Either because she was busy chewing or because she took some pity on him, Cleo didn’t do anything embarrassing for a few seconds. He helped himself to the cookie on her plate, gave her a seductive wink, and clamped it between his teeth as he reached for an empty plate.
“It’s so nice to see you,” Teresa said. “Hui Zhong mentioned you were invited.”
He took a massive bite of the cookie and nodded as he chewed. Balancing the fine line between rude and indifferent was going to be a challenge.
Which was why he hadn’t come to this shindig alone. Swallowing the cookie, he moved closer to his outdoorsy girlfriend and smiled politely at Teresa. “Have you met Cleo?”
“Your younger sister, right?” Teresa asked.
Cleo tapped his foot with hers, but Sly knew it hadn’t been an honest question. Unless his sisters were adopted, which Teresa knew they were not, there was no way he and Cleo could be siblings. His mixed DNA—from Mexico, Africa, Scotland, the Philippines, and beyond—was written all over his face, whereas the tiny Scandinavian village from whence all Cleo’s ancestors had no doubt lived for millennia was written all over hers.
He guffawed as if they all knew it was a hilarious joke. “Cleo, this is Teresa Lapham. Teresa, Cleo Holt.” He put down his plate so he could stroke Cleo’s back in a sufficiently intimate manner. She stiffened but didn’t knee him in the balls, for which he was grateful.
Teresa, eyebrows raised, shook Cleo’s hand. “How long have you two been together?”
During the drive down, they’d agreed on a few basic details to their story. Cleo trotted them out now. “We’ve been friends for a long time, but started dating last year.”
“Really.” Teresa didn’t release Cleo’s hand. “How romantic.”
“Yes,” Cleo said. “Very.”
“After being friends, it must be hard finding new things to talk about.” Finally dropping Cleo’s hand, Teresa reached up and fiddled with a tiny pendant at her throat. “You’d be like an old married couple.”
Sly tightened his grip on Cleo’s shoulder, drawing her away. “Not quite. Well, have a nice—”
“And what do you do, Cleo?” Teresa asked. “Were you at WellyNelly too?”
“Teresa,” he said, giving her a hard look. She’d always accused him of sleeping around at work, which he never had.
“I’m a musician,” Cleo said.
“Oh, really?” Teresa’s gaze flickered over Cleo’s body, resting momentarily on her muddy sandals. “How interesting.” Her tone was sincerely curious.
“Lately I’ve been especially interested in the ukulele.” Cleo popped a green canapé into her mouth. Mouth full, she said, “Oh, these are great. Have you had any yet?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“So?” Cleo shoved another one in her mouth. “I never pass up free food. Isn’t that right, honey?” Resting her head on his shoulder, she gazed up and made calf eyes at him. “Honey bunny?”
Sly tried to hide his annoyance. She wasn’t even trying to be convincing. The most socially obtuse guy in the room—and that was a high bar—could tell she was being sarcastic. Cupping her cheek, he lowered his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I love that about you.”
Freezing under his touch, Cleo’s smile fell.
Ha. Not laughing now, are you? he thought. He rubbed his thumb along her lower lip and felt her cheeks get warmer. “You had a little avocado there.” He bent down and licked the corner of her mouth. “Right there,” he whispered.
If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d had to whisper because his throat had tightened with a rush of adrenaline.
“Let’s talk later, Sylly,” Teresa said, patting his arm. “Perhaps when you haven’t had a few glasses of wine already. Tomorrow?”
He dropped his hand, heart pounding, and nodded at Teresa. “Sure. Tomorrow.”
When she walked away, Cleo set down her plate and walked to the bar at the opposite side of the room. He watched her ponytail sway, afraid he’d gone too far.
But she’d pushed him. Sure, they had a bet, but she was cheating. He was doing everything he could to make this enjoyable for her, even booked a deep-tissue massage for her in the morning.
The thought of her soft, deep tissues made his heart pound harder.
Don’t go there.
But his thoughts didn’t listen. They went there.
