From where Sadie was sitting, it seemed like a life sentence, but she knew she wasn’t entirely rational right now. She’d been taken off guard, and all the old memories had rushed up to swamp her. Once she’d had some time to reflect and strategize, she’d be fine.
“Tell Claudia,” Grace repeated firmly.
“The show needs a story editor, Grace. I won’t put her in the position of doing me a favor at the expense of the show. She’s only been producer five weeks. It’s not fair.”
She felt tired all of a sudden. She was tired—she’d been fighting with her back to the wall for too long. Ever since the wedding-that-never-was. All she wanted right now was to close her office door and hibernate for a while. Sensing this, Grace stood.
“You know where I am. And that there’s an obscene chocolate stash in my bottom drawer.”
“Thanks,” Sadie said, smiling for her friend’s benefit.
Once she was alone, the smile faded from her face. Could her life suck any harder right now? She didn’t think so.
She was still in emergency-response zombie mode by the time she got home that evening. She’d managed to avoid anything but the most brief and superficial of contacts with Dylan all day. But she knew that wasn’t going to last.
A hot shower and her floppy pj’s went a long way to restoring a sense of normalcy. An indulgent dinner of Chunky Monkey ice cream and Oreo cookies papered over any remaining cracks in her equilibrium. By the time she’d immersed herself in a couple of chapters from her favorite romance author and was ready to switch the light off, the world had resumed its rightful perspective.
Dylan Anderson being at Ocean Boulevard was a pain, sure it was. But she could handle it. The past was the past, after all. She was a grown, mature woman. She’d learned to drive, voted, had sex and become a homeowner since she and Dylan had last seen one another. None of that old stuff mattered. At the end of the day, he was the same as any of her other direct reports.
She curled into her pillow, anticipating the release of sleep. A few hours of blessed nothing, and she’d be ready to face the world again.
Then she had The Dream.
As soon as she realized she was standing in the school gym, she tried to wrangle her subconscious under control, but it was too late—she was being sucked into the old, old memory.
It was after school, and all the other kids had gone home. She was about to enter the girls’ change room when she heard someone singing, the sound echoing out from the boys’ change room next door. It only took a moment for her to recognize the voice. Immediately her heart kicked into overdrive.
She hesitated at the junction of the two change rooms. Then her feet drifted toward the boys’ entrance. She could hardly believe she was doing what she was doing, but her fingers were already trailing along the cold tile wall as she eased her way toward the door.
Heat rushed into her face as she heard the sound of running water beneath the sound of Dylan Anderson’s singing.
He was in the shower. Heat rushed to an entirely different part of her body as she imagined him naked and wet beneath the rushing water.
Her feet moved forward again, and she was powerless to stop them. Her breath was coming in little soundless gasps as she slid along the final row of lockers separating her from the showers. The splash of water and Dylan’s voice seemed preternaturally loud to her sensitized ears. A part of her was astounded at what she was doing. She never did anything daring or wrong. She was a straight-A student, punctilious, safe. She’d never been in trouble for anything at school, but here she was, in the boys’ change room, about to sneak a peek at Dylan Anderson under the shower. Was she insane? Had some vital part of her intellect flipped out all of a sudden?
But despite the clamor of alarm bouncing around her brain, she slid forward. One step. Two. Three. She held her breath as she ducked her head around the corner.
And stared. His back was to her as he stood in the middle of the shower bay, the water pummeling him as he took his time washing. His body was tall and firm, his shoulders broad, and his back tapered down to a rounded backside that made Sadie’s mouth water for something she didn’t even have a name for.
