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  Imperfect Strangers

  By Mary Frame

  Copyright © 2018 by Mary Frame

  Cover design by James at Go On Write

  www.goonwrite.com

  Editing by Elizabeth Nover at Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Any errors contained herein are all the fault of the author and no one else.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  She’s looking for a forever kind of guy. He might not live to see tomorrow.

  Bethany Connell has one goal: keep her cookies in her basket. And by cookies, she means sex. She will not be distracted by a pretty face and a rock-hard body again. This time, she wants a grown-up relationship. Something steady. Something forever.

  And then she wakes up in bed with New York City’s sexiest playboy.

  For Brent Crawford, only one thing matters: football. Except one more pass, and the game could kill him. With a lethal heart condition he’s been hiding from everyone, he’s got nothing to offer a woman, between the sheets or anywhere else.

  And then he wakes up in bed with a spitfire blonde who needs his all.

  So right for each other, Bethany and Brent are convinced now is the wrong time. But they’re about to find out it’s never too late to heal a broken heart.

  This book is dedicated to all my murderinos.

  You are my favorites.

  SSDGM!

  A portion of the proceeds from this novel will go to endthebacklog.org.

  You don’t have to buy this book to make a difference!

  Go to endthebacklog.org to make a donation, see where your state stands on rape kit reform, and help eliminate the backlog of untested rape kits in the US.

  A HUGE, HUGE thank you to Diely Pichardo-Johansson MD for your endless encouragement, spiritual guidance, and the medical advice contained herein.

  (Any errors are purely my own doing to make Brent’s condition and medical care fit my own fictional world and timeline.)

  Chapter One

  Stay focused. Your start does not determine how you’re going to finish.

  –Herm Edwards

  Bethany

  I wake up in a strange bed with an arm around my waist.

  Not this again.

  It’s a nice arm. Solid. Muscular. Strong, clean fingers.

  I’ve done worse.

  It may not be the first time I’ve woken up in someone else’s bed, but it’s the first time I don’t remember who someone else is.

  Disappointment wraps its cold fingers around my neck while my mind riffles through memories of the night before and my body absorbs the heat of the man cuddled around me like he belongs there.

  I don’t deserve the comforting heat at my back or the soothing sounds of breathing. Whoever he is, he’s good. I’m an expert cuddler and this guy isn’t even trying to press his morning boner into my back. That’s like tenth level snuggling.

  Reality blinks to life and slaps me in the face.

  I went to bed last night alone. At Marc and Gwen’s. I’ve been checking in on their apartment occasionally ever since they left the country weeks ago.

  So who’s the hottie draped over my midsection like he’s got the right?

  Muted grey light filters into the room as the sun forces its way through the concrete jungle outside. I turn my head to get a close-up look at my bedfellow and my heart stops.

  I know him.

  Well, I know of him.

  Brent Crawford.

  I’m snuggling with the tight end for the New York Sharks? The famous athlete? The gossip rag favorite? New York’s sexiest bachelor?

  Technically, this is his bed. He’s Marc’s brother and he does live here, but he’s been MIA for months. Where did he come from? And why the hell is he spooning me?

  For a few long seconds I don’t move. I just watch him breathe and take in his nearness and slumbering good looks. My eyes linger over the defined angle of his jaw and the criminally long lashes that women pay hundreds to emulate. I turn my head forward and take in the corded muscles of the arms around me, apparent even in a relaxed state.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that any man in possession of such attractions is acutely aware of his own appeal and will use it to his advantage. Over and over and over again. With many, many women.

  I used to be one of those women who didn’t mind the game. Hell, I loved the game, but I’ve grown up. Men like this . . . they never really do.

  I gotta get out of here before I do something dumb.

  Oh so carefully, I wiggle to gauge his wakefulness. His grip tightens and he murmurs something unintelligible. Heart pounding, I shift and twist, taking my time and doing moves a contortionist would envy. Eventually I disentangle myself from his arms and slide from the bed. He’s still breathing softly.

  I am the queen of escape. A regular Houdini.

  My half-naked victory dance is halted when I turn back toward the bed and find him sitting up and watching me, his expression a sleepy combination of confusion and interest.

  His dark hair is rumpled and sexy and his eyes are a bright shade of blue so mesmerizing I almost rip all my clothes off and jump back into bed.

  Plus, he’s not wearing a shirt. The sheet only covers him from the waist down, exposing a chiseled chest and arms and . . . is that an eight-pack?

  “Who are you and why are you in my bed?” His voice is rough with sleep, and a zing shoots straight to my lady bits.

  Down, girl. “I’m not in your bed.”

