The Better To Kiss You With

  Copyright © 2016 Michelle Osgood

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-941530-74-0 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-941530-75-7 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  http://interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover design by CB Messer

  Cover Art by Monika Gross

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To ECHC.

  “All stories are about wolves.”

  —Margaret Atwood

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One |

  The third time her phone chimed to remind her to take out the garbage, Deanna Scott heaved a sigh and paused her episode of Orphan Black. She dislodged Arthur, who looked up at her with sad eyes as only a golden retriever can, then disentangled herself from the blanket and moved the bowl of popcorn to the table. If she didn’t take the garbage out now, she never would.

  Grabbing her keys, the garbage and an ugly sweater that wouldn’t do much to protect her from the Vancouver rain but would at least cover the threadbare tank top she was wearing, Deanna shoved her feet into her boots and unlocked the door. Behind her, Arthur gave a plaintive whine.

  “Quiet, Arthur. It’s raining, so if you come with me you’ll get wet. And you’re going to want to sit on the couch while we finish that episode. And I don’t want to cuddle with a wet dog. We’ve been over this,” she told him firmly.

  At the sound of her voice, Arthur’s tail gave a hopeful sweep against the hardwood.

  “I’m only going out back. It won’t be exciting.”

  Arthur raised his butt off the floor, asking for permission to come, and when she didn’t stop him he bounded over. His whole body wriggled happily.

  “Fine, but I’m not going to share the couch with you after.” She meant it this time. He could sit on the rug. He should be sitting on the rug anyway. Couches were for people, not dogs.

  Deanna opened her front door and let Arthur go down the hall as she locked up behind them. She caught up with him at the stairs and followed him down the seven flights.

  Outside it was dark and wet, and, as rain started to run down her face, Deanna wished she’d taken a jacket with an actual hood instead of her floppy old sweater. Her unruly blonde curls would be impossible to comb out after they got wet. Arthur was unperturbed by the weather; his tail waved as he led the way around the corner of their large brick apartment building to the garbage bins at the back.

  Deanna held her breath as she lifted the lid on the nearest bin and tossed the bag inside before she darted a couple of steps away to suck in another breath of the damp air. She was sure none of her neighbors actually disposed of rotting corpses in the communal garbage bins, but with a building this size they smelled rank no matter what. For the hundredth time she wondered if she should send an email to the landlord about bumping the garbage collection up from only once every two weeks.

  Deanna pulled her sweater tighter around her body and called for Arthur to stop sniffing at the bottom of another bin for rats, or god knew what else dogs found so attractive about garbage, and walked back along the side of the building. The jangle of his collar let her know that Arthur was hurrying to catch up, terrified as always of being left behind.

  She unlocked the front door and held it open to let him go through, then rolled her eyes when he stopped in the middle of the small lobby and gave a thorough shake, sending beads of water flying through the air. His paws left wet tracks on the dark wooden stairs as he climbed; she’d have to give him a rubdown with a towel before she could let him back on the couch, which, she knew, she’d be coerced into doing when he turned his puppy eyes on her.

  “I should have listened to my mother and got a cat,” she muttered as she rounded the final flight of stairs. She couldn’t hear Arthur’s collar anymore but assumed he’d be waiting at the door to the seventh floor as he always did. When she reached their floor, though, he wasn’t there. Frowning, Deanna pushed open the door and glanced down the hallway. It was possible that a neighbor had left the heavy door open, and Arthur had gone all the way to their apartment. But the hallway was empty.

  Though she knew it was silly, there was a quick spark of alarm in her chest. Arthur was a good dog. He knew to stay close to her. “Arthur?” she called, worry making her voice rise.

  “I think I’ve got him,” a deeper voice replied. Deanna whirled around to look behind her before she realized the voice was coming from the next level up.

  She crossed the landing and hurried up the next flight of stairs, then turned the corner to see Arthur sprawled at the top of the eighth floor landing with his tail thumping in giddy appreciation of the belly rub he was receiving.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Deanna said to the person who was bent over her dog and sending him into paroxysms of joy. The stranger had dark hair cropped close on both sides, with a longer shock that fell over the face, and a man’s button-up fitted tightly over broad shoulders. When Deanna spoke, the stranger looked up.

  At first Deanna guessed the person was a guy, a college kid whose jaw was still stubbornly smooth, but as the figure straightened Deanna caught the soft hint of breasts under the shirt. Suddenly she could see the thick frame of lashes around a pair of amber eyes, and the feminine curve to lips tugged into a wide and rueful grin. Deanna hastily tacked several years onto the stranger’s age: not a kid at all, but someone closer to her own twenty-six. Deanna swallowed, her throat uncomfortably dry, and desperately wished she was wearing something other than a faded pair of pajama pants and the ugliest sweater she owned.

  “It’s okay.” The stranger continued to pet Arthur, who’d closed his eyes in bliss. She gave a self-conscious sort of shrug. “Dogs like me.”