His overlong dark hair was wet, trailing over his downturned face, and his back muscles flexed as he washed his belly. She forgot to breathe entirely as he lifted his head and turned in profile to her. Her rounded eyes took in the smooth, sculpted planes of his pectoral muscles, quickly dipping below to trail greedily down his rippled abs to the area she was most curious about. Between his thighs she saw her first real live penis, and the sight of him, long and substantial, made her press her knees together. Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
He turned fully toward her then, arching his neck back so that the flow of water washed his hair away from his handsome brow. She ate up every inch of the body on display. His thighs were long and lean, his calves curved and in perfect proportion to the rest of him. One hand washed idly at his belly as he closed his eyes and swept his other hand up across his forehead and into his hair.
He was magnificent. So much better than all her fantasies. The thought of him touching her, of being held against his hard chest, of touching the strength between his legs…She was dizzy with desire.
She was so mesmerized, she didn’t register that he was nearing the end of his shower. Suddenly, however, he flicked the taps off and reached for his towel. Her heart nearly exploded in her chest—she would die if he caught her. Just die. She managed to get her frozen limbs together enough to slide behind the shelter of the first locker aisle. Looking around desperately, she saw too late that she was standing right in front of his open locker, and that his clothes were thrown haphazardly on the bench that ran between the rows. She heard the slap of bare feet on wet tile. He was coming her way. Desperate, she fled to the end of the aisle, diving behind a bin full of dirty towels.
Hunched on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes squeezed tightly shut, she waited to be discovered. Surely he’d seen or heard her? Surely she was about to be punished for her moment of daring audacity?
After a few seconds, she slowly opened her eyes again. The pounding of her heart subsided enough so that she could make out the sound of Dylan dressing. He hadn’t seen her. Chin resting on her drawn-up knees, she tried to interpret the sounds she could hear, willing him to get dressed and leave.
The hiss of an aerosol can: Dylan putting on deodorant. God, she loved the way he smelled. The thump of something heavy hitting the ground: Dylan dropping his shoes, ready to put them on. The clink of metal on metal: Dylan doing up his belt.
She waited for the telltale clang of his locker closing, but it didn’t come. Time stretched, and still it didn’t come. She frowned. Had he gone or not? He’d sounded fully dressed to her. Why would he hang around?
The cold from the tile floor was seeping through her thin gym shorts, and she cursed herself for her impulsiveness. Now that the excitement of seeing Dylan naked was wearing off, she could see how stupid she’d been. How reckless. If he’d seen her, her life would, quite simply, not be worth living.
Finally, after a long, long time, she dared a peek over the top of the bin.
She immediately ducked down again. Dylan was still there—sitting slumped on the bench between the lockers. Curious, she dared another peek. He had something in his hand—a piece of paper. But it was the look on his face that transfixed her. He was upset about something—very upset, if she had her guess. His handsome face was twisted into a sort of desolate resignation. Suddenly, he swore and balled the paper up, then shot it toward the nearest trash can. Slamming his locker shut, he grabbed his beat-up leather jacket and strode toward the exit.
Sadie waited until his footsteps had well and truly faded before pulling the paper from the can and racing to the safety of the girls’ change room. Locked in a toilet cubicle for extra safety, she smoothed the crinkled page flat on her knees. It was the pop quiz they’d just had handed back in American Lit. Dylan had scored an F.
It was no newsflash to her that Dylan wasn’t exactly acing the class. She sat next to him—she knew how often he got reprimanded for not doing homework, or for having the wrong answers when called upon by the teacher. She’d tried to shield him as many times as she could—jumping in to answer for him, distracting Mr. McMasters with questions—but she’d always suspected that she worried about Dylan being embarrassed far more than he did. He was so cool—she’d figured he didn’t give a hoot about anything to do with American Lit. He never so much as twitched when Mr McMasters took a shot at him, and most of the time he had a smart-ass response ready to throw back.
But now she realized he did care. He cared a lot.
And for the first time in over a year of loving Dylan Anderson, hope flared in her heart. Because she knew she could help him. She had something to offer him now. She’d never had a chance of attracting him the traditional way, not with her concave chest and gangly legs. But she could help him pass Lit. It was one of her best subjects. He’d have to look at her then, wouldn’t he? He might even be grateful. They might even become friends.
