Melt Into You

by Lisa Plumley

  Surprised to find the B-Man Media mogul standing outside in the hallway, Natasha gaped at him. Hanging back behind Damon, she double-checked to make sure her clothes were in order. Yep. Everything was fine. She could safely face the world outside.

  Outside, where the party seemed to be continuing downstairs in all its raucous glory. Then she realized what Wes had said.

  “Playbook?” Natasha asked Damon. “What playbook?”

  Damon looked uncomfortable. He raked his hand through his hair, even though he’d already straightened it. He frowned at Wes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Wes.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” Wes said. “I should have seen this improv coming, too. Only I was distracted by a sudden attack of … well, I guess you’d say it was guilt I felt.” Wes chuckled. “Guilt over having booted you out of my place on Destiny’s command. I know, I know.” Jokingly, Wes held up his hands. “It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. I felt guilty. You’re my friend, Damon! And Destiny and I are history. I realized after she left what an unbelievable ass hat I’d been, leaving you to fend for yourself in your hour of need, so—”

  “I can’t talk now, Wes.” Damon took Natasha’s arm, trying to usher her into the hallway past Wes. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  But Natasha dug in her heels. Something about Damon’s guilty expression made her stay put. She wanted to know more.

  “What playbook?” Natasha asked Wes.

  “Well … playbook is probably overstating things,” Wes admitted with another jovial chuckle. “We both know Damon isn’t the greatest at executing a plan, right, Natasha?” He glanced at a tense-looking Damon. “No hard feelings, buddy, but it’s common knowledge that you suck at follow-through. You’re one hundred percent impulse and zero percent long-term strategy. That’s why I stepped in to make sure your little scheme to take back what’s yours from Little Miss Puppies and Rainbows here achieved liftoff.”

  Wes nodded toward her. Disbelievingly, Natasha arched her brows. “You mean me? I’m ‘Little Miss Puppies and Rainbows’?”

  “Hey.” Wes shrugged. “They were Damon’s words, not mine.”

  Openmouthed, Natasha looked at Damon. She wanted to know exactly what he was supposed to have been scheming to “take back” from her. But first … “You called me that?”

  Damon glowered at Wes. “Only the ‘puppies’ part.”

  “What?”

  “I may have likened you to a basketful of puppies,” Damon told her in a low voice, “but only in the best possible way!”

  Natasha couldn’t think of a single “best possible way” those words could be used to refer to her. Especially by Damon.

  Before she could find out more, Wes jumped in again.

  “Damon doesn’t know the half of it, though, does he, princess? He probably thinks you spontaneously crashed this party—this party that just happens to be full of movers and shakers and industry types you could—and did—schmooze with on Damon’s behalf.” Wes shook his head at Damon. “This poor sap might even think you dragged him in there for a quickie just for the fun of it, when we both know the real reason was to avoid—”

  “Hey! I did crash this party,” Natasha objected before Wes could, damningly, go any further. “And as far as our encounter goes—” No. She wasn’t going to discuss her quickie with Damon with Wes, of all people. “As far as my reasons for being here are concerned, at least I have what’s best for Damon in mind.”

  “What’s best for me?” In a tone of disbelief, Damon broke in. He grabbed her arm. “Natasha, what are you talking about?”

  She couldn’t tell him. Not like this. Instead, Natasha faced Wes. “When who knows what you want to accomplish,” she said for diversion’s sake, “with whatever you’ve been up to.”

  “With whatever I’ve been up to?” Wes mimed in an overly prissy voice, raising his brows. He laughed. “That’s easy! It’s no secret. I’ve been photographing you both. And videotaping you, of course.” Appearing simultaneously proud and gleeful, Wes beamed at them. “I’ve been documenting the rehabilitation of America’s favorite playboy, the king of chocolate himself, Damon Torrance!” Wes swept his arm toward Damon in a grand gesture. “The traditional media is going to go ape shit when I release the footage. People are going to eat it up! I might even be able to get a whole reality show out of it. That’s the payoff I’m always looking for, right there,” Wes informed Damon. “Even when I’m trying to be altruistic, I make money! And let me tell you, the whole world is going to want to watch Damon woo his true love, the wholesome single mom from suburbia. It’s so romantic!”

