Tangled Up In Love

by Unknown

  The question hit a little too close to home, and it took a second for Dylan’s gut to unclench and his mind to formulate an answer.

  “Definitely not,” he responded slowly, remembering the number of times she’d turned away from him after they’d made love, in embarrassment and regret. The number of times she’d made a point of telling him it had been a mistake to sleep with him, and swearing him to secrecy so that no one would ever find out she’d let her guard down long enough to fall into bed with the enemy.

  A twinge of disappointment seeped into his voice as he said, “It’s just lust and the illicitness of a forbidden affair.”

  “One more reason for us to keep our traps shut, then,” Zack said. “We wouldn’t want to be the cause of you losing access to a regular supply of booty.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Dylan quipped. The sex was good, no doubt about it, but that wasn’t his main concern anymore.

  Shifting in his spot on the sofa, he went back to knitting, carefully forming one stitch after another. After a couple of minutes had passed with no further questions or well-meant comments from Gage and Zack, Dylan quietly murmured, “I’m thinking of trying to talk her into sticking things out awhile longer, seeing where they take us.”

  Zack’s eyes widened, but Gage’s expression remained stoically unreadable.

  A beat passed before Gage raised his bottle of beer in a mock salute and said, “More power to you, brother.”

  Zack’s response was slower to come. Finally, he said, “Yeah, good luck with that,” sounding none too convinced that Dylan would be successful. “And if it doesn’t work out, you can always send her down to the rink to keep the ice from melting between games.”

  Row 18

  When Ronnie walked to her desk at the Sentinel offices Monday morning, she did it with a bounce in her step and a smile on her face. She couldn’t believe how good she felt.

  For the first time, she was happy to come into work. She was looking forward to checking her messages and e-mail, sitting in on the editorial meeting, and brainstorming ideas for new columns. It didn’t all feel rote to her anymore, like she was slogging through quicksand just trying to get to where she really wanted to be.

  For once, she felt as though she was exactly where she belonged, doing exactly what she was meant to do.

  And her concerns about money . . . well, they were by no means completely alleviated, but they had been significantly reduced after a phone call to Dylan’s father, who had talked to her for several hours about financial planning.

  He’d also given her the name of a professional financial planner whom he seemed to think would help her get everything organized to the point that she wouldn’t need to worry about money or her future at all.

  Although she’d tried several times, she hadn’t been able to adequately express her gratitude to Mr. Stone for his help and advice. She had a feeling, though, that she would have to find a way to thank Dylan.

  The only problem there was that she could very easily envision several hot and sweaty ways to express her appreciation to him.

  Dylan was the one thing that tarnished her otherwise buoyant mood. She honestly didn’t know what to do about him.

  Did she want to keep sleeping with him?

  Oh, yeah. Especially since no other man she’d ever been with had managed to curl her toes and send her eyes rolling back in her head as often as he did.

  Did she want things between them to become more serious?

  That she wasn’t so sure about. There were moments she thought the answer was yes, and she could almost picture them going out on normal dates, hanging out with their friends, getting to know each other the way significant others did.

  Other times, it was a definite no. It was ridiculous to think there would ever be more between them than the most superficial chitchat and tooth-rattling, seizure-inducing boinking.

  Well, she didn’t need to worry about that just now, she thought, punching the button to boot up her computer and dialing her voice mail at the same time. She probably wouldn’t see him for a few days, which meant she didn’t have to decide how to deal with him quite yet.

  While clicking to check her e-mail, she automatically jotted down notes from two of her voice-mail messages. The third one, however, gave her pause.

  It was an associate publisher of a newspaper in Chicago where she’d sent her résumé the month before and then flown out to interview with a few weeks earlier. For a second, her heart jolted to a stop. Then it picked up again with a too-rapid beat.

  She paid careful attention, hearing the words she’d always dreamed of, listening to the man make her the offer she’d always prayed for—a better job at a bigger, more prestigious newspaper than the one she was working at now.

  Half in a stupor, she wrote down the man’s name, his number and extension, and the details of the offer he mentioned in his message, then replaced the handset and sat back in her squeaky desk chair.

  The irony of the situation slapped her in the face and caused a near-hysterical giggle to roll up her throat and pass her lips before she realized she’d made a sound.

  Oh, this was rich. Be careful what you wish for, her father would say in that low, intelligent manner of his, you just might get it.

  For so long, she’d been working toward this very thing . . . the promise of a better job. Higher pay, higher stature, more editorial freedom, a chance to climb the journalistic ladder, maybe one day write for the New York Times or work for CNN.

  So why wasn’t she still clutching the phone, frantically punching numbers and praying the City News publisher would already be in his office to hear her jubilantly accept his offer?

  Because what Dylan had said the other night was playing through her head instead, louder and more insistent than the knowledge that she could pick up and move to Chicago, if she wanted. Louder, even, than the idea of one day winning a Pulitzer or becoming a household name.

  Maybe because, deep in her heart, his words rang true. She did like her job at the Sentinel. She enjoyed having her own column and being able to write about almost anything she wanted.