  Deanna could see why. She wished those long fingers were stroking her belly. The thought had her flushing, mortified, and she spared a moment of thanks that the woman’s attention was on Arthur so she couldn’t see the pink in Deanna’s cheeks. “Come on, Arthur,” she managed.

  Arthur cracked open an eye but made no move to obey Deanna.

  “Arthur,” Deanna repeated, putting a little more force in her tone, “come on, let’s go back home. I’m really sorry,” she said helplessly when Arthur just wriggled closer to the attractive stranger. “He normally listens a lot better than this.”

  The woman stood up, and Arthur scrabbled to his feet beside her. “Go on,” she said, looking down at Arthur. She gave his head a final pat. With a soulful doggy sigh, Arthur pressed his wet nose into her hand and moved down the stairs past Deanna, where he turned back with an expectant look as if to ask why Deanna hadn’t followed.

&n
bsp; Deanna returned his look with a scowl and then turned back. “Thanks.” She wasn’t sure what the gorgeous stranger had done that was any different than what she had done, but it had clearly worked.

  “No worries,” the woman ran a hand casually through her short hair, and Deanna caught herself glancing down as the movement lifted the woman’s shirt up, baring a brief flash of skin above the waistband of her jeans. Deanna pressed her lips together and moved down a step; she needed to put some space between them before she fell to the floor at the stranger’s feet and begged to be petted as well.

  “I’ll, um,” Deanna said as she edged down another step, “see you around then?” She gave an awkward wave and, not waiting for a response, fled down the stairs after Arthur.

  On the seventh floor she pulled open the door and headed straight toward her apartment, not stopping until she and Arthur were safely ensconced inside.

  As she leaned against the closed door, Deanna shut her eyes and let her head fall back against the wood. The first hot girl she’d met in months, and she acted like a total dork. Plus, Deanna confirmed when she opened her eyes and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, her blonde hair was a frizzy mess from the rain, and the old wire-rimmed glasses she was wearing over her soft green eyes made her look like someone’s spinster aunt. With a groan, she dropped the keys into the dish under the mirror and walked into the living room, toeing off her shoes as she went.

  Arthur was already curled up on the couch. She shoved him over and got a handful of damp fur in the process. Deanna flopped down beside him and picked up the remote. With any luck, the woman was just visiting a friend and Deanna wouldn’t actually see her around.

  Chapter Two |

  Two weeks later, on her way home from lunch with her friend Nathan, Deanna stopped to pick up fresh flowers. She was terrible at keeping plants alive. The herb garden she’d once thought so inspired had lasted a pitiful three weeks. Despite that, she loved having green things in her home, and the pop of color the flowers gave was too cheerful to resist. Besides, fresh-cut flowers were already dying, so all she had to do was arrange them prettily in a vase with some water and enjoy their last few days on earth. Which, now that she thought of it, was actually really morbid.

  Deanna glanced at her bundle of orange tulips and sent them a mental apology.

  She crossed the street to her building and fished her keys from her purse. She was glad that she hadn’t needed the umbrella she’d left behind.

  Since she’d run into the woman on the eighth floor—or, rather, since Arthur had run into her—Deanna had been more careful with her appearance when she left her apartment. She hadn’t done anything drastic, but when she went out to take Arthur for a walk she made sure to add a bit of color to her lips and, if she was in sweatpants, she wore the ones without any holes. It wasn’t that she expected to see the woman again, and she definitely wasn’t looking for her. Deanna just wanted to feel a little less grubby if she did happen to see her again. That was all. Besides, Heather from across the hall was probably sick of Deanna’s shockingly vast collection of shapeless loungewear.

  It had been over a year since her last relationship, her roommate was a dog and she worked from home as a moderator on an online game. It wasn’t as if Deanna had any reason to spend her time in clothes that weren’t perfectly comfortable. She did own plenty of nice clothes; it was just that she didn’t need pants, or even underwear, to do her job. Her “real people” clothes tended to stay tucked into the back of her closet unless she was out with friends. Or, say, on a date. Not that she expected to have a date in the near future, but, hey, a girl could dream. And, in the absence of a date, Deanna had decided to wear one of her cute dresses to meet Nathan for lunch.

  She was grateful for that decision when she went up the first flight of stairs to the lobby and once again found herself in front of the stranger from the eighth floor. She was crouched again, not for an ecstatic dog, but struggling with several large bags of groceries, one of which had split open.

  “Oh, let me help.” Deanna moved forward before she had a chance to think. She knelt and began to gather up the fallen packages.

  “It’s fine, I don’t need—” the dark-haired woman began, but she cut herself off when it became apparent that Deanna had already re-bagged the groceries nearest to her. “Thank you,” she said, as she added the last of her fallen groceries to the other, unbroken bags.

  “No problem,” Deanna said with an easy smile. “I owe you one anyway. You found my dog, remember?”