What would it be like? The last guy she’d dated had been a guitar-playing, big-bearded hipster without a car. Rode his bike everywhere. Very sensible and eco-friendly, and not unusual in Berkeley, but Sly thought he was just trying to spin his true nature as an underemployed loser into something datable.
Watching Cleo at the bar, he noticed her switch to hard liquor. Not a good sign.
He’d upset her. Hell, he’d upset himself.
Inhaling deeply, he turned away and picked up her abandoned plate. Other than the beet and the canapés, she hadn’t eaten. That drink was going to go right to her head. He added a second cookie to replace the one he’d eaten, then rejoined her in a quiet corner behind an eight-foot-wide aquarium where she’d gone to hide.
He handed her the plate. “I’m sorry I got so physical.”
Her face was blocked by her cocktail glass, which now seemed to hold only ice. “It’s OK. I pushed you.”
“If I forfeit the bet right now,” he said, “will you try a little harder? Or a little less hard?”
“She did ask if I was your sister. Bet won right there.”
“Yes, she did.” He picked up a cheese puff and tried to put it in her mouth. “Even if she was just yanking my chain.”
Cleo lifted a hand to block the cheese puff. “Maybe because it’s still shackled to your ankle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on,” she said. “You know.”
“She knew you’re not my sister. She was just trying to annoy me. And you.”
“And she succeeded, which makes me think you might still have a little teeny weeny thing for her.”
He shuddered. “No. Unless that thing is like salmonella.”
“Then why do you care what she thinks? Tell her to screw off.”
“Not my style.”
“No, your style is to stick your tongue in my mouth.” She took the glass out of his hands and strode away.
Well, that clarified that situation. She was angry. She wasn’t curious the way he was curious.
God, was he really admitting that’s what was going on? Couldn’t his body’s reaction simply be basic biology? The instinctive reflex of a heterosexual male who hadn’t been with a woman in a while?
He stared at the colorful fish in the aquarium darting around their plastic seaweed.
It had to be that.
Of course it was that.
♢ ♡ ♤
Almost two hours later, Cleo paused at the hotel room door, key card in hand, her stomach tightening.
How had it come to this? She was nervous to go in. Afraid of a good friend.
She’d left the reception and wandered outside around the resort, climbing over rocks between the cedar and gardens. At one point she tripped over a stone and stubbed her toe, bare in her sandals, and it was bleeding. She had to go into the hotel room to wash and bandage her wound.
Something deeper was stinging too.
It was all a joke. Just fun. She was stupid.
Sliding the card into the door, she limped across the threshold. “Honey, I’m home!” She kept her voice cheerful and light. Not worried and heavy. Or hot and heavy.
Oh, for God’s sake, Cleo, get a grip.
One glance told her the room was empty. She was so relieved she laughed as she walked into the bathroom to tend to her wounds. But then she saw herself in the mirror, and the laughter died.
She looked terrible. Ponytail askew, nose red, dirt on her cheek, jacket frayed, faded, and stained. Was it worth a thousand dollars to embarrass herself like this? No. Well, it would’ve been if he ha
dn’t been such a formidable opponent. She’d nearly choked when he’d kissed her hair, but when he’d licked her…
She was strong, but she wasn’t made of stone. No wonder he was a mogul. He played to win. She played piano. Time to call a truce and enjoy the resort for its own sake. One of the pools overlooking the beach was steaming, obviously well heated. There was that hour-and-a-half massage in the morning. And she still hadn’t eaten a real meal.
Her rumpled, hoboesque image frowned back at her.
The joke was on her. She hadn’t dressed down because she wanted to win the bet; she’d done it to protect her pride. If she’d put on a sexy dress and her expensive makeup and had her hair done—and then nobody had believed she was his girlfriend—she would’ve been hurt. For all the progress she’d made since the divorce, she’d feared she couldn’t handle that kind of blow. In other words, she’d been a coward.
