Melt Into You

by Lisa Plumley

  Damon could identify with that. Sometimes a man didn’t want anyone pestering him to wake up, get dressed, and be responsible. He knew he didn’t. Not even now. Screw that.

  That’s why Wes’s place was so perfect for him. Perfect.

  After a brief rummage through the fridge, Damon unearthed an orange juice from behind the ever-present supply of Veuve Clicquot that Wes kept on hand. Carefully, Damon made a notation on the notepad he kept on the counter: Orange juice, 1 pint.

  Keeping track of the items he used had been Damon’s idea. Wes had given him no end of grief about it. The orange juice was only the latest in a growing series of penciled-in entries designed to help Damon track and repay his debt to Wes—the only one who’d truly come through for him in his hour of need. His notepad also included entries recording five days’ lodging, several full meals, and more than one instance of bus fare.

  Damon’s Chihuly cache of quarters hadn’t gone very far; despite not having ransomed his BMW yet, he’d still needed to get places occasionally. Although his parents were still being chilly—to the point that Jimmy and Debbie had refused to put up Damon temporarily in their house in Solana Beach—Damon remained dedicated to his work at Torrance Chocolates … and to finding a way to redeem himself in his dad’s eyes.

  Now, if only he knew how in the hell to do that …

  “You know, I’m beginning to think you’re an impostor.” Wes rounded the corner, toting a whiskey bottle and looking sleepy. He wore his suit from the night before—crumpled and worse for the wear—with an unbuttoned shirt and a day’s ration of beard stubble. Lip gloss smudged his collar. “The Damon Torrance I know would have been tallying up bottles of champagne, wrecked hotel suites, beautiful women, and business victories. Not O.J.”

  “The Damon Torrance you knew wouldn’t have tallied up a damn thing, because he didn’t realize what a mess he was.”

  Wes scoffed. “Are you still beating yourself up about that?” He traversed the length of the counter on unsteady bare feet, slung his arm companionably around Damon’s shoulders, then nudged him in the ribs with his whiskey bottle. “Knock it off already, dude. Your prissy secretary was wrong about you! Look around you—you won! You’re at the top of the heap! You might as well enjoy yourself, because you damn well earned it. That Vegas thing was just a fucking glitch. A speed bump. Nothing more.”

  To punctuate his point, Wes knocked back some whiskey. He offered the bottle to Damon. Regretfully, Damon shook his head.

  Wes met his refusal with an indulgent smile. “Fine. Be that way, you damn spoilsport. But before you wrap yourself around the axle trying to be a ‘better person’”—Wes paused to make derisive air quotes with his fingers—“whatever the fuck that means, you might want to ask yourself: Where’s the payoff?”

  Grumpily, Damon drank his orange juice. He remained silent.

  “That’s what I always ask myself,” Wes told him casually. “Where’s the payoff? If there isn’t one, I don’t do it. So where’s the payoff, for you, in trying to be so ‘good’?”

  Damon wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he’d scraped the floor in Las Vegas. From here, he could only go up. He hoped.

  “Not everything comes with a profit/loss statement.”

  “Ooh, listen to you! Now I know you’ve been replaced by a pod person.” Wes’s eyes glimmered with laughter. “Come on! I’m not talking about P and Ls. I’m talking about life! Living life! Grabbing life by the balls and seeing where it takes you!”

  “Lately? It’s been taking me down some pretty dark alleyways.” Sardonically, Damon grinned. “It’s been grabbing me by the balls and punching me.” He sighed. “In the balls.”

  “I know. I know.” In a conciliatory gesture, Wes spread his arms—a motion that sent telltale whiffs of liquor, cigar smoke, and ladies’ perfume into the air. All the aftereffects of his raucous lifestyle were present and accounted for. “You told me that when you got here. You’ve had a run of rotten luck lately—”

  Darkly, Damon chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “—but have you considered why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you’ve been so ‘unlucky’ lately.” Wes examined his bottle, idly rubbing his thumb over its label. “I mean, all these things going wrong at once can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It has to be a coincidence.” Privately, Damon had begun wondering if he somehow deserved all the misfortune he’d been encountering lately. But he didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t. “I’m probably overdue for a lifetime’s bad luck, that’s all,” he told Wes. “I’ve been skating until now—”

  “No. What you’ve been doing is being fortunate enough not to come across a vengeful woman,” Wes disagreed. “Until now.”