And then, maybe, he might—
Sadie sat bolt upright in bed, the sheets twisted around her legs. She kicked at them until they loosened, then rolled to her feet. Her skin felt clammy, overheated. Flicking her bedside lamp on, she paced.
At least she’d managed to wake before the rest of the dream unfolded. She pushed her damp hair off her forehead, wishing she could push the old memories away as easily.
If she could take back one moment in her life, she’d erase those few, fateful seconds when she’d heard Dylan Anderson singing in the boys’ locker room. If she hadn’t snuck into spy on him. If she hadn’t seen the look on his face. If she hadn’t been so determined to help him…
Sadie wrapped her arms around her chest, then frowned as she felt the insistent press of her erect nipples against the soft skin of her inner arm. That was the most pathetic, infuriating part, she decided—not that this ancient dream she’d thought she’d banished had returned to haunt her, but the fact that the memory of Dylan Anderson naked in the shower still had the power to turn her on.
She hated him. At the very least, she had nothing but contempt for him. Unfortunately, her body still remembered how much it had yearned for him, how many times she’d cried his name into her pillow when she touched herself all those years ago.
Pathetic. For one thing, she was damned sure Dylan wasn’t pacing the floor somewhere in L.A., thinking about her naked body right now.
It was the wake-up call she needed. Her spine stiffened and the tingling feeling in her limbs subsided as her adrenaline levels dropped.
After a day of reeling in reaction, she suddenly had clarity. The past didn’t matter. What she used to feel didn’t mean squat. This was her turf. She was the boss. This time, things would be different.
She’d show Dylan Anderson that Sadie Post wasn’t a pushover anymore.
If it killed her.
Jaw set, she climbed back into bed. She couldn’t wait till the morning, she told herself. She was actually looking forward to it. He wasn’t going to know what hit him.
3
THE SUN WAS WARMING the edge of the world when Dylan steered his motorcycle into his parking space at Ocean Boulevard a week later. He told himself he was starting early because he liked to be prepared. It was true, to a certain extent—his dyslexia had made him a stickler for research and preparation; it was one of the ways he harnessed his unique way of thinking.
If he hadn’t spent half the night staring at the ceiling, he’d have been willing to buy his own excuse, too. The truth was, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Every time he’d closed his eyes, a dozen different images of Sadie flashed across the movie screen in his mind. Those legs. Those velvet eyes. That bedroom hair. The tight black jeans she’d worn last Thursday. The flash of cleavage he’d caught at yesterday’s lunch break. The long, sensuous curve of her neck…
It had taken a whole week for him to admit it to himself, but he finally had—Sadie Post, poster child for snarky academic bullies, was a bona fide hottie.
He’d never been the kind of man to have too many illusions about sex and his own desires. He was scrupulously honest with the women he dated, and had never told any of them that he loved them, despite knowing that was what some of them wanted to hear. He wasn’t even sure he believed in love—except in a fictional sense, for the characters he wrote about. And it certainly wasn’t something he was looking for in his own life, not for a long time yet, anyway. But he’d also never found himself in a situation where he was attracted to someone he didn’t even like.
And he definitely didn’t like Sadie. The past week had been one long extended wrestling match with his new boss. He said black, she said white. Simple decisions became drawn-out discussions, meetings went overtime—work was a war zone, pure and simple.
Despite all that, the image of Sadie’s long, lithe body refused to leave his mind. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since that first day when he’d walked into her office and she’d stood from behind her desk. He told himself that it was irrelevant that parts of his anatomy found Sadie Post appealing. The last thing he was going to do was to lay a finger on her. He might have had sex with women for a lot of reasons over the years but he wasn’t about to stick it to a grade-A bitch like her just because she had great legs and breasts he itched to get his hands on.
