by Jill Shalvis
Each day he waited for the phone to ring. For Sam to show up and tell him she’d overreacted. She was sorry.
And each day ended with him going to bed in howling frustration.
At last it arrived. The day with the big black ring around it.
She was leaving.
In a panic, he realized that she wasn’t going to come crawling back. If he wanted her, he had to go and do the groveling, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Truth was he didn’t even care, he couldn’t let her go without saying goodbye, without trying to make things right. In a panic he’d rushed to her house, but he was too late. They’d already left for the airport.
He’d wanted to write, and didn’t have a clue what to say. Waited for her to get hold of him, and his in-box remained Sam-less.
Now here he was, back in her bed, and as the old familiar feelings rushed through him his smile faded. He wondered how he could have been so stupid.
He felt like a drug addict who manages to stay clean and sober for a decade and then one day thinks he’s strong enough for one drink. One toke. One hit.
And finds himself as deeply addicted as ever. No twenty-eight-day program would ever help him now.
A decade of sobriety and he was starting down a slippery downward path. If he didn’t act fast, he’d be lost forever.
The sleeping woman beside him stirred. She was even more gorgeous than she’d been at twenty-two if that was possible. Her mouth was a little firmer and there was a tiny fan of crows’ feet around her eyes that were new to him, but she had grown into herself. Instead of bravado, she now had true confidence. Her body had filled out nicely and in all the right places. She looked, smelled, tasted fantastic…familiar.
Greg raised a hand to smooth her hair back off her face and let it drop, not wanting to wake her. She was so peaceful sleeping. Not arguing or stating her case or in some way trying to piss him off. He realized how much he’d missed her.
Not just the sex, which had never been as good.
He’d wondered over the years if his memory might be faulty because no woman, and there’d been a few, had ever felt as right in his bed as Sam. Maybe he’d never experienced the highs he and Sam had reached together because they were each other’s first, and he’d built that time up in his memory to some lofty height that reality could never achieve.
Making love with her again had been—if possible—better than he remembered. They both had a little more maturity and experience but it was something beyond that. Something elemental with them, as though they knew each other’s bodies and needs as well as they knew their own. Instinctively. It was weird. But in a good way.
He lay on his side, watching her sleep. It wasn’t just the sex, there was some magical quality between them that had always been there. That he’d never believed he’d find again.
What was it? And why with this woman and only this one?
A pain pierced his chest so quickly he thought for a second he was having a heart attack.
And in a way he supposed he was. Because the truth, when it hit him, was inescapable.
He was still in love with this woman. Had loved her since before he understood what love was, had believed in them enough to propose marriage when she headed off for university.
He’d so carefully avoided her for years and his plan had been working. He got on with his life, she got on with hers and if they happened to bump into each other—between high-school weddings and the fact that her brother was his best friend—they dealt.
When it did happen that they found themselves in the same house or garden or wedding chapel, he’d made sure they had the minimum possible contact.
So why, today, had he thrown away a decade of self-protection?
Since when had he become self-destructive?
And now that he was on this dangerous path, now that he’d fallen so spectacularly off the wagon, what the hell was he going to do about it?
He knew there was only one thing he could do.
With a weight of sadness that felt like an anvil on his chest, he pressed a whisper-soft kiss on her shoulder blade and then rolled soundlessly out of bed.
5
SAM WOKE WITH A SLOW, satisfied smile. Not even wanting to open her eyes so she could savor the memories of the night before.
She stretched her arms over her head, pointed her toes and stretched her lower half, enjoying the feeling of being in her body. Of everything that body could do, had done, had experienced and enjoyed through that long, delicious night.
She turned and reached for Greg. Wanting to tell him—she didn’t even know what—but wanting him to know how special it had been, the day that had stretched into night. They’d been so starved for each other.
A sweet tingle went through her as she thought about him.
Amazingly, she still wasn’t satisfied.
Her questing arms hit cold sheets. Puzzled, she opened her eyes. She glanced around and squinted at the clock. It was almost nine. She hadn’t slept this long on a Sunday morning in ages. But then she hadn’t been this relaxed in ages.
She remembered trying to speak, to tell Greg how much she’d missed him, but he’d looked at her with that smile in his eyes that told her everything she needed to know, and then he’d sent her to sleep with a kiss.
He was so sweet. And she was so happy to have him back.
The bathroom door was shut so she raised her voice. “Hey, lover boy. I think I’m out of food. How ’bout I take us out for breakfast?”
He didn’t answer. She raised her voice louder. “I hope you made coffee.”
With a huge yawn, she rolled herself out of bed, shuffled into her robe and pushed her feet into fuzzy gray slippers.
When she padded out to the kitchen she experienced her first twinge of doubt. The coffeepot was cold. The kitchen, pristine.
And as her senses sharpened she realized that she didn’t hear anything or even have that notion of another person being in her place.
And then she saw the note.