  “You taped us?” Menacingly, Damon advanced toward Wes. “You followed us and filmed us and made a reality show out of us?”

  “I did,” Wes said, suddenly disgruntled. “I was. Until you blundered in here and threatened to screw up the whole thing by crashing a party and getting busy in the bathroom and behaving like … well, not like America’s sweetheart. More like your old self. Which is why I called you and told you to get lost.”

  Damon fisted his hands. “You filmed us?” he repeated.

  “Come on.” Unconcerned, Wes waved off Damon’s aggressive stance. He sighed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see my crew. I know you spotted them a time or two. I saw it on the footage. I saw you spot a cameraman less than an hour ago—and ignore him.”

  Damon fell silent. This time, Natasha guessed, he couldn’t even employ his favorite tactic and just brazen out the situation. Because Wes had deliberately called him on it.

  It was true, then, Natasha realized with a sinking heart. Damon and Wes must had been conspiring to rehab Damon’s damaged public image. And she’d inadvertently gone along for the ride.

  “But don’t worry,” Wes assured them both. “We can edit out the sexy stuff.” He leered toward the powder room. “As long as you skedaddle right now. After all, there’s no point churning through unusable footage. Time is money.” Wes rubbed his fingers together, cash-only style. “I have to give my crew full credit, too. They covered your rehabilitation with almost as much zeal as they did your breakdown in Las Vegas. God knows, it couldn’t have been as dramatic.” He shot a cheerful glance at Natasha. “That’s a cute kid you’ve got, by the way. Milo, right?”

  Natasha gasped. She could scarcely wrap her imagination around what Wes was saying. But it sounded, if she wasn’t mistaken, as though Damon had set out to remodel his workshop-damaged reputation by the most expedient means possible … .

  By pretending to date Little Miss Puppies and Rainbows.

  By pretending to love … her. And having Wes document it all.

  “Leave the kid out of this.” Damon’s face looked stony. “In fact, leave all of us out of this, Wes. I don’t want—”

  “Leave you out of it?” Wes laughed with obvious incredulity. “I can’t do that. Not now. Come on, buddy. All’s well that ends well, right? You got the girl. So what if your tender courtship winds up on TV? People are going to love the farmers market scenes. When you chose Natasha over all those panting, hot-to-trot Stepford Wives, I thought I might cry.”

  “Fuck off, Wes. You’re sick.” Damon shook his head, doing an excellent impression of being disillusioned … now that he’d been caught in the act. “I thought I could trust you. Hell, at one time, I even thought I was just like you! But—”

  “You are just like him,” Natasha said quietly.

  Damon gawked at her. “I used to be. A little. But now—”

  “You’re exactly like him,” Natasha forged onward, feeling almost overcome with grief and disappointment … feeling herself growing weirdly detached from this horrible revelation and the party continuing downstairs. “The only difference between you and Wes,” she said, “is that you’re less honest about it.”

  “Honest?” Damon’s jaw tightened. “You’re going to tell me about being honest? The woman who lied about being married?”

  “Woohoo!” Wes said with relish. “That sounds intriguing! Tell me more. Mayb
e we’ll make it into a bonus webisode.”

  Ignoring Wes, Natasha jerked up her chin. She stared at Damon instead, finding him suddenly … unfamiliar to her. She couldn’t believe she’d been so blind. She couldn’t believe she’d bought in. All Damon’s flattery, all his kindness, all his consideration had been false. She should have known him better.

  She should have. But she hadn’t.

  And Damon’s supposedly instantaneous, white-hot, super-sexy inability to resist her? That must have been a lie, too.

  In retrospect, it all made sense.

  “It looks that way, Pinocchio,” she said. “It looks like I am going to tell you about being honest.” With deliberate dispassion, Natasha crossed her arms. “But hey … I know what it’s like. Pretty soon, you get in too deep to come clean, right?”