  Mystified, Damon stared at him. In many ways, he and Wes were like brothers. They liked the same things. They reacted in the same ways. They shared philosophies and business goals. That had been true for five years now. He and Wes were simpatico.

  But this … “I must be too sober. I’m not following you.”

  “Natasha.” Wes nodded. “She’s your vengeful woman. You crossed her,” he theorized, “and now you’re paying for it.”

  Damon burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. “That’s impossible. Natasha isn’t making me pay for anything. You’ve met her—she’s about as vengeful as a basketful of puppies.”

  “Sure.” Consolingly, Wes made a face. “She probably seemed that way at first—until you pushed her too far. But then …” Wes gave an awestruck whistle. “Watch out, sucker. I’ve seen it happen before. You make one tiny misstep, and little miss basket of puppies morphs into a fucking pile of piranhas.”

  Involuntarily, Damon thought of Wes’s cadre of ex-wives. If the divorce settlements—which were legendary—were anything to go by, those women had definitely been out for the kill. Still …

  “Not Natasha.” Damon shook his head more firmly. “No way.”

  “Yes, way. The quiet ones are always the deadliest after they’ve been riled up.” Wes slugged back more whiskey. He aimed the bottle at Damon’s improvised ledger, where he’d written orange juice just moments ago. “Look what she’s reduced you to. Bookkeeping.” He made an even more aggrieved face. “Hell.”

  “Natasha didn’t do that,” Damon protested. Although it was, he realized, exactly the kind of thing she’d be inclined to do herself for the sake of fairness. “I did it. It was my idea. As far as the rest of my misfortunes go—”

  “Who else had the motive to do this to you?” Wes interrupted. “Who else had the requisite access to you to pull it off? Who else could have reported your hotel suite ruined, canceled your driver—all but guaranteeing you’d be mugged on that airport van—and put out the word to all your lady friends that they should end things? I’ll tell you who: Natasha.”

  “Well,” Damon mused aloud involuntarily, “Natasha did have contact information for all the women I dated. Over the years, we’d streamlined the process of sending ‘sorry I broke your heart’ bouquets after the inevitable breakups happened.”

  “‘Sorry I broke your heart’ bouquets?” Wes goggled at him. “Gag me. Let me guess: that was your secretary’s bright idea?”

  “Maybe the first one was … . I can’t remember.”

  “See? She’s corrupted you!” Wes pointed the whiskey bottle in outright indignation. “Plus, she’s obviously turned Jason and his wife against you. Who knows what she told your parents to make Jimmy and Debbie turn their backs on you, too—”

  “Hey.” Damon gave his friend a stern look. “Watch it.”

  “Sorry.” Wes really did appear contrite. For him. Which didn’t mean much. “All I’m saying is, it bugs me to see you suffering this way when you don’t have to! It seems obvious to me that your pissed-off secretary somehow put your whole life into meltdown mode, and now you’re suffering the consequences.”

  Almost against his will, Damon found himself nodding. It was true that no one else
in his life possessed the necessary access to wreak the havoc he’d undergone lately. Only Natasha.

  “Worst of all, you’ve internalized the damage!” Grandiosely, Wes spread his arms. His whiskey sloshed in its bottle. Across the room, a woman wearing a sequined miniskirt and one high-heeled shoe—and nothing else—stirred in her sleep. “That’s the real kick in the head! You’re suffering, and you think you deserve it. You think you’re supposed to fix yourself somehow, starting with a stupid ledger of orange juice entries.”

  Somewhere between internalized, suffering, and fix yourself, it occurred to Damon that Wes may have had a lot of therapy. Maybe too much. Everyone knew Wes had been in and out of rehab. All the same, some of what he was saying made sense.