A bright yellow Post-it slapped in the middle of her fridge like a pimple on a forehead. It read:
Thanks for last night.
You’re the best.
G
She read the note. Once. Then she read it again. And again, but the obscurity of the message didn’t change. Nor could she squeeze any more meaning out of it.
Thanks for last night? Like she’d done him a favor? Changed the oil on his car or picked up his dry cleaning?
You’re the best. While she naturally agreed with the literal translation of the words, it was the sort of phrase you’d throw out to a waitress who brought you an extra side of toast, or someone who’d done you a favor, such as changing your oil or picking up your dry cleaning.
Somebody with whom you’d had the best sex ever? In your whole pathetic life? Thanks for last night. You’re the best, wasn’t cutting it.
Even the signature was abbreviated. Deliberately casual. G. Like writing three more letters would have killed him?
And where was the part about calling her, or seeing her again?
Because she was a lawyer and tried to consider all sides, she actually peeled the note off the fridge and flipped it over. As though there might be more on the other side. But it was as cheerfully, blankly yellow as one of those little smiley faces.
By the time the coffee had brewed and she was sipping her first mug of the day, she realized that he’d very deliberately avoided any mention of calling her. Or seeing her again.
That note was telling her she’d had a one-night stand. No promises. No expectations.
No implied future.
She ripped the note a few times. Then she tossed the little pieces. They floated to the trash like jagged yellow confetti for a wedding that would never happen.
For the strangest moment, she felt like crying. Standing there in her designer kitchen, drinking her fair trade coffee in a sleek black mug, she felt like crying.
But Sam wasn’t one
to give in that easily.
If Greg wanted to pretend that what had happened between them was nothing a Post-it note couldn’t fix, then that was fine.
She wasn’t a girl who stood in her kitchen crying in her coffee because a man had left before she was ready for him to leave. Before they’d even had a conversation she’d assumed would happen over breakfast.
It was as though they’d reached a place of complete physical intimacy while emotionally they’d avoided contact as much as possible.
And now he was gone.
Fine.
She was fine.
She was a modern, independent, successful single woman. She’d enjoyed some great sex. What wasn’t great about that? So, the guy didn’t happen to want a future. Or commitment. Fine!
Instead of standing around whining, she did what she always did when emotion threatened to swamp her.
She pulled on her running gear and headed out.
The day was unexpectedly sunny. As she pounded down her regular route, toward the beach, she saw families headed for church, computer hounds and university students hunched over their screens in Starbucks, forgotten mugs at their sides. She waved to Mike, the homeless guy who pushed the crosswalk button when he saw her coming so she wouldn’t have to wait.
This was her world. Her life.
She’d made it what she wanted and nobody was going to mess with that. Nobody.
Her work was absorbing, she liked her firm and her colleagues, her apartment was sleek and modern and low-maintenance, so she could lock up and head out on a moment’s notice if she felt like heading to Whistler for a weekend’s skiing, or hitting any exotic destination.
The breath was rasping in her lungs and she realized that she was running too fast. She slowed down, tried to find her pace.
She had friends, family, good local restaurants, and if she felt lonely there were people she called.
Sure, Greg had stirred up some old longings, reminded her of the future she’d once thought she’d have.
No wonder she felt off, slightly melancholy. It was impossible to go back. She should have known that. She had to keep her eyes firmly forward. On the future.
With that in mind, after her run, she stretched, showered and then threw her sheets into the wash and changed the bed. She had a cleaning service, but it still felt good to rid the apartment of all traces of where Greg had been.
Then, dressed in jeans, a crisp white shirt and a navy blazer, she went in to work.
There was something soothing about the office on a Sunday afternoon. A couple of other lawyers were around, but mostly the space was silent, without the shrill of phones, the noise and commotion of busy lawyers and support staff.
She could always absorb herself in her work. By writing up a brief and catching up on some correspondence, she passed a few hours.
She had the fleeting idea that maybe she’d call Jarrad and see what his plans were for dinner, but pride stopped her. He and Greg were best friends. What if Greg had talked to him? Besides, he had Sierra, and anyway, she’d always been the kind of person who worked things out for herself.
In the end she called a divorced colleague who she knew hated Sunday nights on his own and they went out for sushi and a movie. By listening to his problems, she was able to put her own aside for an evening.
When she crawled into bed that night after the news, she could have sworn she still smelled Greg in her bedding. Which was ridiculous since she’d thrown all traces of him into the laundry. Still, she passed a restless night and even though she didn’t remember her dreams she had a bad feeling that she knew who had haunted them.
For the next few days she didn’t sleep all that well, which really pissed her off. Otherwise, life went on as normal. Greg didn’t contact her.
Fine.
Wednesday she put in a long day, having spent a few frustrating hours in court where the judge didn’t see things quite her way. Always annoying.
So she wasn’t at her best when she stepped off the elevator and walked to her door that Wednesday evening.
