Love's Encore Series (Books One and Two)

by Miranda MacLeod

  “Cici, what are we doing?”

  Cecily groaned. “I think it's fairly obvious. You can't possibly be as out of practice at this as me. You must know what this is, unless I'm more out of practice than I thought.” She bit her bottom lip as a sudden wave of insecurity washed over her.

  “What I know is that we haven’t seen each other in eighteen years, and now all of a sudden we’re standing in front of your bedroom door, completely naked.”

  “No, not completely naked,” Cecily quipped. “But we could be.”

  She reached behind her back and popped the last bra hook free, letting both straps slide down her arms and then tossing it aside. Cecily watched as it flew over the railing, its final resting place a mystery to be solved another day. When she looked back, Rorie had stopped talking. Her eyes were fixed on Cecily’s bare breasts, which had been her somewhat obvious but generally fool-proof plan all along. Gently, she twined her fingers with Rorie’s and shifted Rorie's hands from her shoulders down to the swell of her breast, leaning in to kiss her as she did. For a moment things were back on track, until Cecily took a step toward the bedroom door and Rorie pulled away again.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” she said, with all the appeal of the screech of a needle across a vinyl record.

  Cecily let out a disappointed sigh. “Why? We’re adults. We know what we want.”

  “For one thing, you’re right. We’re adults. This isn’t college anymore. You’re married. You know how I feel about cheating.”

  “Wait, that's what has you worried?” Suddenly she felt relieved. It would take no time at all to clear up that misconception. “But Rorie—”

  “But what, Cici? But, he’s not here? But he cheats, too? I'll admit, I had a moment of weakness. That doesn’t make it okay that I’m basically hovering outside the door to take his place in your bed as soon as he's left.”

  Cecily laughed dryly. “What place? This,” she said, placing her hand on the door, “is my bedroom. His is down the hall. It's always been that way. The only person who’s had a place in that bed is me. Period.”

  Rorie arched her eyebrow suspiciously. “For eighteen years? Come on.”

  Cecily thought for a moment. “No, you're right,” she conceded. “I won't lie about it. There was a month right after Tyler turned two that I thought maybe he should have a brother or sister. So we tried—once—and when it didn't work I thought better of trying again. That was fifteen years ago.”

  “Fifteen years?” Rorie sounded skeptical.

  “Yes!” Cecily reassured her. “So you can see why I don't have a lot of patience.”

  A chuckle escaped. Rorie closed her eyes, clearly torn. “But I’m only here for four more weeks.”

  “Then we have four more weeks. That’s more than I ever thought we’d have.”

  “And what if we regret it?” Rorie’s head drooped, defeated, and her voice cracked as she spoke.

  “We’ll regret it just as much if we don't. At least, I will.”

  Cecily placed a hand on each cheek, gently lifting Rorie's head back up until she was looking directly into her eyes, and the same familiar shiver went through her as it always did. She hesitated a moment, then leaned in for a kiss, channeling every emotion into it, willing Rorie to use that magical ability of hers to read what was in her heart. A thrill of elation and desire coursed through her as she felt Rorie’s lips respond to her touch. She took the last few steps through the door to her bedroom, pulling along Rorie, whose resistance had evaporated.

  Fumbling inside, Cecily felt her back pressed against the smooth wall, her knees threatening to buckle as the contrast between the cold surface behind her and the heat of Rorie's body all along her front sent shock waves from head to toe. Every inch of her body clamored to be stroked and caressed until she was gasping for air. She felt hot breath against her stomach as Rorie's lips brushed against her fevered skin, and twisted in agony for more, but Rorie seemed to have frozen in place.

  “Why did you stop?” Cecily moaned.

  She felt Rorie rise back up to stand beside her, small swathes of skin touching tantalizingly, but not nearly enough.

  “I need to know that this is real. If this is just about being with someone because it's been so long, then I can't—”

  “—It's not. If that's what I wanted, I could've done it well before now.” Cecily wrapped her arms around Rorie, pulling her as close as she could, and whispered in her ear, “I have dreamed about this every night, since the last night we were together. You're the only one who would ever do.”