Enough. She turned on one of the many showerheads and got under the hot spray, letting it sting, washing away the evening.
After she finished and dried herself off with those thick resort towels you could never find at the store, she bandaged her foot and swaddled herself in pajamas and a terry robe, then took the time to blow out her hair, glad she’d had the time and privacy to screw her head back on straight. Now she’d get something to eat and be good as new.
She was standing in front of the entertainment cabinet, looking through the room service menu, when he stumbled into the room.
Within seconds, she realized he was as drunk as she’d ever seen him.
“Cleo,” he said. He strode past the bed and fell to his knees at her feet, dark head slumping forward. “You win.” Slowly, with the pained movements of the intoxicated, he pulled a stack of dollar bills out of a paper bag and began counting them out, setting them down around her feet like a faded green patio.
“Where did you get a bag of money like that this time of night?”
He shushed her noisily. “I’m counting. Don’t interrupt. Twenty-seven, twenty-four, thirty…” He began to laugh. “Just kidding. Kidding I don’t know how to count. Twenty—shit. I forget. Let’s start over.”
She reached down and hauled him upright. “I hope you didn’t knock over a convenience store.”
“It’s not as much as it looks. Not quite a thousand. Mostly twenties at the bottom. ATM units. Not as funny though.”
“Not as funny but easier to put in my purse.”
“Right. Purse. Because you’re a girl.” He grinned. “Cleo.”
“Yeah, that’s me. You aren’t going to get sick, are you?”
“Hope not.” His smile faded. “I gave you my germs earlier. Sorry about that.”
“It’s not your germs I’m worried about. It’s your undigested stomach contents.” She grabbed his arm to stop him from swaying. “You need to sleep this off. Big day tomorrow.”
“So true. Thanks.” He patted her on the shoulder and lurched away, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. “Did I bring a toothbrush? Oh, right. I already unpacked. I’m a very organized man. I take pride in my”—he burped—“powers of organization.” He went into the bathroom and slammed the door.
She set down the menu and glanced at the clock. Past eleven. Too late to eat anyway. After scooping up the cash, which she stuck back in the paper bag, she stripped off the robe, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin. As soon as she closed her eyes, memories of the way her body had reacted to a little hugging and kissing, all done in jest, washed over her.
How embarrassing. She wasn’t fifteen. She’d been married, for God’s sake. She should be immune to a little playing around.
It’s just that it had been so long. So very, very long. Years of living as a cautious recluse had made her as needy as a dried-out houseplant in front of a watering can.
The bathroom door opened. “Cleo?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to have to sleep with you.”
Her heart lost a beat. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t fit in the bathtub.”
She wondered if it was too late to call a cab. Laughing silently, she rolled onto her side and curled into a protective ball. “All right, then. You can use the bed. Just don’t hog the covers.”
“Don’t hog. Got it.”
The lights went out. As he climbed into bed, he made a funny sound she realized was supposed to be the oink of a pig.
“You poor man,” she said. “You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow.”
The snoring began instantly.
Poor him? she thought. Poor me.
7
When Sly woke, furry-tongued and cotton-brained, the bed was empty. He rolled out onto the floor and staggered over to his pants, lumped in a pile by the TV. He pulled out his phone, glad he hadn’t forgotten it at the bar last night, and squinted at the screen. Looking at his phone always helped wake him up, no matter how much he wanted to slip back into unconsciousness. His calendar scrolled past with today’s agenda, his list of longer projects flickered at the top of the screen, and unanswered text messages popped up one by one.
As he plugged back in to his life, he remembered Cleo. She must be at the spa, getting her massage. And as his mind cleared, he had the sense to see her clothes were still in the dresser, and her muddy sandals parked next to her empty backpack in the closet.
She hadn’t bailed. Grunting with relief, he went into the bathroom to wash up and rehydrate. Touching her had crossed a line, a line he’d been trying not to think about. Perhaps before that moment at her apartment a couple of weeks ago, he could’ve kissed her for fun and it wouldn’t have meant anything. Now it meant something. He just didn’t know what.