She was putting her key in the lock when a man’s voice said, from right behind her, “Hello, Sam.”
She didn’t stop to think but acted on pure instinct. She pulled out the key and flipped up the Mace can she kept on her key ring to spray in her attacker’s face.
She was about to let him have it when it registered that this was Greg standing there, and he simultaneously yelled, “Sam, it’s me.”
Adrenaline was still pumping as she lowered her hand slowly. “What are you doing here?”
She was feeling pissy enough with him that she almost wished she’d let him have a good blast of Mace before she’d recognized him.
“I came to see you,” he said warily, still watching her hands. “You going to put that away?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How did you get in here? It’s a secure building.”
He pulled out his shield. “Told your doorman it was police business.”
“You planning to arrest me?”
He huffed out a sigh that sounded like pure frustration. Now she looked at him and she got the feeling he wasn’t sleeping very well either. There was a pinched expression around his eyes and circles beneath them. “Maybe. Do you think we could go inside and talk?”
Once again she inserted her key in her lock. Opened the door. She entered and he followed.
She didn’t invite him in, merely put down her bag on the floor and confronted him. “What do you want?”
“This,” he said, and, pulling her against him, took possession of her mouth.
No, she wanted to yell. No, this isn’t what I want, but she was already lost. The second his lips touched hers she felt the tide of longing sweep over her, beginning in her core and radiating out to her very pores.
“You make me mental,” he murmured in her ear as he yanked off her coat, letting it drop unheeded to the floor and pushing her against the wall.
She had her hands at his zipper, working it down. “I know.”
He reached under the hem of her skirt, felt for her panties, slipped a hand inside and she knew she was already wet for him.
“Oh, you feel so good.”
Their gazes connected and she saw reflected all the emotions she was feeling. Sadness, longing, frustration and a kind of horniness that was almost too strong. Like a raging fever.
As though he couldn’t bear to have his emotions hanging out there for her to read, he suddenly turned her and stripped her panties and stockings down in one forceful move. She had to kick off her heels so he could complete the job, and then he was behind her, the heat from his body warming her all the way to her marrow.
He must have come prepared for she heard the rip of a condom package and then felt him, hard and ready behind her. She parted her thighs, pushing her hips back against him even as she pressed against the wall for support.
He entered her swift and hard and, oh, it was exactly what her mood wanted.
“Yes,” she almost growled, pushing back against him as he began to pump against her. She felt the friction increase, heard his breathing grow ragged, her own panting, then he grabbed her hips, pulling her back against him so their flesh began to slap together.
Oh, it was so good, and he reached places inside her that no one else ever had.
Ever would.
She still wore her blazer from work, her elegant blue silk shirt, and here she was, a woman who billed out at more than three hundred dollars an hour, with her skirt up around her waist being taken roughly from behind by a man who worked the more basic side of the law.
He pulled the pins holding her loose bun in place and her hair cascaded around her shoulders. He kissed it, pushed his lips through it to reach her neck and then, to her shock, she felt him bite her, right at the joint of shoulder and neck, like a stallion mounting a mare.
The swift jolt of pain was soothed by his tongue. His heat surrounded her, the scent of him, of the
m together. Her senses were swimming, her legs becoming unsteady.
And then he reached around her hips, touched a finger to her hot spot and began to play with her using the same rhythm as his thrusting cock.
She turned her head, greedy for his mouth, and found him there. He took her mouth, she took his, as they swallowed each others’ wild cries.
And then they both slid to the floor. Her skirt was a wrinkled mess, his pants still around his ankles, but they didn’t care. They held each other, catching their breath.
He ran his hands idly through her hair and a memory surged to the surface. A time when they’d been studying together and had stopped to make love, and afterward she remembered him stroking her hair in exactly this way while they discussed the play they were studying. They’d even read each other some of the choice lines.
“You said you’d die for me,” she said softly, remembering.
“What?” He lifted his head and looked down at her, utterly confused.
“Remember? When we were studying Romeo and Juliet. We were the only two who really understood the play and why those two killed themselves rather than live without the other. You said you’d die for me.”
Sadness filled his eyes and she felt him withdrawing. “That was a long time ago.”
Silence filled her apartment. He eased away and, rising, pulled his pants up and zipped and belted. She straightened her skirt and got to her feet, not wanting to be at a disadvantage looking up at him from the floor.
She knew he was leaving and pride refused to let her ask him to stay.
“Maybe I did,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.
“Maybe you did what?”
He glanced back and his expression was closed. “Die for you.”
6
BEFORE SHE COULD ASK Greg for an explanation, he was gone.
She felt like screaming with frustration. Not only from his cryptic comment about dying for her, but from the frustration of a woman who’s had an after-work quickie and wants much, much more.
Sometimes, she was really glad she had a big brother, especially now he was in town. She no longer cared that he was Greg’s best friend. She needed Jarrad’s counsel.