  “I still don’t think Natasha would do anything like this on purpose. She couldn’t,” Damon insisted. “The really weird part is that while I’m here struggling, Natasha is doing great. Jason and Amy told me she’s happy, she’s got tons of new job offers, her clunker of a car is running well, her flowers look better than Martha Stewart’s, her mother-in-law is apparently being extra agreeable … . Even that bastard Pacey is probably being nice.”

  At the thought of Natasha’s husband, Damon frowned. But Wes wasn’t the least bit sidetracked by thoughts of Natasha’s spoiled artiste hubby … and how lucky the bastard was to be with Natasha, probably right now, this very minute. Damn it.

  “It’s obvious what’s happened here.” Wes gazed directly at him. In a solemn tone, he said, “Natasha has your share of good luck. She’s got all the good luck you’re supposed to have.”

  For a moment, the idea just hung there between them, feeling important and right and inarguable. Maybe it was.

  “That’s as good an explanation as any.” With a nod, Damon slammed down his orange juice. “I need to get it back.”

  “Yes. You deserve to get it back.”

  “I’m going to get it back. Today.” Warming up to the idea, Damon ran his hand through his hair. This was the first break he’d had in days. He meant to run with it. “I bet all I have to do is get Natasha to forgive me, then … bam! The universe will right itself again, and I’ll have my mojo back.”

  Wes beamed. “That sounds more like the Damon Torrance I know. Go get her, tiger! For you, this should be easy.”

  “Yeah,” Damon agreed. “It will be easy! I might be down, but I’m not out. I’m still me! I can get whatever I want.”

  “Damn straight, you can.” Wes saluted with his whiskey.

  Feeling fired up, Damon nodded. “I’d know exactly what to do, too… .” He paused. “If it weren’t for Pacey.” Stupid Pacey.

  If not for Natasha’s inconvenient husband, Damon could have taken the easy way out and charmed her into forgiving him. As it was, he’d have to try some other, less intimately enjoyable method of convincing Natasha to give him a second chance.

  If only he knew what it was …

  Well, he’d figure it out when he got there.

  “Point me to suburbia!” Damon told his friend exuberantly. “I’m headed to the land of minivans, carpools, and faithful family mutts—and I’m going to conquer it by lunchtime.”

  Wes peered at the clock. “It’s already lunchtime.”

  “I’m going to conquer it by sundown!”

  “Okay.” Wes pointed at him with his whiskey bottle. “You might want to put on some pants first.”

  Damon glanced down at his black boxer briefs. Still undaunted, he said, “If I have to, I’ll conquer it naked!”

  When it came to Natasha, he wished he could … .

  “Right.” Wes nodded toward the back door, where a rack of key rings hung. “Take my car. Keep it as long as you need to.”

  “Hey, that’s decent of you, Wes.”

  A shrug. “I’ve got six more parked out there.”

  “Still, I appreciate it.” Damon squared his shoulders, then gave his friend a confident look. “I’m going to do this.”

  “I hope so, because you can’t come back here.” Wes flashed a regretful glance in the direction of the topless, miniskirt-wearing woman across the room. Now she’d draped herself across the sofa. “Destiny says you crush her groove by not partying with us. She wants you to leave. I told her I’d make it happen.”

  Openmouthed, Damon gawked at him. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “’Fraid so, dude.” Wes gave another genial, man-to-man shrug. “I’m sort of a pushover when it comes to women.”

  That explained Wes’s multiple divorces, Damon thought.

  “Besides,” Wes added, “I’m kind of a dick. You know that.”

  Agreeably, Damon nodded. “I think we both are.”

  But maybe not for long, Damon told himself with a new burst of optimism. If all went well today, he could get back Natasha and reclaim his good luck in the process … and maybe reboot his messed-up life at the same time. Stranger things had happened.

  Not to him. But they’d happened. Probably.

  “You can always sleep in my car,” Wes suggested. With a leer, he added, “The backseat is pretty roomy. I can attest to that fact personally.” He pulled out a wad of cash from his suit pocket, then riffled off a few bills. He raised his eyebrows. “And I can front you some walking-around money. How much—”

  “No, thanks.” Damon held up his hand. “I’m already indebted to you enough. Besides, I’ll be fine.”

  Wes gave him a dubious eyebrow raise.