  The woman gave a short laugh, then rubbed her hand over her mouth. “I think I’m the reason you were missing him in the first place, so if we’re keeping track, between that and this,” she nodded at the groceries, “it looks like I owe you two.”

  The stranger’s eyes were the warm brown of good bourbon and nearly as intoxicating. “Let me help you carry those up, and you can make it three.” Deanna flashed a smile. She was so much better at flirting when she’d combed her hair that day and knew for a fact that she was wearing deodorant. “I’m Deanna, by the way.”

  “Deanna,” the woman repeated, in her low, melodic voice, catching Deanna’s gaze and holding it before she rose to her feet. “I’m Jamie Martineau. And thanks, but it’s all right, I can take them myself.”

  Since it was clearly not humanly possible for her to carry three overflowing bags of groceries, Deanna waved away Jamie’s protest and reached down for the bag closest to her.

  “Holy crap, no wonder the other one broke!” Deanna exclaimed as she struggled to hoist the bag. She couldn’t imagine how Jamie had carried four of them at once. Putting the tulips on top of the bag, Deanna used both hands to lift it.

  “These are lighter?” Jamie offered, though her biceps flexed impressively as she picked up the remaining two bags. They must have been a lot lighter than the bag Deanna was struggling with, because, although the bags looked ready to burst, Jamie didn’t seem to be straining under their weight as she led the way up the stairs.

  By the third floor, sweat had gathered under Deanna’s arms, and she was deeply grateful for her deodorant. Was she seriously this out of shape? She wasn’t the type of person who liked to work out, but she still had to climb these stairs with her own groceries often enough. She was never more than a little winded by the time she got to the seventh floor, even if she had to cart up Arthur’s giant bag of dog food.

  “Almost there,” Jamie called. If she could hear Deanna’s panting, she politely ignored it.

  When they finally reached the eighth floor, Deanna felt as if she’d climbed a mountain carrying a month’s worth of canned goods in her arms.

  Deanna had never been on the eighth floor, but she’d assumed it would look just like the rest of the building. Her assumption proved wrong when, as she followed Jamie down the hall, she was distracted enough by the long expanse of door-free wall to pull her attention from the pair of loose-fitting boyfriend jeans that was doing Jamie’s butt a great many favors.

  “How many apartments are on this floor?” Deanna asked, only slightly breathless and trying to keep the thread of envy out of her voice.

  “Three. Mine’s the one on the end.”

  Great. Deanna would have groaned if she had the energy left. The hottie was her upstairs neighbor. Did that mean she could hear Deanna’s occasional—okay, habitual—Taylor Swift dance parties? Or the sound of the horror movies Deanna sometimes decided it was a good idea to watch alone at night, and which always wound up scaring the crap out of her? Deanna was certain she’d actually screamed a few times when something jumped out on the TV screen.

  Jamie somehow managed to get the key in the lock and open her door while balancing the two bags. Deanna eased the bag she was carrying onto her hip and followed Jamie.

  The place was easily triple the size of Deanna’s. As Deanna stepped awkwardly out of her flats, not wanting to put down the bag in case she was
n’t able to convince her arms to pick it up again, she cast a covetous glance around. Where Deanna’s floors were hardwood, Jamie had creamy white carpet. Before Deanna followed Jamie into the open-concept kitchen, she closed her eyes for a second of bliss as her toes sank in.

  The walls in the living room were painted dove-gray and hung with photographs in various sizes, all framed in thick black wood. A pretty teal couch with coordinating armchairs dominated the space, and Deanna assumed that a short hallway led off to the bedroom and bathroom.

  “Have you been in the building long? This place is great. You won’t believe how tiny mine is,” Deanna commented as she finally set the bag down on the kitchen island.

  She put her flowers to the side and began to take groceries out of the bag and put them on the counter as she continued her appraisal. “I love the pictures you’ve got up. Is that your family? They look super fun.” A jumble of colors and sizes and smiles, the faces in the photos on Jamie’s wall beamed. “Are you all from here?”

  When she finally pulled her attention away from the apartment, Deanna had emptied nearly the entire bag of groceries, and Jamie was looking at her strangely from where she’d put her still-packed bags on the kitchen table. Oops.

  “I’ve been here for a few months,” was Jamie’s only response, and Deanna wilted around the edges. Her friend Nathan always told her that the “full-on-Deanna” could be too intense sometimes, and she was beginning to understand what he’d meant. Not only had she ignored Jamie’s insistence that she didn’t need help with her groceries, but Deanna had then barged into her apartment and was doing everything short of borrowing Jamie’s pajamas to make herself at home.

  “I’m sorry, you can probably handle things from here.” Deanna gave a weak laugh, stepped back from the counter and clasped her hands behind her back.

  “Thank you for your help,” Jamie said, not contradicting what Deanna had said. It stung, but Deanna figured she’d had it coming. Jamie shifted to lean back against her counter; the movement looked almost forced, and Deanna realized she was still standing unwelcome in the middle of a stranger’s apartment.