More Than Crave You Read online

  Nia doesn’t like to talk about her father. He wasn’t a part of her childhood. He impregnated her mother, who worked for him, then bought the woman off when she broke the news of his impending fatherhood. Her mother raised Nia alone, not marrying or even dating seriously before tragically succumbing to a case of the flu two years ago.

  “I doubt I’ll be much help.” I’m aware that I function differently than most men. They thrive on competitive sports, beer chugging, and dirty jokes. I much prefer a good mental challenge, fine scotch, and video games. “You don’t date my type. I was called a brainiac and a computer nerd growing up. But I drew the line at Dungeons and Dragons.”

  My quip somehow makes her laugh. “Good to know you have boundaries. It’s just…some guys really seem to forget there’s another person in the bed. Hell, in the relationship. I’ve done some soul searching since I ditched Brick, and I’ve decided I’m not dating guys I barely know anymore. We have to be friends first.” Surprisingly, she wraps her fingers around my shoulder. “Which is something you should consider, rather than placing an ad. Don’t marry just anyone. You’ll be miserable. Why don’t you let me help with your disorganization? It will give you some time to find a more permanent solution. You know I love whipping a good mess into shape.”

  “That’s generous, but I don’t expect you to cook or clean for me after you’ve worked all day, too. Grocery shopping and running errands aren’t in your job description, either.”

  Plus, there’s the sex issue. I glance at Nia again. She’s actually more than pretty, now that I’m actually looking. She’s beautiful. Striking. Taking her to bed wouldn’t be a hardship.

  And I really need to get off this train of thought.

  “It’s not a big deal. I need to cook for myself anyhow. It’s actually easier to toss dinner together for two. I can show you how to grocery shop online. Cleaning up…I’ll tackle what I can, teach you how to manage some yourself, and help you hire out the rest. We’ll figure out the other errands. The dry cleaning should be simple since we use the same one, right?” When I nod, she goes on. “See? We got this.”

  “I appreciate you trying to—”

  “Save you from getting into a rebound relationship with someone who will probably make you miserable.” She squeezes my shoulder one more time before letting go. “That’s what I’m doing because you deserve more. Don’t you want to spend the rest of your life with someone who will actually care about you?”

  Maybe that will matter eventually. Right now, I can only see my current slew of problems and the fact I’m not dealing well with them. Of course, she’s phrased the question so I’ll sound like an idiot if I say no. And maybe I am. Becca often had to explain her brand of logic to me since my emotional IQ is apparently something close to my shoe size. But Nia and I have similar problems, though in reverse. She doesn’t understand men because she grew up without a father, and I barely remember my own mother, who died when I was five. None of my foster families filled in the gaps. So females confuse me. I’m not saying I’ve never made a decision based on feelings…but I’ve done it fewer than five times in my life. Daily? I couldn’t handle that.

  “I don’t expect you to take care of me outside the office, Nia.”

  “If it will keep you from making the biggest mistake of your life, I will.” Then she sends me a coaxing smile. “Let me cook tonight. I’ll make some of my great-aunt’s famous New Orleans gumbo…”

  Nia brought the spicy, soupy heaven to an office potluck once, and my taste buds instantly fell in love. Besides, I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months. “Your bargaining tactics are cutthroat.”

  She shrugs as if she can’t help herself. “I learned from the best.”

  That’s true. Nia has paid attention through every step of the negotiations my college buddy and current CFO, Sebastian Shaw, and I have taken with cash-rich Colossus Investment Corporation. I’ve declined their three offers. The first two simply failed to offer me market value for my cutting-edge data storage technology. The most recent buyout approached fair…but still wasn’t lucrative enough.

  With a sigh, I give in to my assistant. I’ve never been good at saying no to Nia, especially when she presses on my weak spots. My stomach is definitely one. “All right. I appreciate the help and the meal.”

  “While the gumbo is simmering, we’ll tackle some of the projects around your place and hopefully start getting your life back in order.”

  “Thanks. I’m lucky to have you in my corner. Who knew that hiring a girl with moxie straight out of college would be one of the best things I ever did?”

  Nia’s smile seems to brighten everything around her. “Who knew that taking a chance on a newish but growing company with a ridiculously intelligent founder would end up so great?”

  For the first time in what feels like forever, I relax. “I’m assuming gumbo takes a while to cook. So what time should I leave here?”

  “If I get all the ingredients prepped and on your stove by five-thirty, we’ll be eating about eight. That all right?”

  Actually, it will be perfect. I can barely remember the last time I didn’t spend an evening alone. “Sure.”

  “See you at your place then.”

  “Thanks.”

  If anything, her smile widens. “It’s my pleasure.”

  When I arrive at home, it’s almost six. Nia is waiting in front of my door with bags of food and a big cooking pot at her feet. She’s dressed in a gray sweatshirt that clings to her shape, along with a matching pair of leggings that hug her from thigh to ankle. I stop. I’ve rarely seen her in casual clothes, and never in anything this formfitting. The effect is nothing like her usual suit with skirts and silky blouses. She looks relaxed. Female. Lush. I gulp. No wonder she’s never lacking for dates.

