"This goes against the whole spirit of our bet," she said. "I can't believe you'd cheat like this."
"I'm the one who's cheating?" He cocked his head, his gaze straying meaningfully to the fireplace. "Funny, because the man who came to look at your chimney told me it was fine. Not blocked at all."
She hesitated, wanting to argue, but aware she didn't exactly have the moral high ground. Especially because she'd just visited the electrician who lived downstairs to ask him to disconnect her power.
Lacey took another quick gulp of her wine. "Maybe I made the place a little cold. But that's nothing compared to what you've done."
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Dinner's ready. Sit down and we'll discuss it over a meal."
Instead, she followed him into the kitchen. A shiny new coffee maker sat on her bench, and when she opened her previously empty fridge, it was full of food. No doubt her cupboards would be too. "You didn't bring in a private chef and waiting staff?" she asked as sarcastically as she could manage.
"Maybe tomorrow." He took two plates out of the oven and put them on the table. "Come and eat."
She sat reluctantly, glowering at the lit candles in the center of the table, and the delicious-looking meal. This wasn't what she'd intended at all.
"I'm going to tweet about how you cheated," she told him.
"I'd expect nothing less."
Frowning, she took a bite of dinner. It was every bit as tasty as it looked. "You went to the doctor?" she asked.
"He came here. Prescribed painkillers and rest."
"Was it at least a little lonely and boring being here all day?"
"I had coffee with Crystal." He shot Lacey a wry sideways look. "Her apartment was hot enough to sunbathe in, and she served me the coffee from your place."
"If you're trying to make me feel bad about that, I don't."
"I visited the other tenants, too. They've all made plans to leave, so you'll be on your own soon."
"If I win the bet, you'll have to renovate. Then the Baxter will be full again in no time."
"The Baxter's past saving."
Lacey stared down at her chicken. After last night's accident, she was starting to be very afraid that was true. "Even if you didn't renovate the whole thing, you could fix up my dad's apartment. Repair the roof leaks, replace the floor. A coat of paint. Even if it only lasted six months, that would probably be enough. At least, that's what the doctor thinks."
"Bringing your father home for his last few months is that important to you?"
"It would mean everything." Meeting his sympathetic eyes, she caught her breath, suddenly hopeful. Bronson had turned out to be a lot nicer than she'd expected. Could he understand why she needed to do this for her dad? If he'd agree, they could call off the bet and everything would be okay.
But he shook his head. "Lacey, if only it were that simple. The expense involved to make the building safe to live in isn't worth it."
"Not worth it?" she repeated. "Of course it isn't, not to you." She took a gulp of wine, hating how let down she felt. "For a moment, I thought I might have been wrong about you. But I wasn't, was I? Dollars matter, people don't."
He held her gaze, his expression serious. His dark brown eyes were the color of dark teak. The same color as her father's bookcase. It gleamed when she polished it, and with the flickering candlelight reflected in them, his irises had the same glow.
"It would mean replacing the wiring, the roof, the rusty old plumbing, and most of the woodwork. That makes no sense when I'm going to tear the place down."
Funny thing, Bronson never said it was impossible or that he couldn't afford it, just that he didn't want to spend the money. She'd offered to compromise and find some middle ground. Why couldn't he do the same?
"I shouldn't have canceled the protest," she said, finishing off her wine. "Maybe if a placard-waving crowd started affecting your business, you'd figure out how to meet me halfway."
"There is no halfway. The new building will bring in at least four million revenue a year, and the Baxter's tenants pay a fraction of that. You want something I can't give you." He got up and fetched the wine bottle from the kitchen, pouring it for her without asking. She tried not to watch the way his shirt hugged his chest and biceps, or notice the old-leather scent of his cologne.
"Something you won't give me," she corrected.
His jaw clenched. "Don't be naïve. I owe you nothing, and you're asking me to sacrifice millions of dollars."
"For a few months, that's all. In the name of compassion."
"The world doesn't work that way."
She let her breath out. "Dad was right about you."
He sat back down and picked up his glass. Taking a slow sip, he rolled it in his mouth before swallowing. "Tell me about your father."
"Dad would be yelling at you right now. And he'd probably punch something. Either you, or the table, or maybe a wall."
"That kind of temper must have been difficult to grow up with."
Dammit, he sounded sympathetic again. One minute he was an iron fist, the next a velvet glove. It kept throwing her off balance. "It's not his fault. He has brain tumors. The doctor said the one in his frontal lobe might have been there for years, changing his personality. He can't help reacting the way he does. And think how awful it must be for him, feeling angry all the time."
Lacey bit her lip. Defending her father made her think of the way she used to treat him. She'd hated the way he'd acted, and hadn't pulled any punches in telling him. The entire building must have heard their arguments. And now he'd finally been diagnosed, the memory made her feel terrible.
"Difficult for you both," agreed Bronson. He nodded to the bookcase. "Those are his books, I take it. What's with the empty shelf?"
Great. Somehow he was hitting all her guilt points. "I quit my job to start the blog with Ally. It didn't earn us any money for ages and I couldn't pay the rent. So I had to sell some of them."
"That must have been a difficult decision."
"What makes you say that?" Nobody understood how awful she felt about letting go of those books. Not Ally or Geena, or even Crystal.
"You're a good person, Lacey. I can see in your face how much it hurt you." He leaned back, hooking one powerful arm over the back of his chair. The movement accentuated the muscles his sweater was doing nothing to hide. "And I'm sorry to cause you more pain."
His obvious sincerity made something inside her soften. They were in a difficult situation, but he wasn't the monster she'd always thought. And now she felt bad for saying her father had been right about him. Her father didn't give anyone enough credit. Wasn't she already all too aware of it, having been on the receiving end for years?
"The bet's going to decide what happens, one way or the other."
The music ended, and Bronson stood up. "You get the chocolate out of the fridge, and I'll put something else on the stereo, then pour us an after-dinner drink. I've got a very nice bottle of cognac. Or would you prefer a glass of Baileys on ice?"
Lacey grimaced. Music, chocolate, and liqueur. So far, the bet wasn't exactly going the way she'd planned.
She had to step the Baxter Games up to the next level. But how?
Sipping her glass of Baileys, she tried not to stare into Bronson's warm brown eyes, or enjoy their conversation. That got a lot harder when it turned out they both loved the albums released in the eighties by the band INXS, and the evening almost turned into a greatest hits karaoke session.
Him staying here wasn't supposed to be fun. It was war. And she had to take aim and fire the next shot.
By the time their drinks were finished and the fire was burning low, she had an idea. She made a show out of yawning, and excused herself to get ready for bed. She had a call to make.
But her bedroom was right next to the living room, and if she made a phone call from there, Bronson might hear her. Instead, she locked herself in the bathroom. The only good thing about Bronson getting the broken toilet fixed, was that spending more than a minute or two in there was now an option.
Tugging her phone out of her pocket, she looked up the nearest pest extermination company, and found one with an address just a few blocks away.
She dialed the number. It was late, so she'd leave a voicemail message explaining what she wanted.
Instead, a man answered. "Patrick's Pest Control."
"Oh, you're there." She was thrown for a moment.
"Just off to bed," said the man cheerfully. "What can I help you with?"
"Um. Do you deliver rats?"
There was a short silence. "Exterminate them, you mean?"
"Actually, I want you to release them into my apartment. Just bring them over from wherever you catch them, and dump them inside the front door. Big, fat, ugly ones, if you've got them. The more revolting, the better."