  She realized, too, that he was right about people—women, especially—taking her advice to heart. There were piles of letters in her bottom desk drawer and closet at home attesting to that, and more pouring into the mail room every week.

  Some even came from areas outside of Cleveland, proving that the popularity of her column was spreading. Without realizing it, or even intentionally moving in that direction, she’d somehow become the city’s Dear Abby or Ask Heloise. And one day, if she stuck with it, her column might even go into syndication and end up in national papers no matter where she lived.

  That would be a form of achieving her dream, wouldn’t it? Never mind that it hadn’t happened exactly as she’d planned or expected.

  Success was success, right? And everyone had to find their own path, their own happiness.

  Fingering the slip of paper with the City News publisher’s information, she folded it in half and slipped it into the front pocket of her Hermès knockoff handbag.

  Kicking it back under her desk, she actually considered calling Dylan to tell him about this new turn of events and ask his advice.

  Which only went to show how wrapped up she’d become in him in such a short amount of time. He was in her thoughts, in her head, under her skin . . .

  And at home, he seemed to have permeated every inch of her apartment. Everywhere she looked, there was some memory attached to him . . .

  Standing in the kitchenette Sunday morning, his hip cocked against the counter while they sipped glasses of orange juice and his gaze raked over her from head to toe, tempting her to drag him back to bed.

  Making out once, twice, a dozen times on the living room sofa. Doing things she’d previously thought were reserved only for the Kama Sutra or the freakishly limber.

  Lying in bed or moving around the apartment, listening to the water run in the bathroom while he’d showered. Imagining him standi
ng stark naked beneath the hot, steady stream, all sleek lines, smooth skin, and hard, bulging muscles.

  Whew. Was it getting hot in here, or was it just her?

  She grabbed a folder from the corner of her desk and waved it in front of her suddenly overheated face and neck.

  And her bed . . . She’d had a hell of a time falling asleep last night with his scent on the sheets. It permeated every fiber of the bedclothes, wrapping around her, making her feel safe and warm and incredibly horny all at the same time.

  She’d tossed and turned like crazy, fighting the urge to reach for the phone. To call him to come over and relieve the ache building in her breasts, between her legs, and over every other inch of her body, as well.

  Finally, she’d slipped a hand beneath the covers and taken care of business herself. It hadn’t been nearly as satisfying as when Dylan touched her, but it was enough to help her drift off to sleep.

  The only problem with that was the erotic, extremely realistic dreams that had plagued her the rest of the night. Even her subconscious, it seemed, was hot for Dylan’s bod. She may have been asleep, but the hours until dawn were filled with images a thousand times more blistering than flying solo.

  She was pretty sure she’d continued to toss and turn, at least judging by the state of her bedclothes when she’d awakened to the annoying buzz of the digital alarm. The pillows had been tossed to the floor, one tipped sideways against the bed frame, the other somehow ending up halfway across the room.

  But this time, instead of being caused by the struggle to fall asleep, the unusual activity had stemmed directly from her temporary stint as a triple-X actress and her quadruple-X co-star.

  Flicking the folder back and forth, she created an even stronger breeze in an attempt to lower her rapidly rising internal temperature. Outwardly, it worked, but fanning herself did nothing to squelch the sensual tension pulsing between her thighs.

  All right, so it was clear that today was in no way going to be a typical, boring, play-catch-up Monday. It might actually turn out to be the most important Monday of her life.

  She had two giant dilemmas yawning in front of her, and two monumental decisions to make.

  Number one, what was she going to do about the City News job offer in Chicago?

  Was she going to quit her job here, pack up everything she owned, and move halfway across the country? Away from her friends and family?

  Or was she going to continue at the Sentinel, working her way up as best she could, or perhaps simply being content with where she already was?

  And number two, what was she going to do about Dylan?

  Should she end things now, make a clean break, and insist they go back to the way things had been, with the two of them being at each other’s throats most of the time? Or should she stick it out awhile longer, maybe see where the future led them?

  At the very least, she might get a couple of months of great sex from the deal.

  Of course, that was the crux of the predicament, wasn’t it? She wasn’t sure great sex was the issue anymore. She was afraid her feelings for Dylan had gone a little beyond that, and that she maybe wanted more.

  And that scared the Chocolate Chestnut, Clairol #392, right off her lighter brown roots.

  What she needed, she decided suddenly, tossing aside her makeshift fan and reaching for the telephone, was advice from certified professionals.

  And girlfriends and martinis were as professional and reliable as it got.

  “So we’re talking reeeally good sex, right?”

  “Yes,” Ronnie responded to Grace’s eloquently phrased question. “But sex isn’t everything.”

  Grace snorted. “No, but depending on the guy, it can be a hell of a lot.”

  “Do you think he’s the guy?” Jenna asked quietly, her green eyes widening slightly as she tucked a loose strand of short black hair behind one ear. “That he’s the one?”

  Toying with the cherry stabbed through with a toothpick in her Hpnotiq martini, Ronnie shook her head. “I don’t know about that. I just think . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to put an end to things. It feels like there may be more to experience with Dylan, more to explore.”