  He rubs a hand through his sexy, tousled hair and frowns. “You were.” Those vivid eyes narrow momentarily and then lighten. “You’re Gwen’s friend. Aren’t you living at her apartment? Why are you here?”

  My brain shuffles through possible excuses.

  Watering the plants got really exhausting and I needed a nap.

  Too lame.

  I fell asleep while smelling your sheets.

  Too creepy.

  There’s a ghost in my apartment and I can’t sleep there.

  Too unbelievable, even if it happens to be true.

  “Oh, would you look at the time?” I glance down at my wrist. There’s no watch there. “I . . . I have to go.” I grab my overnight bag from the chair and bolt for the door.

  I slept in only a tank top and panties.

  He’s totally getting an eyeful of my ass and cellulite and, ugh.

  Doesn’t matter.

  “Wait.�
�� He shuffles behind me, pulling on his own clothes, but no one can get dressed and undressed as quickly as I can.

  It’s an art.

  Before he’s even made it out of the bedroom, I’ve pulled my pants out of my bag and I’m out the front door, buttoning as I race down the hall in the direction of the elevator.

  The shiny metal doors close me into solitude and I take a deep breath, watching my panicked face in the mirrored walls.

  As the elevator descends, laughter bubbles out of my reflection.

  I can’t believe I just ran away from the hottest man in the city. I mean, I knew there was a chance I would run into him. Gwen told me he would come back to New York eventually, but no one knew exactly when. I didn’t think I would wake up with him in bed, though. That was definitely a surprise.

  How did he not notice someone else sleeping when he got there? Sure, I have a tendency to huddle up into a ball. My friend Lucy would probably tell me it’s because of some kind of internal psychosis or trauma, and she’s probably right, but you’d think he would have turned on a light or something.

  I guess I should be thankful he didn’t bring someone home with him. That would have been even more awkward than this morning. Three-way no way.

  I wipe a hand down my face with a groan.

  Once I reach the bottom floor, I ask the doorman to get me a cab to Park Avenue. Might as well go straight to work instead of booking it all the way to Morningside Heights and back. At least I’m close enough to forgo the subway and I have my overnight bag with work clothes still stuffed inside.

  As the car pulls away from the curb, I consider what I’m going to do now. Since Brent’s here, I guess I won’t have to check the mail and water the plants anymore.

  I sink down into the seat of the cab.

  But this means I’m going to have a much bigger problem.

  How will I ever sleep?

  ~*~

  “Beth.”

  My boss likes to shorten my name. I think because it’s easier to bark. And just like a dog, when he barks, I come running.

  “Yes, Mr. Crawford?” I stop in the doorway to his office.

  “I told you to call me Albert.” He’s sitting behind his desk, shuffling papers.

  “And I told you to shove it.”

  He almost laughs this time, covering his mouth and coughing to hide the sound before fixing me with a glare.

  Everyone in the office is terrified of Mr. Crawford. Truth is, I am, too. Doesn’t stop me from dishing his shit right back to him. I think he loves it, even though he threatens to fire me fourteen times a day.

  The last assistant quit because he couldn’t afford the amount of Xanax needed to deal with this guy. I have two things his former assistant didn’t: boobs and a lack of tolerance for bullshit, no matter how important its source thinks he is.

  Both are helpful when it comes to Mr. Crawford.

  “How many more interviews do I have today?” he asks.

  “Six.”

  He curses and mutters something under his breath.

  “I could call the headhunter and see if we could spread them out, maybe reschedule a couple for tomorrow.”

  His eyes gleam. “You think so?”

  I shrug. “Probably. But you have to promise not to fire me for the rest of the month.”

  “I don’t make promises to pretty blondes unless we’re in bed together.”

  “Keep dreaming, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Fine. You have a deal.”

  “I’ll call over to the agency right now, sir.” I smile sweetly before heading back to my desk.

  I glance at the note stuck to the corner of my monitor.

  Listen. Smile. Agree. Then do whatever you were gonna do anyway.

  Marc quit unexpectedly and left the country with his girlfriend, but not before leaving behind inspirational quotes to help get me through my days. He stuck them in drawers, notepads, even one under my keyboard.

  The former executive officer is going to be a tough act to replace—something Mr. Crawford is coming to appreciate, no doubt. But just because his son quit the company doesn’t mean Marc stopped caring. After all, that’s why his last act was to hire me.

  Marc and his girlfriend Gwen are directly responsible for how I ended up in New York City with a new job. And how I ended up staying in Gwen’s haunted apartment. Which turned into crashing periodically at Marc’s apartment.

  I finish scheduling the remaining interviews for the week with the headhunter and then it’s nonstop for the next few hours.