  I shove the thought aside.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I rush from the elevator, opening my door with one hand and scooping up bags of groceries with the other. “I’ll get those.”

  I feel more than vaguely guilty that she carried everything up by herself. Becca always did the same, and I hated that I was never around to help. But Nia is volunteering to organize my life. I can’t repay her by being a slacker or seeming like an ungrateful asshole.

  “No problem,” she insists as she follows me inside, then gasps.

  I’m not surprised. The place looks like a hurricane hit it. She’s only ever been here to drop off work when I was sick. Becca insisted on personally keeping this place spotless back then; she couldn’t tolerate chaos of any kind and wanted control of her surroundings. After my OCD wife was gone, I didn’t have any clue or inclination how to keep the house the way she had.

  I lead Nia to the kitchen. She sets the pot on the stove, then turns in a circle, hands on her hips. “You weren’t kidding. This is a wreck.”

  I wince, aware that just about every dish I own is piled in the sink. The overflow clutters the counters. I probably shouldn’t spring my bedroom and bathroom on her, too. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Okay…” She sets her purse aside, gets the gumbo heating, then pushes up her sleeves. “Do you know how to start the dishwasher?”

  “I’m sure I could figure it out.”

  “But you haven’t tried?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Until a couple of weeks ago, I spent all my time at the office. It kept me from thinking about how empty my house was. Since the terrible April day Becca perished, I’ve spent as little time here as possible to avoid the reality that I’m alone. I plump up the pillows in bed beside me to mimic the feel of her taking up space in our king-size bed. I even downloaded an app to simulate the sounds of her breathing beside me. Lately, it’s working less and less. Most nights, I stare at the dark ceiling and try to come up with a logical answer to the emptiness around me. The wife idea still seems like the best solution.

  “I’ll…um, look into that while you tell me where you placed my ad.”

  Nia hesitates, then reaches for the fauce
t and flips it on. “I haven’t had a chance yet. Most dating sites want you to fill out a profile, not give them a couple of sentences about your prospective mate.”

  “Profile?” That sounds tedious and time-consuming.

  “Yes. After all, you’re not the only person selecting someone from the database; a woman has to choose you in return, based on your answers to the questions. Prospective dates looking at your information will want to know what your interests are, what you like to do with your downtime, what your religious and spiritual philosophies are, how your best friends would describe you and—”

  “I’m looking to hire a wife, not begin an actual romantic relationship. A dating profile would be a complete waste of my time.”

  She shakes her head as she begins washing out the dishes in the sink. “Well, not doing it cuts down on your possibilities. Would you prefer an overseas mail-order bride?”

  “I don’t have the patience to deal with government bureaucracy and paperwork. I want someone already in the country legally.”

  She sighs. “I was kidding, and the fact you thought I was serious is scary. I’ll do what I can, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Put the glasses on the top rack of the dishwasher.”

  I do as she instructs with a frown. “I can’t possibly be the only wealthy man with this problem.”

  “Evan, seriously? Most already have wives and are looking for a lay on the side.”

  She has a point. “Maybe I should call Harlow, Keeley, and Britta.”

  “You know I applaud you for getting to know your newfound family, but you met your sister and your brothers’ wives six months ago. Do they know you well enough to help you find a woman who can make you happy?”

  I tracked my long-lost siblings down during a relocation scouting trip to Hawaii. Despite the fact my siblings and I share a biological father, they’re still somewhat like strangers, but… “They already live in Maui and probably have single friends.”

  “They don’t know who you are, what you want, or what you’ve been through.” She shuts off the water to face me. My face must tell her I don’t care about any of that because she sighs. “Besides, if you wait until you move to Maui to meet someone, you won’t be married by Christmas.”

  “I’m going for Thanksgiving in a few weeks. I’ll ask them to introduce me then.”

  “You’re really serious about finding someone right now?”

  “I’m serious about filling the position of wife as soon as possible.”

  Exasperation fills her face. “Then let me handle it. I’ll figure something out quickly.”

  I shake my head. “If you’ll simply screen the candidates, I’ll take it from there.”

  “I’m worried what—or who—you’ll come up with if I leave you to your own devices.”

  Nia might have a point. My interpersonal skills suck. I was lucky Becca understood me and didn’t have romantic expectations.

  “All right. I’ll give you until Thanksgiving to find me someone. But I still want that ad placed as backup.”

  “Fine.” She doesn’t sound fine with it at all, but focuses instead on showing me how to scrape off the crusted food from my dirty dishes, then place them in the dishwasher. “How is it you never figured out how to clean your own kitchen? Didn’t you ever live alone?”

  I laugh. “For eight disastrous months before I got married. After that, Becca did everything.”

  “None of your foster families made you load a dishwasher?” She sounds shocked.

  “Nope. I did other chores, but I blocked out a lot of my life before I went to live with Diana. As long as I kept her old cottage in working order, she took care of what little cleaning got done.”

