Knock Me for a Loop

by Heidi Betts

  For the longest time, neither of them spoke. But they couldn’t seem to break eye contact, either.

  “I should get back to work,” she said finally, reluctantly unfolding her legs and climbing to her feet. “Do you need anything while I’m up?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  Better than good, he thought. He was almost…excited. Anticipation of following through on his little plan—provided Grace was willing to go along with it—coursed through his veins the same as before a big game.

  He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and realized now that he’d missed it. Even if this time around, it meant having his picture taken in his BVDs—or I.O.U.s, as the case may be—and then printed in every major newspaper and magazine in the country, and plastered on billboards in major cities and along major highways.

  Not exactly his first choice of national advertisting exposure, and he knew he’d get his fair share of ribbing from his teammates. But if it made Grace happy, and got her a deal she wouldn’t be entitled to otherwise, then he was willing to flash his ass in front of the entire world.

  He tipped his head to look at Grace, who was sitting stiffly at the dining room table, exactly as she’d been before the phone had rung an hour earlier.

  A slow smile spread across his face as he studied her, unaware that he was watching her.

  Yeah, he’d flash his ass, if that’s what it took. But he’d rather see her flash hers.

  The next morning, Grace sat across from Zack while he scarfed down enough eggs, sausage links, and heavily buttered wheat toast to feed a small Ethiopian village.

  She didn’t always cook him such a large breakfast, but she’d been feeling generous…and slightly guilty. After all, what he was offering to do for her was worth a few grease burns and whisk-related wrist sprains.

  “You’re sure about this?” she asked, cordless phone in her hand, her own empty plate—because she hadn’t refilled it three times—in front of her.

  “Yep,” he said around a mouthful of sausage, to which he quickly added a bite of toast. After washing it all down with a gulp of orange juice, he added, “It’s okay with me, if it’s okay with you and the man in charge.”

  She started to dial Quentin’s number. “Just, please don’t embarrass me,” she said, knowing even that was sometimes too much to ask of Zack. Not that he could help it. He was like a five-year-old hopped up on Pixy Stix, and she could have sworn the term Peter Pan complex was created with him in mind.

  “Believe me,” he said, mouth still full, “no one will be embarrassed when we get to the photo shoot and my pants come off.”

  Shaking her head again, she refused to respond, focusing instead on the ringing at her ear. Quentin’s receptionist came on the line, and Grace gave her name, asking to speak to Quentin if he was available. Half a minute later, she heard her manager’s exuberant greeting.

  “Hello, my Amazing Grade. What can I do for you this fine morning? Might I hope that you’ve had a change of heart about the Insides Out offer?”

  Taking a deep breath, heart thudding behind her breastbone, she prayed she wasn’t making a giant mistake, and said, “Actually, yes.”

  A beat of complete and utter silence passed, and Grace realized she had stopped breathing. Although it made her light-headed and caused her heart to pound so hard it felt ready to burst out of her chest, she couldn’t seem to inhale.

  “Yes, I can hope? Or yes, you’ve changed your mind?” Quentin asked …very, very hopefully.

  Finally, she opened her mouth and sucked oxygen into her sadly deprived lungs and diaphragm. Swallowing hard, she put the poor man out of his misery.

  “Both. Or rather, you don’t need to hope any longer because I have changed my mind.”

  One final glance in Zack’s direction, checking to make sure he was still ready, willing, and able to do this. He nodded, wide jaw continuing to chomp away at his breakfast.

  Another deep breath, and rip it off like a Band-Aid. “I’ll do it.”

  The pressure in her chest and at her temples eased. The stress that had been eating away at her mind and raising her blood pressure lessened.

  It didn’t disappear entirely because she still had to get through the photo and commercial shoots and pretend to be re-engaged to Zack for the next…oh, God…year, at least. But it lowered to a more manageable level.

