Tangling With Ty. Jill Shalvis

but—”

      “Just get inside, darlin’.” He gave her a gentle shove as he took the Taco Bell bag from her fingers just before the thing would have dropped to the ground. “Before you fall down.”

      She stepped over the threshold, reaching back to slam the door. Unfortunately he was on the wrong side of that door and ended up inside her very small place, which seemed that much smaller with his huge presence in it. “And I’m not your darling,” she said, turning away.

      “Nope, you’re Dr. Mann.”

      She sighed and faced him again. “Okay, so I’m stuffy when I’m tired. Sue me.”

      “I’d rather call you by your first name.”

      “Nicole,” she snapped, then grabbed her Taco Bell from his fingers and headed into the kitchen, which happened to be only about four steps in. “Feel free to let yourself out.”

      Naturally, and because she suspected he was as ornery and contrary as he was magnificent looking, he followed her instead.

      “What are you doing?” she demanded.

      “Making sure you don’t fall down on your feet.”

      “We’ve already established I’m a grown-up.”

      “You’re right about that. Um…” He watched her shove aside a pile of medical journals and rip into the bag with a wince. “How about some real breakfast?”

      “This is real.” And her mouth was watering. “Goodbye, Mr. Architect.”

      “You know, you’re very welcome,” he said when she grabbed a taco, leaned against the counter and took a huge bite. “Glad I could help.”

      “Yeah. Thank you for breaking and entering.” She nearly moaned when the food hit her tongue, but managed to hold it back, sucking down a good part of her soda before practically inhaling the rest of her first taco.

      When she reached into the bag for the next one, he sighed.

      She eyed him. “You forget where the front door is? Wouldn’t want it to hit you on your way out.”

      “You should really make yourself some healthier food—”

      “There’s meat, cheese, lettuce and shell here…I’ve got all the food groups represented.”

      “Yes, but—” He watched her lick a drop of sauce off her thumb. “I’m assuming you just got off some brutal shift at the hospital?”

      “Yeah…” She paused for a long, amazingly refreshing gulp of soda. “Don’t take this personally, okay? But could you go away? I’ve got a date with my bed, and it doesn’t include anyone else but me and my pillow.”

      “Now that’s a crying shame.” He added a slow grin that upped her pulse.

      “Don’t get any ideas. I don’t play doctor with strangers.”

      “Who’d want to play with that attitude?” He grinned when she growled at him. “And I wasn’t propositioning you, Dr. Nicole Mann. I just think you should eat something that has more nutrients than…say a paper bag. Why don’t you let me cook—”

      He broke off when she burst into laughter. Feeling less like she was going to die on the spot now that she had something in her belly, she set down her taco and headed for the front door. While she was certain he could “cook” up something all right, she wasn’t interested. Yes, she enjoyed looking at a great specimen of a man such as himself, but she didn’t feel the need to do more than look. “Goodnight,” she said, holding the door open.

      “Let me guess…” He sauntered up to her with that loose-hipped stride of his, all long, lean grace. His eyes, those amazing blue, blue eyes, seemed to see straight through her. “You have a thing against real food?”

      “No, I have a thing against strangers offering to cook for me. Let’s face it, Mr. Architect.” She offered him a nasty smile she reserved for the lowest forms of life—men on the prowl. “You weren’t offering to cook me food.”

      “I wasn’t?” He lifted a black brow so far it nearly vanished. “And what did you think I was offering to cook?”

      “Let’s just say I’m not interested, whatever it was.”

      With a slow shake of his head, his mouth curved. He wasn’t insulted. Wasn’t mad or irate. But he was amused at her expense.

      “Let’s just say,” he said, mocking her.

      “Goodnight,” she repeated, wondering what it was about him that made her both annoyed and yet so…aware.

      “Goodnight. Even though it’s morning.” He lifted a finger, stroking it once over her jaw before turning and walking out the door.

      When he was gone, she put her finger to her tingling jaw. It wasn’t until a moment later she realized his last few words, “even though it’s morning,” had been uttered in that same Irish accent he’d claimed not to have.

      * * *

      THAT DAY Ty pulled his own long shift. He had three jobs going in downtown Los Angeles, two in Burbank, four in Glendale and, he hoped, the new one right here in South Village.

      It was odd, how fond he’d become of the place. Maybe because the city, just outside of Los Angeles, was a genuinely historical stretch of streets from the great old-Western days. Thanks to an innovative—and wealthy—town council, most of the buildings had been rescued, preserved and restored, leaving the streets a popular fun spot filled with restaurants, theaters, unique boutiques and plenty of celebrities to spy on.

      Ty had little interest in the swell of young urban singles that crowded the streets on nights and weekends, but he did love the atmosphere.

      He especially loved all the work, for there were plenty of buildings still in the pre-renovation stage, needing architects.

      Being a relatively new architect in town without the usual partners and office staff meant more work for him. It meant a lot of running around. It also meant lots of time holed up with his drawing table.

      He didn’t mind the extra hours or the hard work. In fact, that was how he liked it. If something came easy or was handed to him, he was suspicious of it.

      That came from his early years, when nothing had been either easy or handed to him, before or after he’d quite literally crawled, scratched and fought his way out of the gutter.

      Old times, he thought, and tossing his pencil down, he leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on the drawing table and looked out the window at the San Gabriel Mountains. No doubt, California was beautiful. Not beautiful like say…Rio. Or Tokyo. Or any of the many places he’d been through on his quest to get as far away from where he’d started as possible, but beautiful in the way that he felt…at ease.

      Not that the feeling would last, it never did. Sooner rather than later the need to move on would over come him…he thought New York might interest him. But for now, California, land of hot blondes, health food and sandy beaches, was good.

      It was also a great place for anonymity, and that, really, was the draw. Here, he could be whoever or whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter to anyone.

      And here, surrounded by the success he’d so carefully built, he was exactly that.

      Someone.

      Someone with a full bank account, thank you very much. And an office that spelled success, inside a huge, sprawling house with every luxury at his fingertips.

      Never again would he have an empty belly or the bone-gnawing fear of the unknown, both of which he’d lived with during his beyond-humble beginnings in the seediest of areas in Dublin, Ireland.

      He rarely thought of it now, there was no need. He’d put it all behind him, years and years ago. He’d moved on.

      Now