  “Seriously,” Damon assured him. “I’ll have this mess straightened out by happy hour. It’s Natasha. I know her.”

  He did know her. He could do this. Feeling invigorated and self-assured, Damon headed upstairs.

  Halfway there, he turned back.

  “But I don’t know where she lives,” Damon admitted to Wes. No wonder he’d failed all those quizzes on Natasha’s personal life. He was clueless about the important stuff. “Any ideas?”

  Chapter 11

  When Natasha first heard her doorbell ring, she thought it was probably a UPS delivery arriving. Or maybe her next-door neighbor, Kurt, wanting to borrow her gardening shears. Or maybe someone looking for Carol and ringing the wrong doorbell.

  Most of Natasha’s friends knew to bypass the weird clang of the 1960s-era doorbell at her front door; they mostly knocked instead. That meant that the only people who actually rang the front doorbell were door-to-door salespeople and well-meaning missionaries offering Bible tracts—and that meant Natasha knew she could safely ignore its ding.

  Then it came again. Ding. Ding. Ding!

  Reluctantly, she made her way to the door, careful not to smudge her fresh pedicure as she went. Given her copious spare time these days, Natasha had taken to experimenting with her “look.” It was a suggestion Amy Huerta had helpfully made—partly because Amy, at eight months pregnant, could no longer reach her own toes very agilely. She needed help to paint them.

  Ordinarily, Amy had giddily confided, Jason helped with that task. But today, she and Natasha were enjoying a spa day at home while Jason used his employee flextime (a longtime perk at Torrance Chocolates) to take the children to the park at Mission Beach.

  “Sorry. I’ll be right back,” Natasha promised Amy.

  She trundled awkwardly toward the front door, balanced on her bare heels, mindful of keeping her foam toe separators safely in the air. Her pedicure—based on a new toluene-, DBP-, and formaldehyde-free “green” nail enamel that Amy had insisted on using—flashed its pretty pink shade all the way across her living room. If she made it to the front door and back without a noticeable smear, Natasha knew, it would be a miracle.

  As it turned out, the real miracle was waiting at her door.

  Because when she opened it, Natasha, wearing a pleasantly neutral expression and expecting to see a delivery person with a clipboard or maybe a hopeful Girl Scout selling delicious cookies, instead gazed across her sunny threshold and saw …

  “Damon?” Boggling, she stared at him. “Is that you?”

  He loo
ked great, Natasha couldn’t help thinking. He looked tall and muscular and handsome and … contrite? And, in a charcoal-colored suit and open-collared shirt, Damon looked … out of place. He looked incredibly out of place in her modest neighborhood.

  Maybe she was imagining him, Natasha thought for one crazy instant. Maybe she’d missed Damon so much that her imagination had conjured him out of thin air—incongruously fancy suit and all. But then Damon smiled, thrust forward a vivid bouquet of cellophane-wrapped yellow daffodils, and spoke to her.

  “These are for you,” he said. “They’re a peace offering.”

  “Peace offering?” Natasha angled her head in confusion. In further bafflement, she frowned. “How did you find me, anyway? I know you don’t know my address or even my street, so—”

  “Will you please take them?” Damon offered them again. “Please? I have a whole speech planned. It starts with flowers.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Stiltedly, Natasha accepted the daffodils.

  At least they weren’t the same patented, super-expensive, “sorry I broke your heart” bouquet that Natasha had routinely sent to Damon’s exes. That wouldn’t have been welcome at all.

  Even if Natasha’s heart really was a little broken. At the sight of Damon, in fact, her heart ached with a bittersweet longing that surprised her. She’d thought she was getting over him. She’d thought she was learning not to miss him anymore.

  Apparently, there really was some truth to that “out of sight, out of mind” adage, at least when it came to her.

  Feeling self-conscious and all too aware that she did miss Damon—and didn’t know how to stop, short of keeping him distinctly “out of sight”—Natasha stuck her nose in the flowers.

  That was what people did with flowers, right? But of course, she didn’t smell a thing. These days, most flowers only looked nice; they lasted a long time but had no fragrance. They were bred for showy looks, not subtlety. As a peace offering from Damon, that probably made them particularly appropriate.