Being so certain on that one point didn’t make sleep come any easier, however, and early this morning he’d finally given up on staring at the ceiling and saddled up his Ducati motorbike for the commute into work. Now he pulled his helmet off and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes naturally gravitated to the lone car in the parking lot, a silver Audi TT convertible. It was a great little car, and he’d toyed with the idea of buying one for a while, but he hated traffic, and the Ducati made short work of L.A.’s world-famous congestion.
Since TV writers weren’t exactly known for being early risers, he guessed the car had been left overnight. Probably someone had tied one on after work and caught a cab home. Grabbing his satchel, he headed into the building, looking forward to several hours of quiet before the rest of the team descended.
Swiping his way through security, he moved toward his office. And froze in midstride as he registered that he wasn’t alone. She was standing in the kitchen area, arms crossed in front of her face as she pulled her sweater over her head. It was an innocuous act—except for the fact that the shirt she was wearing underneath clung stubbornly to the sweater fabric. As she lifted her arms, the shirt rode up her body, revealing an expanse of trim, tanned torso and a flash of lacy white bra.
He couldn’t help himself—he took a step forward, toward her. Then the sweater was over her head, and Sadie was tugging her shirt down and shaking her long blond hair back into place.
As quickly as that, he was hard for her, his erection straining against the fly of his jeans. He grunted his self-disgust. Clearly, his penis was under the illusion that hell had frozen over, that being the only time he’d consider having sex with his new boss and old enemy.
She must have heard him, because her head swung up and her eyes widened as she registered his presence. A hand strayed to the hem of her stretchy white shirt, and Dylan guessed exactly what she was thinking. How long had he been standing there?
His self-disgust at his own lack of control morphed into satisfaction as he saw her uncertainty. He liked her uncertain, wanted to see more of it. Wanted to rock her boat as much as he could, give her a little taste of what she’d no doubt been dishing out to others her whole life. A slow smile curled his lips as he sauntered toward her.
“Morning, Sadie,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed, then her shoulders straightened as she squared up to him.
“Good morning, Dylan. You’re here bright and early,” she said primly.
“Yep,” he said. Then he let his eyes dip below her face, sliding over those high breasts of he
rs, discovering the denim miniskirt hugging her hips, lingering on the length of tanned leg on display in between the hem of her skirt and the black cowboy boots she wore.
His intention was to keep her off balance, encourage her to worry a little more about whether he’d seen her impromptu striptease or not. He hadn’t considered what effect his leisurely inspection might have on his nether regions—desire simply wasn’t on the agenda between him and Sadie Post. His body was going to have to suck it up.
Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. Without any permission from him, his erection grew harder still, throbbing with the need to get closer to the tall goddess standing in front of him.
Feeling like a hormonal teenager, Dylan moved his satchel ever so casually in front of his groin. The last thing he needed was for Sadie to realize he wanted her. Not that he actually did, of course—but she might get other ideas if she caught sight of the giant boner in his jeans right now.
His momentary preoccupation had given her time to regroup, and there was no doubt or embarrassment in her eyes now.
“I’ve got notes for you on last week’s block,” she said, crossing to the coffee machine to collect a mug. “Nothing major, just a few continuity issues we need to clear up.”
Dylan waited for her to say anything more, like maybe comment on the high tension in the stories they’d crafted last week, or the powerful emotion of Friday’s cliff-hanger moment—a tear-jerker if ever he’d plotted one. But she didn’t. In fact, she appeared to have said all she was going to as she poured milk into her coffee, apparently supremely unaware of him standing there staring at her, willing her to say more.
“No problems with the Friday cliff-hanger moment?” he asked, immediately kicking himself for fishing. He didn’t need her approval.
She eyed him blandly, not giving him an inch. “It was fine. I expect you’ll be picking it up for Monday’s episode?” she asked.
Fine? His cliff-hanger was going to have fans screaming at the TV set, and she thought it was fine? Dylan clenched his hand on his satchel but deliberately matched her innocuous tone.
Take on Me Page 5