Instead of taking a shower, he got dressed for running and went out, hoping to sweat out the rest of the poisons he’d poured into his body the night before. It was already past nine, late for him, and kids were already swimming in the pool. It still looked like rain, although none had fallen. Perfect for running.
An hour later, sweaty but refreshed, he was limping past the pool on his return when he heard his name. He scanned the few bodies stretched out on the deck chairs, all but the children wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants on the overcast autumn morning, but didn’t see who had called him.
“Sylvester!” It was Teresa, waving to him from the water. She jumped out at the edge and strode over. “Back from a run?”
He nodded, careful to keep his gaze above her chin. For a second he’d glimpsed erect nipples pressing against her sheer white one-piece, and she wasn’t making any moves toward one of the fluffy towels stacked nearby.
“I saw you at the bar last night,” she said.
That wasn’t good. He’d been hammered and alone, like a wounded baby deer just begging for the she-wolf to eat him. “I bet that wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She gave him a naughty smile. “Even at your worst, you’re not bad. Not bad at all.”
He made a show of wiping the sweat off his forehead. Maybe his ripe odor would drive her off. “I should get going.”
“I didn’t see Cleo last night.” She looked around. “She doesn’t run with you?”
He wasn’t going to explain anything; it only encouraged her. “She’s expecting me now. Excuse me.” Returning his neon-green earbuds to their conversation-blocking location on his head, he began to leave.
“Hope everything’s OK,” she called after him. “She looked a little upset at breakfast.”
In spite of the danger, he turned and removed the earbuds. “Breakfast?”
“I was surprised you weren’t there.”
Cleo was going to kill him. She’d endured breakfast with Teresa by herself. “I’m full of surprises. You hated that about me, remember?”
“Maybe I’ve learned to appreciate spontaneity in my old age.” She looked down at her glistening, toned, picture-perfect body and shook her head. “Not getting any younger.”
“So true,” he said, happy to leave that bait
on the hook. If she wanted to hear him say she was as lithe and lovely as a nineteen-year-old swimsuit model, she was going to be disappointed. “See you later.”
This time he managed to escape, wondering as he ran up the stairs why he’d thought he couldn’t resist Teresa on his own. Whatever appeal she’d had for him was long gone. Bringing Cleo had been unnecessary and potentially dangerous.
Dangerous? He strode down the walkway to their room, wondering at his choice of words. What’s the worst thing that could happen? She’d tell him she wouldn’t be his friend anymore? No. They weren’t first graders. Their relationship could handle a little ambiguity. A little excitement.
A little danger. The thought spread through him like a warm breeze.
Mumbling repressive curses under his breath, he went into the room, saw it was empty, and got into the shower. To distract himself, he used three of the four showerheads in the cavernous stall. After he’d lathered and rinsed, he got out to shave and brush, and eventually he began to feel like his old self again. He walked out of the bathroom with his mind on a late meal and Poppy Lee, whom he hoped would be at the preview for the silent auction at two.
“Jeez, Sly,” Cleo cried, slapping her hands over her eyes. She stood right outside the bathroom door in a pink sundress. “Have some consideration for my nerves.”
“I’m decent.” He readjusted the towel slung around his hips, wishing that were true. “I just need to get my clothes.”
She turned her face to the wall. “For a mogul, you aren’t very good at planning ahead. You should bring the clothes with you into the bathroom before you get naked.”
Thoughts of danger made him linger. He studied the dress she was wearing, liking the way it showed off her body. “You’re wearing pink.”
“It’s all they had.”
“All who had?”
“The store last week. The gray was sold out. They call this dusty rose. It’s all they had.”
He didn’t know why she was shopping for a dress last week or why she sounded insecure about it. “It’s pretty.” Clearing his throat, he walked past her to get his clothes out of the closet and the dresser, strode back into the bathroom, and put them on, checking himself out in the mirror on the door as he did.
This Changes Everything Page 5