  They kissed slowly, building in intensity as the lingering doubts faded away. They crossed the room and tumbled to the bed, kissing and caressing, eager for whatever pleasure they could give or receive in every remaining second they had together. Even in the midst of their passion, the countdown had already begun, as relentless as a ticking stopwatch in the back of Cecily’s mind.

  Four weeks. They would never have enough time.

  Chapter 19

  Rorie’s eyes flew open, her heart thumping as the unfamiliar room came into focus. After years of working on location for films, this was always the roughest part of the morning routine, that instant of waking in a panic and having no idea where she was. She blinked rapidly, trying to jog her memory. Smooth sheets caressed her naked skin and the scent of lavender surrounded her.

  Cecily.

  The memories came rushing back, and with them she felt a corresponding rush of blood to her cheeks, and to a few of her more hidden regions as well. She closed her eyes again, smiling in contentment, and rolled toward the opposite side of the bed to snuggle into the warmth of Cecily’s embrace. But her arms came up empty, and the sheets were cool to the touch.

  A wave of panic washed over her. Her pulse spiked and her head was spinning. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself before attempting to sit up. The feeling of abandonment was visceral and debilitating. One transcendent night together, and then gone. How could it be happening again?

  The bedroom door cracked open and a sliver of light spilled in from the hallway. It closed again, returning the room to the semi-darkness of early dawn. Rorie heard a rustling noise, and felt the mattress dip as Cecily slid under the covers beside her. She rolled back to the center of the bed as she had before, this time finding the warm, soft body she’d expected. She knew her panic had been an overreaction and foolish, but that didn’t make the solidness of Cecily’s body against hers any less reassuring. She draped an arm around her, trying not to cling too tightly.

  “Good morning,” Cecily whispered, bringing Rorie’s hand to her lips and kissing the tips of her fingers. “I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About six-thirty. I started the coffee maker and brought up your clothes. Most of them, anyway.”

  “Oh, good,” Rorie replied with a satisfied sigh. “So we don’t have to get up for a few more minutes. Wait…what do you mean most of my clothes?”

  Cecily giggled. “I tracked down everything but one sock, I think. I’m afraid it might be gone for good.”

  “Oops,” Rorie said with a laugh. “That’s okay. I have to stop by my hotel for a fresh change of clothing before I go into work this morning, anyway.”

  “You could borrow something of mine.”

  “You really think no one would catch on?”

  Cecily sighed. “You’re right. Anything I have would be too big for you. I’m not as thin as I was in college.”

  “That’s not what I meant! But I know the stuff you have in your closet. Do you honestly think I could go in wearing a peach cashmere twin set and no one would notice?”

  Cecily giggled. “Good point. I’m not sure if I even own anything black.”

  “I’m betting you don’t. And, we haven’t exactly discussed it, but I’m also betting you’d rather keep this new arrangement between the two of us and not give anyone a reason to start rumors.”

  Cecily drew in a sharp breath.
“No, I really don’t want there to be rumors. I’m sorry, that must sound—”

  “It’s okay,” Rorie assured her, and mostly she understood, though a part of her was hurt to have been correct. “I get to go home in a few weeks, but you’ll still be here, dealing with the consequences.”

  Rorie's heart sank at the reminder of how little time they had together. There was no other way it could be, but the prospect of being apart again in the near future wasn’t one she wanted to face just yet. Not when they were here together in the present, when she could reach out and touch Cecily’s flesh, breathe in her scent, and make the most of the time they had.