  At least she’d told the truth before sleeping with him. Before falling for him. Before making promises to him.

  Damon shook his head. In a cold voice, he said, “I don’t have anything to ‘come clean’ about. And if you think I do—”

  “I think you do. But I’ve heard just about enough for now.” Squaring her shoulders, Natasha gazed directly at Wes. “You didn’t have permission to film us, Wes. If you release that footage, I’ll sue your ass off. Consider yourself forewarned.”

  “Ooh!” Wes made playful paws with his hands. He growled, then waved them in the air. “The puppy just grew claws.” He guffawed, then elbowed Damon. “No wonder you’re hot for her. Under all that composure and practicality, she’s a feisty one.”

  Wasn’t anyone taking this seriously? Heartsick, Natasha addressed Damon next. “I have to hand it to you. You really had me going. After all these years …” She shook her head. “I guess you never truly know somebody until you let them screw you.”

  Damon’s eyes widened. “It wasn’t about that! Natasha—”

  “Good luck, Damon,” she interrupted. Then she realized the irony of saying that to him, of all people, and tried again. “I did come to this party to try to help you,” Natasha admitted. “I came here to network, like I’ve been busy doing all week, with the hope that I could get you on your feet again. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d come here if I did.”

  “You would have been right. I wouldn’t have. But that’s only because—”

  “We were both on the guest list,” Natasha went on. “The invitations came weeks ago. I got them from your office, with Jason’s help, and I accepted them. I’d forgotten all about it until we walked by. But then I realized what a great opportunity this party might be, and it sounded like fun to crash, so I—” She stopped, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is, I felt sorry for you—”

  “Sorry? For me?” For the first time, Damon seemed angry.

  “—after what happened to you in Las Vegas,” Natasha continued with a hitch in her voice. “I felt sorry for abandoning you the way I did. But you know what I just realized? It doesn’t matter if I abandon you. And it doesn’t matter if I stick by you … again. Again and again and again, like I always do. Because what matters is that you’re no good at sticking by yourself when the going gets tough. That’s what brought you down during your chocolate workshop with Tamala in Las Vegas—”

  Damon’s eyes widened. “You saw that? But I thought—”

  “—that’s what you’re covering up with all your relentless swagger and refusal to grow up—”

  He glowered harder. “I can’t believe you can’t see—”

  “—and that’s what’s making me walk away right now.”

  With tears in her eyes, Natasha approached Damon. She put both hands on his shirt, straightened his tie, then smiled.

  “I love you,” she said. “That’s the whole truth, whether you believe it or not. But I won’t stand by and let you hide away from the life you’re meant to live—not even if doing that would bring me you. I wanted to let you stay forever and just play house with me, but that would have been wrong. For both of us. So I worked to make things right, for you, because that’s what I’m best at.” Natasha inhaled deeply. She stroked his jaw, wanting more than anything to throw herself in his arms and pretend this wasn’t happening. “Now it’s time for you to go back to your real life, Damon. Go back to your easy, privileged, happy-go-lucky life. Because that’s what you’re best at: being careless and advantaged and lucky. Not being with me or Milo. Not living in suburbia. Not any of it.”

  “I’m different now.” Damon’s eyes bored into her, dark and full of what she imagined was anguish … even though it couldn’t be. At his sides, his fists tightened. That seemed convincing, too. “I’ve changed,” he said. “You must be able to see that.”

  Natasha couldn’t. Not then. Especially not a minute later when, from down the hall, a short-haired brunette with a lithe, lanky figure approached them. Her smile looked tentative.

  “Hey there, sailor,” she told Damon, hefting the twin cocktails in her hands. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Natasha scrutinized the woman—and the vaguely shamefaced way Damon greeted her. The brunette’s bright-eyed, tipsy gaze swept over Damon, Wes, and Natasha in turn. Her attention swerved back to Damon. A coy smile edged onto her face.

  “Here are those drinks we were talking about,” the brunette told Damon flirtatiously. “You didn’t bring them to me yourself like you promised, you bad boy.” She blinked, belatedly catching the tension in the air. “Oh. Is this a bad time?”