  I have my own work to get to, plus I’m the buffer between Mr. Crawford and, well, everyone else.

  Grace from accounting sends me payroll documents for restaurant-chain commissions that need to be signed by the end of the day. Eric from marketing emails reports about potential new kitchen suppliers and aggregate sales data along with a long message begging me to organize them for Mr. Crawford. Lana from HR sends me a pop-up asking if I can compile some of her data about employee satisfaction into a color-coded file.

  I have a small spreadsheet obsession. Okay, it’s a large spreadsheet obsession and everyone knows about it and uses it to their advantage.

  And through it all, I don’t think about Brent Crawford and his snuggling abilities.

  Nope nope nope.

  Okay, so I try not to, but since my boss is his dad, it’s not exactly easy to forget him. Or his azure blue eyes. Or his naked chest. All of which make me think of hot nights on a Caribbean beach with lots of exposed skin. I really hope he doesn’t ever come to the office. He could melt off my clothes with a smile, along with every other female’s in a ten-thousand-mile-radius, which means he’s dangerous to my general health and well-being.

  This is a no-man zone for the foreseeable future. Out of service. Nothing to see here. Well, unless the man in question is interested in a serious adult relationship, and I doubt Mr. Hottie McHotpants famous football player man is available for anything other than a quick hookup.

  Hot men don’t have cold beds.

  I’m going to run into him eventually. Maybe it would be good to meet him with all my clothes on. I’ll be completely professional and eloquent. I’ll be drinking tea out of one of those fancy porcelain cups with a dainty handle, pinky up, speaking with a crisp British accent and saying things like “Tally ho!” and “Are you taking the piss?” and “Beg your pardon” and—

  “Beth!”

  I jerk in my seat and my recently refreshed cup of coffee spills all over the front of my bright white blouse.

  Then again, maybe eloquence is out of the picture.

  “Yes, Mr. Crawford?”

  “My son’s in town. We need reservations at Gilt for tomorrow night.”

  “On it.”

  I glance down at the soggy brown fabric clinging to my chest.

  Tomorrow, I’m wearing black.

  Chapter Two

  Remember, tomorrow is promised to no one.

  –Walter Payton

  Brent

  “A funny thing happened on our way through the Alps. Gwen convinced me to snowboard again for the first time in fifteen years. Will I die? Probably. So my final words to you are this: stop being a dickbag and call me. Also, I know you’ll have to come home soon since training is starting. Will you check on Gwen’s friend Bethany? She’s working for Dad. I want to make sure she isn’t too traumatized by the experience. She doesn’t know anyone in New York. Send me an email or something if you can.”

  My thumb hovers over the call-back button.

  I want to talk to Marc. Tell him everything. But I’ve always leaned on my brother.

  Story of my life. He’s the strong one. I’m the needy one.

  He’s traveling with his girlfriend. I’m holed up in a waiting room alone.

  He’s happy, and he deserves it, and I refuse to ruin it for him. Also, if I’m being completely honest with myself, slithering jealousy wiggles around in my stomach eve
ry time I think of Marc.

  He got the girl.

  I’m still alone.

  Before I can decide to not call Marc back for the fortieth time, the decision is taken from me.

  Dad’s calling.

  “I need you to be here by three.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can.” My brother had the right idea, leaving the country. He no longer has to deal with Dad’s crazy. Only I get the honor at the moment.

  “I need you to help me win over Jim Sinclair, owner of the HouseMart chain stores. He’s a big Sharks fan.”

  “Sure. Whatever you need,” I respond absently. I have my ball cap pulled low over my head and sunglasses over my eyes, but I’m getting the side-eye from an elderly gentleman sitting across from me in the waiting room.

  I do not want to be recognized.

  It doesn’t help that the only TV in the waiting room is currently on ESPN and they’re running an interview I did last season and highlighting all my major pass plays and touchdowns.

  I hunch down even further.

  The nurse calls my name from the door. First name only, but still, the old man gives me a sharp look.

  I stand from my seat.

  “Listen, I gotta go but I’ll see you soon.” I hang up before he can respond and then follow the nurse down a narrow hallway with bland beige carpet and stark white walls.

  She smiles and makes idle chatter while checking my weight and blood pressure. Then she tells me the doctor will be right in and I’m left alone in a sterile room, my hat and glasses perched on the side table.

  I’m here to face what I’ve been avoiding for months.

  Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. A seemingly random string of letters, but when you put them all together, it means my heart could stop beating at any moment.

  Just like Mom’s.

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Crawford.” Dr. Richards shakes my hand. She’s probably midfifties with dark, wavy hair pulled back from her face and warm brown eyes.