  Rorie smoothed her hand along the silk robe that Cecily had thrown on for her trip downstairs, caressing the curves of her hips and stomach. She brushed her lips against the fabric that covered Cecily’s shoulder, wishing that Cecily had thought to take it off before coming back to bed. While soft and luxurious to the touch, and probably feminine and flattering in brighter light, at this exact moment it was more of a nuisance than anything. As if reading her mind, Cecily shifted to her back, allowing Rorie’s fingers access to the knotted belt at her waist. Pushing the robe out of her way, Rorie straddled her body, lowering her head to nuzzle her lips against Cecily’s earlobe. She cupped one full breast in her hand, enjoying its weight.

  “For the record,” she whispered in Cecily’s ear, “I think you’re perfect exactly the way you are. If you’ve gained any weight since college, it’s all gone to your breasts.” She squeezed her hand as she said it, teasing the taut nipple with her fingertip. “So, you won’t hear any complaints from me.”

  Cecily started to laugh, then groaned as the alarm clock on her phone began to beep. As she twisted and stretched to reach it on the nightstand, her leg connected with the sensitive flesh between Rorie’s thighs, sending a wave of heat pulsing through her.

  “Should I hit the snooze button for five minutes?” Cecily asked. “Or do you have to head into work now?”

  “Make it fifteen,” Rorie told her, brushing her lips against the swell of Cecily’s breast. “Work can wait.”

  As Rorie approached the door to the gymnasium at St George’s Prep later that afternoon, she could hear the buzz of the crowd gathered inside for the fundraising event. She clutched a priority mail envelope against her chest with one arm while she dug in her back pocket for her phone. For some reason Rorie felt awkward just walking into the school without letting Cecily know first, but she’d taken the day off from her usual volunteering to run errands, and hadn’t been picking up her phone or answering the texts that Rorie sent.

  Rorie would’ve mentioned it before leaving her house this morning, but the truth was she’d forgotten all about her promise to donate a signed script from her last film to the school’s fundraising auction until she saw the package waiting for her at work. Tyler would be thrilled, and she’d given her word, but after the seismic shift in her relationship with Cecily these past twenty-four hours, visiting Cecily's son’s school was a line in her personal life that Rorie felt hesitant to cross without permission. So she hovered outside the open door, unable to get a signal on her phone to try calling one last time, and uncertain what else to do.

  “Excuse me, ma'am?” a woman’s voice called from inside the gymnasium.

  Rorie looked up and saw a familiar face belonging to one of the donors who’d attended the Oakwood gala. She smiled, relieved. She couldn’t recall the her name, but the woman held a clipboard and looked like she was in charge of today’s event in some way, so perhaps Rorie could leave the script with her and be on her way.

  “Polly Schroeder,” she announced, holding out her hand. “Have we met?”

  “Yes, Saturday night,” Rorie replied, grasping her hand to shake.

  “Of course! I remember now. Well, how nice to have you here at St. George’s!” She said it in that artificially upbeat way that immediately makes the listener suspect that she couldn’t care less who they are or why they’re there. “And isn’t your hair just lovely. So—ethnic.”

  Rorie was fuming inside. She’s one of those. It was clear that Polly was the two-faced type of woman who excelled at imbuing mundane conversation with a hefty helping of vitriol, and that she would immediately deny doing anything of the sort if ever called out about it. She was dressed head to toe in designer clothing, dripping with jewelry, with the pinched and frozen face of a middle-aged woman who had a standing appointment at the med spa, and a rail-thin figure maintained by offsetting the calories from her generous alcohol consumption with rounds of extreme diets and detox cleanses. She almost inspired pity, except she was such an obvious bitch that Rorie hated her on the spot.

  “And that blouse,” she continued. “Balenciaga ready-to-wear collection, right? From a few seasons back, if I recall.” The disdain oozed from beneath her words. “There’s another St. George’s mother who wears something just like it all the time. With a little stain near the collar.” Polly rolled her eyes, then narrowed them suspiciously.

  Of course, this was the exact blouse to which Polly had been referring. Rorie felt the woman’s laser-like stare burning a hole above her collarbone. She’d borrowed it from Cecily after their morning recreation led to pressing the snooze button a few too many times. The blouse was dove gray in color, and the only thing in her closet that wouldn’t have set off alarm bells with Susan. Rorie's pulse quickened. She’d slipped by Susan without a glance, but getting past Polly might be another matter.