  “Nope.” Natasha took Damon’s drink, knocked back the whole thing, then gave back the glass to Damon’s apparent next-in-line. “This is a great time—for me to say good-bye.”

  “Tasha,” Damon protested in a beleaguered tone. “Wait.”

  But even his use of that affectionate nickname for her couldn’t stop Natasha now. She felt much too hurt for that.

  “No, Damon. I’m not waiting anymore. I’ve already waited a long time for you.” She glanced at the perplexed-looking brunette. “Turns out, it wasn’t worth it. You might think a few days in suburbia changed you … but all I see is the same old you.”

  “It wasn’t suburbia that changed me!” Damon grabbed her arm. He gave her an almost-convincing pleading look, heedless of the rudely inquisitive way Wes watched them both. “It was you.”

  “Nice try.” With a bitter laugh, Natasha finally broke free. “But I’m not dumb enough to believe that one twice.”

  Then she swiveled around and marched away … and this time, Damon didn’t try to call her back. He didn’t even argue his point again. Evidently, he’d already ceded her victory.

  Too bad no victory had ever felt less victorious.

  “Well,” Wes said behind her, “I guess there’s no point letting that last drink go to waste. How about sharing, doll?”

  “Um, I brought this drink for Damon,” the brunette said tentatively, “but I guess I could share with you, too. Is that okay with you, Damon? We were supposed to have drinks together—”

  Natasha didn’t stick around to hear Damon’s response. She only set her Wellies in motion, hit the stairs, and escaped through the party into the formerly romantic night outside. This time, her beachside stroll would be a whole other experience.

  But she knew she could handle it. She always had before.

  Chapter 24

  By the time Damon woke up the day after his unexpected falling-out with Natasha, it was late afternoon. Feeling bleary-eyed, hungover, and strangely hollow inside, he opened his eyes to find himself in a brightly lit bedroom he didn’t recognize. Worse, he had no memory of how he’d gotten there.

  It was just like old times.

  Too heartsick to be alarmed by his unfamiliar surroundings, memory lapse, and pounding headache, Damon rolled over. He tried to go back to sleep, but for once the universe didn’t cooperate. The dark, all-encompassing slumber he wanted wouldn’t come.

  Instead, fragments of the previous night’s events paraded through his mind, jumbled and nausea inducing. Damon
remembered accepting a drink—no, several drinks—from Sloane, the leggy brunette. He remembered meeting Sloane’s party-girl friends. He remembered going to an after-hours club with Sloane and her flirtatious all-girl posse, spotting the B-Man Media crew that Wes had assigned to tail him and Natasha, and punching one of the cameramen in the face. He remembered shouting invectives, breaking a few cameras, and getting thrown out of the club.

  He remembered feeling that destroying something that belonged to B-Man Media was only poetic justice. Because Damon had lost something. Now they’d lost something. Even Steven.

  Except it wasn’t even, Damon realized as he dragged his palms over his face, reluctantly growing a little more alert. He’d lost Natasha. He’d lost his hopes for a different kind of future. Without those, nothing else seemed to matter.

  Last night, all Damon had wanted to do was forget. He’d wanted to box up the time he’d spent with Natasha and stash it away where it couldn’t torture him anymore. So he’d done his best to revert to his old ways, which—while not perfect—were usually excellent at helping stem the tide of reality.

  But for once, drinking and dancing and carousing hadn’t worked. Nothing had worked. Nothing had made him feel any better. Because last night, as now, all Damon had wanted to do was brood. He’d wanted to rage at … someone.

  He’d wanted to cry. And he still did.

  Because he missed Natasha already. Because he couldn’t stop wondering if Milo still wanted a piggyback ride and if Carol had remembered to take her recycling to the curb and if Natasha was really as hurt as she’d looked when she’d said good-bye to him. Because she’d looked wrecked and disillusioned and sad.

  She’d looked the way Damon had felt. She’d looked … alone.

  Hell. A few days in suburbia had totally unmanned him, Damon realized. He was probably better off without it.

  He was probably better off without her.