  And while she was enjoying the lack of knots in her stomach, Quentin was apparently tap-dancing on his desk. Enthusiastic yeses and whoo-hoos filled the air, spilling out of the phone so that she had to move the earpiece to arm’s length or risk a loss of hearing. Beside her, Zack raised his brows and shot her an I-told-you-so half-grin.

  When Quentin’s celebration died down—or at least pulled back to a dull roar—she heard his out-of-breath huff and the squeak of his chair as he sat back down.

  “All right, all right. Enough of the partying during work hours—that’s what Saturday nights are for.”

  She grinned, picturing her slightly short, slightly pudgy agent with his slightly thinning hair and penchant for dressing in pastels boogying down on the dance floor. Something she had seen on more than one occasion when they’d attended the same events. If he weren’t so charming and accomplished the other ninety percent of the time, she would have been seriously concerned about allowing him to represent her.

  “What about Zack?” he asked, his sharp mind quickly getting back to the business at hand. “Is he on board? Because I.O.U. is only interested if they can have both of you. There’s no offer if it’s one or the other.”

  “I know,” Grace assured him. “Zack is in, too.”

  Her gaze slid to the man in question, who was chewing and bobbing his head—chew, chew, bob, bob—aware of the conversation taking place and the part he played in it, but not overly interested in the particulars.

  “So you two are back together?” Quentin wanted to know, and she thought he sounded…suspicious.

  Not that she could blame him. Yesterday she’d been adamant that she and Zack were not an item. Today she was claiming she was ready to accept a million-dollar endorsement deal that hinged on the fact that they were.

  “Yes, we’re back together.”

  She cut her gaze to Zack as the lie rolled off her tongue, and at her words, he froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. Only for a second, though. Then he inclined his head, as if granting his approval of her fib, before continuing with the last few bites of his meal.

  “I have to admit, I’m surprised to hear that,” Quentin said. “You seemed awfully against the idea last night.”

  “I know, but as you suggested, I slept on it. Our breakup was so ugly and public that we weren’t eager to let people know we’re trying to work things out. I didn’t think Zack would be willing to advertise our relationship quite so soon, but after discussing it with him, we’ve decided the opportunity is too good to pass up. The charitable donation really tipped the scales for us,” she added, hoping that would make her sound a little less greedy, and praying God wouldn’t strike her dead for the web of lies she was weaving.

  Whether he believed her story or not, it took Quentin less than a nanosecond to jump on board. “Excellent. I’m very happy to hear it and will call the I.O.U. rep to iron out the details. I’ll be in touch, okay?”

  With a nod she knew he couldn’t see, she said, “You can reach me here or on my cell.”

  “Will do, doll. Congratulations, by the way. This is a really important step for you.”

  A lump formed in her throat, and it was all she could do to push out a guilt-ridden, “Thank you.”

  “I’m happy to hear you and Zack have worked things out, too,” he added. “You two make an absolutely scrumptious couple, you know. And if wedding bells start to ring again, darling, be sure I get an invite.”

  She almost chuckled at that, but it came out as more of a strangled croak. “I will.”

  They said good-bye, and Grace hung up, carefully laying the phone down on the glass-topped
dining table.

  “So how’d it go?” Zack asked, pushing away from his now (finally!) empty plate. Then he gave a low snort and said, “Like I need to ask.”

  “He’s very happy we’ve decided to accept the In-sides Out offer,” she told him. “And he wants to be invited to the wedding, if we decide to take another stab at that.”

  It was the first time either of them had mentioned the big W-word since before their breakup, and she found herself tensing, waiting for his reaction. Would he be hurt? Sad? Angry? Upset?

  She was a little of everything, she realized, uncomfortable even talking about it. It brought up too many memories, both pleasant and painful, and reopened a wound she would prefer to keep tightly closed.

  But instead of responding in any way she might have anticipated, Zack simply said, “He just wants the chance to be one of your bridesmaids so he can prance around in a frilly pink dress.”