  The day I turned eighteen, I packed my bags and left my foster mother’s house. Diana was great, the closest thing to a mom I have left, but once the state stopped paying her to look after me, she didn’t need a financial burden under her roof. There aren’t many jobs in rural Washington State, especially for a starving artist who’s never held a job longer than six months. Besides, she swears that she and the wind are conjoined twins, so she goes wherever her sister takes her. Since she gave me a much-needed, if off-beat, home for six years, I now give her financial security so she can breeze across the world.

  “Growing up, Mom and I took turns with the chores. Her motto was that doing everything for me wouldn’t teach me how to fend for myself. That’s why I can both cook and do some home repair. Now, I’m going to help you.” She holds up a casserole dish. “What did you make in here?”

  “Nothing. One of my neighbors brought me lasagna shortly after Becca’s funeral.” I probably should have washed and returned it, but I didn’t want to spend any more time in Becca’s kitchen than I had to. Her absence simply reminds me too much of the fact I’m alone.

  “You know, if doing dishes were more like rocket science, you’d probably understand it better.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” I admit wryly.

  “Put some dish soap and hot water in this, then set it on the counter to soak.” Nia shoves the dish in my hand.

  A thick layer of black and green crusts the bottom. “It looks like something that belongs in a Petri dish.”

  “It totally does.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile hovering at the corners of her lips.

  I smile back, then finally remember that I have a few manners. “Wine?”

  Nia turns to me with raised brows. “You have some?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t mention that most are bottles people have given to me over the years—birthdays, corporate events, congratulations on a great year/new offices/coming baby sort of thing. I simply open the pantry door. “I’ve got a collection. Take a look.”

  She strolls toward the mostly empty shelves. “Keep working on that pile of dishes. We should probably have some zippy white with chicken and seafood for dinner, but I love me a good red. Merlot it is. That okay?”

  “I guess. I’ve never tried it.” Becca didn’t drink, and I only imbibe when I’m hanging out with Sebastian.

  “I’m beginning to think my mission in life is to expand your horizons.”

  I only know random details about Nia’s past. She grew up in Georgia, then decided she wanted a totally different experience while she pursued higher education, so she applied to institutions in the northeast and northwest, finally deciding to attend the University of Washington. She graduated with honors in four years with a degree in communication and a minor in business administration while holding down crappy minimum-wage jobs. She filled the summers of her college years with adventures—backpacking through Europe and building clean-water facilities for rural South American villages. For graduation, she saved up for an epic trip, journeying to Africa by herself to see the other side of the world. I give her tons of credit, especially since I don’t step out of my shell much.

  “If anyone could, it’s you.”

  She looks proud of herself as she wags a finger at me. “Don’t you forget it. Corkscrew?”

  I shrug.

  “I’ll look around. You keep washing.”

  I hear her rummaging through drawers, muttering softly to herself as I continue to work at the mountain of glass and china that’s been stacking up for months. At least the stove is relatively clean since I’ve hardly used it.

  “Ah-ha!” After some clinking and rattling, she holds up the implement, triumphant. “Found it.” Moments later, she has the bottle open and she’s poured some into two clean glasses. “What should we toast to?”

  “Me getting my act together?”

  “Other than this domestic mess, no one has their act more together than you. How about…new possibilities?”

  Like a clean house and a new wife? “To new possibilities, then.”

  We clink glasses and sip. It’s not awful, actually. I’m surprised.

  For the next two hours, we talk about work and fix the abysmal state of my living room while I try to ignore the spices wafting through the place and making my st
omach rumble. Becca preferred bland food, but I like something with kick. What Nia is simmering smells divine.

  By the time it’s ready, she’s reorganized half my cabinets, directed me on how to scrub my refrigerator from top to bottom, and sorted months’ worth of magazines and mail off the kitchen table and into either the trash or my home office.

  My penthouse is beginning to feel something approaching normal again. But it’s not home anymore.

  I swallow a bite of gumbo and peer across the table at Nia. I realize that I know her…but I don’t. She’s told me an assorted collection of her facts and memories, but I don’t know the kinds of things that belong in her dating profile. I don’t know what makes her tick.

  “Uh-oh,” she mutters and washes down a bite with her wine. “You’re staring at me like I’m a problem you have to solve. That scares me.”

  I laugh. “I’m not going to add you to my project list when I get back in the office tomorrow.”

  “Thank god.”

  Again, I stare at her. I’m used to seeing Nia five days a week. But have I ever really looked at her?

  “You know, I was thinking earlier…” she begins. “It’s going to be weird come January, when you’ve relocated to Maui. You won’t be in the office beside my desk anymore. If I have a question, you’ll be far more than a few steps away.”

  I didn’t think about it like that. Working remotely has never been a problem for us; we’ve done it when I’ve traveled. But suddenly I’m wondering whether having Nia twenty-six hundred miles away makes sense. I rely on her for so much. “You have a point.”

  “Maybe…you don’t have to move that far away.”

  I’ve considered this thoroughly. It might be one of the five emotional decisions I’ve made in life. “I can’t stay in Seattle.”

  Too much history. Too many memories. No real connections…except maybe to Nia. Suddenly, I’m loath to leave her behind.

  Her face softens. “Maybe if you sold this place and found another—”

  “The only family I have left lives in Maui.”