  “And you’re willing to put aside your differences, your very public competitions, to do that?”

  Hmph. Well, apparently she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t considered that,” she admitted. “I guess I sort of assumed that we’d go on the way we have been professionally while carrying on a hot and steamy unprofessional affair behind the scenes.”

  “One that no one would ever discover, right? No one would ever see the two of you together, no one would ever notice that maybe the insults you toss back and forth weren’t as harsh as they used to be.”

  Ronnie’s brows knit. Dammit, Grace had a point.

  “And what if you do take the job in Chicago?” Jenna asked. Sadness tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I know I should be happy for you, but I hate that you’re even considering it. I would miss you like crazy. But if you go, you’ll never know what might have happened with Dylan because there’s no way he’d go with you.”

  Ronnie hadn’t considered that, either. Raising her drink to her lips, she drained the last of the turquoise-blue cocktail and let the glass slam back on the table. If the conversation continued in its current vein, she might need another to get through the rest of this lunch.

  “I can’t make life decisions based on what may or may not develop with some random man.”

  “But Dylan isn’t random,” Grace pointed out. “He’s someone you’ve known for more than a year now, someone you’ve battled with and shared passionate lovemaking with. Someone you’re considering becoming more serious with. That might be worth tossing into the equation.”

  “Are you sure there’s alcohol in your appletini?” Ronnie asked with a scowl. “Because you’re making entirely too much sense at the moment.”

  “You should make a Pros and Cons list,” Jenna suggested diplomatically. “That’s what I do when I have a big decision to make.”

  “Pro:” Grace said, her long, pink perfectly manicured nails wrapping around her glass as she took a sip of her drink, “He makes your teeth sweat and can bring you to orgasm with a heavy blink.”

  Ronnie scowled. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she mumbled. Although her friend wasn’t terribly far off the mark.

  “Con: Since you’re both in the public eye, if things don’t work out, there could be a nasty breakup involved,” Jenna added.

  “Pro: Dylan is a good guy. I know you’ve spent the last year devising painful and imaginative ways to make him beg for death, but from being around him and hearing Zack talk, I can tell you unequivocally that he is not a total jerk. He may have the usual personality defects common to the entire male species, but he’s not going to lie to you, cheat on you, or treat you like crap.”

  Jenna nodded in agreement. “That’s true. You could definitely do worse.”

  “I have,” Ronnie quipped, rolling her eyes and thinking back to some of the jag-offs she’d dated over the years.

  “Con: Getting serious with a guy changes everything,” Grace continued. “Your life would no longer be your own. You’d have to plan things together, ask for his input, take his feelings and opinions into account. And it’s not easy, believe me.”

  “Pro: Having someone to come home to, to love you and hold you and support you in everything you do, is priceless,” Jenna whispered almost wistfully.

  Though neither Ronnie nor Grace would say anything, they knew Jenna had been happiest when she’d been married to Gage . . . at least while things had been good . . . and that she missed him now that they were divorced.

  It was also clear to Ronnie that they weren’t getting very far with the Pro/Con list for Dylan. Both sides evened out, leaving her in the exact same spot as before . . . confused and completely undecided.

  “All right, we’ve established that the thing with Dylan could go either
way. What about the job offer in Chicago?”

  “Chicago is a nice city,” Grace said. “You can add that to the Pro column.”

  “You could eventually end up working at the Tribune or Sun-Times, which would be right up there with writing for the New York or L.A. Times,” Jenna told her. “Pro.”

  “You’d be getting more money, maybe have more opportunities than you would here.”

  “You’ve been wanting to change jobs for a while now,” Jenna added. “For as long as we’ve known you, you’ve wanted bigger, better, more, and this might just be it.”

  “Chicago is farther from my family than Cleveland,” Ronnie pointed out, knowing her friends would understand, since she’d already filled them in on feeling as though she’d just rediscovered her family and being eager to reconnect with all of them. “And from you guys.”

  “That’s a big one,” Grace admitted quietly. “There’s always e-mail, phone calls, and the occasional visit, but it isn’t quite the same.”

  Running the tip of her perfectly manicured index finger around the rim of her martini glass, Grace didn’t make eye contact for a second. Then she lifted her head and glanced at Ronnie head-on.

  “You may not like this suggestion,” she said slowly, “but I think you should sleep on it. Don’t decide anything just yet. Go home, go to bed, let it all sink in, and then follow your gut. Think about moving to Chicago, and if a zip of excitement goes through you, then you know it’s the thing to do. Think about waking up beside Dylan for the next year or two, and if it feels like that’s the next best thing to having bamboo shoots shoved under your fingernails, then kick him to the curb.”

  “So basically,” Ronnie drawled, “you’re saying you don’t know what the hell I should do now any more than you did two hours ago.”

  One corner of Grace’s mouth tipped in a crooked smile. “That’s about the size of it.”

  Spreading his feet, Dylan shifted into a broader stance and raised his fist to rap on Ronnie’s door.

  There were only a few days left until he would either do or die on this knitting challenge, and he should really be at home, working on the scarf he was still about three feet from finishing.