  For a minute, Grace sat perfectly still, struck dumb by his statement. Then her imagination took over, creating a picture of her manager wearing a Pepto-Bismol-colored gown with a thousand obnoxious ruffles and matching hat, strutting down the aisle dropping rose petals. And later, at the reception, cutting a rug at the very center of the dance floor.

  It was too much, too goofy, too over-the-top. And too darn funny.

  She started laughing and laughing and laughing until tears rolled down her face and she was holding her stomach, gasping for breath. Zack was laughing with her, enjoying the heck out of his little joke.

  “I really shouldn’t laugh,” Grace said after a few moments, wiping the corner of her eye. “That’s not nice at all.”

  “Oh, come on, you know I have nothing against Quentin. He’s an okay kinda guy. But I have to rag on him once in a while at least—it’s part of the Man Handbook. Besides, pink really isn’t his color anyway.”

  They both chuckled again, but seemed to keep themselves more in check this time around. Still, sitting here, laughing with Zack, was the most fun she could remember having in ages. It was relaxing, and comfortable, and for once not underscored by the tension of anger and betrayal.

  Before she could second-guess herself, she reached out, covering his hand with her own, and gave it a small squeeze. His skin was warm beneath hers, his fingers large and rough and familiar.

  “Thank you, Zack,” she said softly, meaning it with every fiber of her being. “Thank you for this.”

  He stared at their hands, then swallowed, causing his Adam’s apple to move up and down the center of his throat. Keeping his eyes down, he nodded.

  “So when do we get started?” he asked a moment later, his voice rougher than she suspected he would have liked.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled her hand away from his and sat back in her chair. “I don’t know. Quentin is working out the details, but since they wanted us for this last year, I assume they’ll want to get started on the campaign as soon as the contracts are signed. Is that all right with you?”

  Leaning back in his own chair, adopting a negligent posture, he checked his watch. “Sure,” he drawled. “In the meantime, though, we should probably get ready for my physical therapy session.”

  She glanced at the clock on the far wall and realized he was right. With a nod, she stood and pushed in her chair, then grabbed his crutches and handed them to him.

  “I’d better take Muffin out for a quick walk before we leave. Meet you back here in ten?”

  “Sounds good,” he agreed.

  Good, yes, great. So why wasn’t she moving? Why did her feet feel glued in place?

  She licked her lips as her mouth suddenly went dry. Yet her palms were sweating.

  Maybe she was coming down with something. A cold or the flu.

  Or raging hormones, a tiny voice at the back of her head offered. An evil voice. One dressed in a fuck-me red vinyl catsuit and platform stiletto thigh-high boots. With horns growing out of the sides of her head, a tail twitching at her rear, and a sharp, three-pronged pitchfork in her fist.

  It was Devil Grace. She had Angel Grace gagged and hog-tied, and wanted Grace-Grace to do very bad things. Things like forgiving Zack, forgetting what he’d done and how much pain he’d caused her, and then jump his sexy bones like Muffin on a dropped Cheerio.

  Standing there, being pulled in two different directions, she felt Zack’s heated gaze sizzling over her.

  DO IT.

  No.

  GO AHEAD, DO IT.

  No.

  YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

  Well, yes, but—No!

  A struggling Angel Grace got one hand free, then the other, then released her feet. Without bothering to remove the gag from her mouth, she lowered her shoulders, got a running start, and tackled Devil Grace. Devil Grace went down, the air being driven from her lungs as Angel Grace hit her point-blank in the sternum.

  The hold Devil Grace had on Grace seemed to snap, and she took a big, indrawn breath, shaking off whatever brain-freeze anomaly had kept her immobile.

  “Right,” she said, as though her bizarre behavior required explanation. “Walk Bruiser. Muffin. Walk the dog.”

  Aack! She mentally whacked herself in the head. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Stop acting like the biggest idiot in the village and start moving.

  “Okay, well…” She actually did start moving, and inside her head, Angel Grace gave a little cheer. “See you in a bit.”