  “I’m sorry, who did you say you were again?” Polly asked pointedly.

  “Rorie Mulloy. Set designer at the Oakwood.”

  “Wait.” There was a rapid shift in Polly’s demeanor. “You’re the Academy Award winner! Oh, this is so exciting,” she gushed, as if Rorie had been completely oblivious to her earlier snobbery and would be flattered. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  Rorie hesitated, gripping the envelope tightly in her hand. Tyler had asked her for the donation and should get the credit for it, but connecting herself with Cecily in such an obvious way was a bad idea when a sneaky devil like Polly was involved. Luckily, Rorie knew her type. Polly would’ve told anyone who would listen about the fundraiser she was organizing. It made her sound important.

  “I brought a donation for your raffle. A signed script from one of the movies I worked on.” She took a calculated risk. “Susan told me all about it, and I thought I’d help out.”

  “Oh, wasn’t that thoughtful of Susan! You know, I wasn’t convinced she was paying attention when I told her about it at the gala, but I don’t mind admitting when I’m wrong.”

  Rorie struggled to contain a snort as she handed her the envelope. It was almost a guarantee that if a genuine script from an Academy Award winner weren’t on the line, the words ‘I was wrong’ would never escape Polly’s collagen-injected lips.

  “Will you stay a while, let me introduce you around?”

  Oh, sure. A chance to swan around with your new Hollywood best friend? Rorie bet she’d just love that, and it gave her immense satisfaction to decline.

  “I really can’t. I have to run. But good luck with your little fundraiser thing!”

  She turned to go, but not before registering the look of outrage on the woman’s face at having her event dismissed as little. The only upside to having run into so many women like Polly through the years was that she’d finally learned how to find the chinks in their armor.

  Rorie was still grinning on her way down the hall when she heard someone whisper her name. She looked over to see Cecily’s head poking out from a bank of lockers, her expression both confused and displeased. Rorie’s triumphant mood deflated as she recalled that she’d never gotten a hold of Cecily to tell her she was stopping by the school. She hoped it hadn’t been too big a miscalculation on her part to do it anyway.

  “What are you doing here?” Cecily whispered as Rorie joined her in the alcove. “Why were you talking to Polly Schroeder? While wearing that blouse!”

  “I was
dropping off a donation for your son’s raffle,” she snapped. “And why does what I’m wearing matter? Is there a dress code or something?” She’d meant to take a conciliatory approach, but Cecily’s tone rubbed her the wrong way.

  “The blouse matters because it’s mine, and Polly knows that because she hates it. So now she’s knows something's going on, and who knows what she’ll do with that information. She’s the most connected person in town!”

  Rorie gave her an incredulous look. “She’s just a soccer mom with too much Botox. You make her sound like Don Corleone.”

  “You don’t know her like I do. Mob boss isn’t far from the truth! She ruins people, just for fun. Rorie, you can’t just show up in a place where everyone knows me, without warning. Why didn’t you call first?”

  “I did call,” she replied through gritted teeth. “At least five times. Why didn’t you answer your phone? It’s not like anyone could tell from just looking at you that you had your illicit lesbian lover on the other end of the line.” Rorie didn’t want to fight, but she couldn’t stop herself, either. This was far from unfamiliar territory. Until now she’d been so focused on remembering the passion they’d once shared that she’d forgotten the flip side of it—all the arguments when Cecily refused to acknowledge that they were involved in public. Even though she knew the circumstances were different, even though she’d agreed to them, the old wounds were just as raw.

  “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not like that!” Cecily grabbed her phone from her purse, and her look of annoyance changed to one of embarrassment. “Shit. I forgot to charge my phone earlier. It’s probably been dead most of the day. I’m so sorry, Rorie. You know I would’ve answered it if I’d gotten the call, right?”