was never pleasant when one was staring down the barrel of her thirtieth year. And realizing life wasn’t turning out as planned led one to obsess.

  She’d come to realize she’d probably never find what she was searching for. Never have the kind of relationship she craved—that magical, romantic connection with a man. She’d probab
ly never get married or have children or a have picket fence or any of that crap. It was, in fact, a fairy tale. An evil lie told to girls to keep them docile and submissive.

  Sara wasn’t docile or submissive. Not in the least.

  She never had been.

  And by God, she was fucking going to Paris. She was going to spend her fucking birthday enjoying the fucking city lights from the top of the fucking Eiffel Tower with a fucking glass of champagne in her hand if it killed her.

  Jack was not going to blow this for her.

  She stewed for about an hour—studiously ignoring the emails that had accumulated while she’d been gone—and then decided to take the bull by the horns. It was time to end this. And collect her trip.

  She stormed to the lab and glowered at all the interns until they scattered. Then she rounded on Jack, who was sitting at his desk—bouncing on a large orange ball, for God’s sake—and frowned. She slammed the door so hard the walls shook. “You need to shave.” She didn’t intend to be so blunt.

  Okay. Maybe she did.

  His beard annoyed the crap out of her. No woman would want to kiss a face felted in that wiry mass. How could he not see that?

  “What?” Panic flared in his eyes.

  Sara ignored it. Fisted her hands on her hips. “Jack. The beard has got to go.”

  He fingered the scraggly strands. “How about I just trim it down?”

  “No.”

  “Sara—”

  “Shave it.” God, it felt good. To bark a command.

  “I can’t.”

  She glared at him, disliking the guilt swirling in her belly. Had she secretly hoped he would refuse? Was that why she’d picked something she knew he would balk at? He’d had that beard forever. Even in high school. She’d known—known—he’d say no.

  Good. She should be glad he said no.

  According to their agreement she would provide guidance. And even if he refused to follow her prescription, he had to pay up.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Then we’re through. And you still owe me a trip to Paris. Book it now.” She spun away.

  Facing him meant acknowledging the truth—she’d failed him.

  “Wait. Sara.”

  She slowed. Closed her eyes. Oh God. The hint of desperation in his voice rendered her mute.