  Crossing the room, she grabbed Muffin’s collar and leash, called the Saint Bernard’s name, and hustled out of the apartment before Devil Grace could regain consciousness and convince her to be wicked and do what she most wanted to do—throw her arms around Zack and kiss him till they both turned blue.

  Row 11

  It took the better part of a week to get the particulars ironed out with I.O.U., and another week after that for the contracts to arrive at Zack’s apartment by messenger.

  Not that Zack just sat around twiddling his thumbs while they waited. Oh, no.

  Somewhere around the breakfast when Grace called Quentin to accept the endorsement deal, he’d realized that Grace was no longer furious at or apathetic toward him. That she might even still be…attracted to? Interested in? him.

  How else could she explain the light touch she’d laid on his hand, and the heavy, heated glance she’d raked him with before taking Bruiser out for a walk?

  There was no mistaking the look she’d given him. Uh-uh, no way. He’d seen it a million times before.

  It was the same sultry, sexy look she used to flash at him from across the table at dinner, or from across the room at fund-raisers when neither of them could wait to get away from the same old boring people telling the same old boring stories and rip each other’s clothes off. It was a look that promised hours and hours of white-hot passion between cool black sheets.

  And it gave him hope that things between them might not be as dead and buried as he’d believed.

  He certainly hadn’t been thinking along those lines when she’d first showed up to shoehorn him off the couch and back into some so-called quality of life.

  For a while, he’d considered using Bruiser as a food taster for fear she was going to poison his meals or drinks. If he didn’t love the damn dog so much, he probably would have.

  And for longer than that, he’d seriously considered wearing a cup inside his jeans, never quite sure she wasn’t planning a sneak attack that would leave him with either one giant, swollen, ruptured scrotal sac or no sac at all.

  When she hadn’t tried to kill him or cripple him even worse than he already was, he’d begun to relax and think that if they weren’t going to be a couple, maybe they could at least be friends. They were getting along well enough, after all, and it would be nice if they could go back to running in the same circles, having civil conversations that didn’t turn into knock-down-drag-out fights, and sitting down for a beer at The Penalty Box with Gage and Jenna, Dylan and Ronnie.

  But now …

  He whistled as he tu-thump-tu-thumped his way to the kitc
hen for a bag of Sun Chips and a Diet Coke. He’d rather have a real Coke and a bag of deep-fried, fully salted Any Brand potato chips, but Grace had gone grocery shopping without him this last time, so he was stuck with her idea of snack foods.

  Not that he minded all that much. Not now that he realized there was a chance he could get her back, that they could work things out.

  There was still that pesky infidelity issue to get past, but since Grace was no longer bringing it up or calling him a “cheating bastard” every five seconds and he knew she was still attracted to him…hell, she was hot for him, no doubt about it, he thought with a grin…he truly believed they could get past it. That he could convince her of his complete and total innocence.

  The how part was a little more up in the air, but he’d come up with something.

  He never thought he’d see the day, but Quentin was turning out to be Zack’s fairy godfairy. Maybe he’d buy the guy a nice paisley tie or two to go with his pastel suits as a thank-you.

  “Hey, Zack?”

  Grace called to him from the other side of the apartment, bringing his head out of the refrigerator. He smiled, both because he’d forgotten what a sweet voice she had—when she wasn’t screaming epithets at him or cursing him to the bowels of hell—and because he was confident in the knowledge that she was going to be his again very, very soon.

  “In the kitchen,” he called back. “You want a soda?” he asked, setting a can for himself on the counter while he used his crutches for balance and scrounged in one of the overhead cupboards for the chips.

  “No, thanks,” she said, coming up behind him.

  He hadn’t heard her, but he’d sensed her, so her sudden appearance didn’t startle him. Finding the chips, he turned, leaning against the counter while he opened the bag and popped a flat yellow crisp in his mouth.

  Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.

  He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the thrill of the chase. Grace hadn’t exactly been easy, but they’d met in such a peculiar way that they’d never gone through the normal dating rituals.