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“No. You don’t understand.” Monica pulled back and wiped her blue eyes, smudging her already smudged mascara into bigger raccoon circles. “I’m not visiting. I’m moving.”
Laine’s melting sympathy froze temporarily. “Moving?”
Monica nodded and fished inside the pocket of her black stretch jeans, most likely for a tissue.
Laine blew out a breath, trying very hard to concentrate on her latest roommate’s emotional needs. No way could she afford the rent on this place by herself all summer with no salary.
But this wasn’t about her. And even pushing aside her selfish concerns, she genuinely thought Monica was making a mistake. No man was worth running back to Iowa. Not after Monica had worked so hard to make her dream of living in the Big Apple come true.
“You can’t let him win like that.” Laine gestured impatiently. “You can’t toss aside your independence and career and dream just because one big, butthead male hurt you. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”
“That’s not all.” She sniffed and tried another pocket.
“Oh.” Laine went for the box of Kleenex, half feeling as though she might need one herself. “Well, what else?”
“Mr. Antworth made another pass at me this afternoon, and I quit.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose, then went back to her misery-impaired packing.
Laine’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, you’re right. This was a seriously awful day. Mr. Antworth should have a dick-ectomy. But you can press charges. You can fight to get your job back and bring him down. Or get another job. You don’t have to—”
“And my mom’s back in rehab.”
Laine took two steps west until the back of her knees hit her couch. She sat. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Oh my God, Monica.”
Monica closed her suitcase and zipped it. “I’m going home. My dad needs me, and I need to get out of here.”
“Oh, God, yes. Okay, yes. Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m really sorry to leave you like this.” Monica started crying again. “I know you wanted to take the summer off.”
“No! No.” Laine waved her concerns away. “I’ll be fine. It’s June, there must be tons of people looking for a place to live. It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. You just take care of yourself.”
“Thanks.” Monica lugged her suitcase off the couch. “I better go.”
“Now?” Laine blinked at her stupidly. “You’re leaving now?”
“My plane leaves at nine tonight. I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff or send for it or…something. I just can’t deal with it now.”
“Oh. Okay.” Laine nodded even more stupidly. Her brain was barely taking this in. Instinct told her Monica was doing this all wrong, that making a major life change should be done in a calmer, more rational mindset than she was in today.
One more look at the confused misery in her roomie’s eyes and the solution hit. “Leave the stuff here. I’ll find someone temporary to see me through for a while. Take a couple of weeks at home, or a month, or two, and see how you feel. If you change your mind the place is still yours. Okay?”
Monica’s face crumpled in gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Yes, okay. I just need to get out of here now.”
Laine hugged her. “I understand. I really do. The place will be waiting. You take your time and sort things out.”
“Thanks for everything.” Monica stepped back and wiped at her face with the by-now-soggy tissue, rapidly turning gray with a little help from Maybelline. “Say goodbye to Gentle Ben for me. I’ll miss all the flowers.”
“I’ll have every other bouquet forwarded.” Laine laughed unsteadily. “Stay in touch. You know the number.”
“I will, I will.” Monica sniffed once more and wheeled her suitcase out of the apartment. The door slammed behind her. Laine stared at it.
“She’ll be back, won’t she?”
The door didn’t answer. The apartment seemed eerily silent.
Laine crossed her arms over her chest, wandered into the bathroom and turned on the water to wash her workday makeup off. Poor Monica. Hit from every direction at once.
The cold water faucet squeaked on its way to off. Laine grabbed her pink towel and held it to her dripping face. Monica had been the best roommate she’d found, the friend of a friend of a friend. They fit perfectly. Similar habits, tastes, schedules, temperaments. How likely was it she could find someone like that again?
Not very.
How likely was it that she could find someone like that again immediately, who would be willing to be booted out on a moment’s notice if Monica decided to come back?
Even less.
She pulled the towel down and looked at her pink-scrubbed face in the mirror, pulled the scrunchy off her ponytail and let her hair dissolve into a blunt, shoulder-length, too-straight mane around her face. For the past six months Laine had looked forward to this summer, free from work, free from relationships, looked forward to this free-from-responsibilities blast-off period for a new rewarding chapter of her life.
Now, unless she could find an instant miracle roommate, that freedom, that cherished vision of a playtime summer all her own wasn’t going to happen.
GRAYSON ALEXANDER’s clock radio went off—6:00 a.m. He groaned and opened his eyes reluctantly. Extremely reluctantly. Because before National Public Radio news had come on with a story about Wisconsin dairy farmers, he’d been nestled between two of the most fabulous legs he’d ever come across in all his thirty-two years. Legs that knew exactly what they were doing. It had been years since they’d been wrapped around him, but he’d never forget them. And if his subconscious had anything to do with it, he’d never stop wishing to be back between them.
He reached out, thumped the snooze button on top of his clock radio and buried his head back in his pillow, trying to recapture the vivid clarity of the dream. He could still almost smell her, that incredible scent she wore, could almost feel the softness of her skin. The dreams he had about Laine were totally different from the dreams he had about anything or anyone else. They were so real he always woke up—hard as granite, yes—but also feeling as if there was something he should do, as if the dreams brought some message he shouldn’t—and generally couldn’t—ignore.
Usually he called Judy, his and Laine’s friend from college. He’d ask how things were, chat uncomfortably for a while, knowing he wasn’t fooling her a bit by pretending interest in her life, and eventually he’d ask what Laine was up to. Was she happy? Was she thriving? And, damn it, always that question that could never come out sounding casual and disinterested no matter how hard he tried—was she seeing anyone? Invariably she was, though rarely the same guy as the last time he and Judy had spoken.
The weird thing was, he always seemed to have these dreams when her life had changed in some way—another job didn’t work out, another man bit the dust—which freaked him right out. Purportedly, he didn’t buy into all that mystical collective unconscious stuff. Nor did he believe he and Laine had some special link, though God knew he’d never come close to feeling what he did for her with anyone else. But he sure as hell couldn’t explain this. Worse, rather than being satisfied having found out what Laine was up to, he’d hang up from the calls feeling frustrated and angry, and never able to put his finger on why.
Then a few months or a year down the road, he’d dream another dream, and do the entire stupid-assed routine again. Doubtless this morning, after his workout and before he started his calls, he’d be on the phone to Judy again.
He let out a groan and bunched the pillow around his ears, then sat up and shot both hands through his hair. Fine. He still thought about her once in a while. He still wanted her. Didn’t mean his whole life revolved around her. He’d work out, shower, call Judy and get the whole thing out of his system.
For now.
He pulled on his running shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, went down the hardwood stairs to his large, sunny kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. A little sugar in his system to get him through his run. Then out the front door, greeting the morning with a huge breath, stretches in his driveway and a two-mile trip through Princeton’s peaceful residential neighborhoods, particularly gorgeous in the spring when homeowners outdid each other with floral splendor, and dogwoods and magnolias blossomed in the woods and along the streets.
Back home on Knoll Drive, he went into his basement for extra punishment with his weight machines. He and Laine used to work out together. Sometimes he’d do her girly aerobic tapes, which he’d never admit busted his ass, and sometimes she’d come with him jogging. Those legs of hers could run forever. Once in a while he’d drop behind her deliberately to enjoy the sight—her ponytail bouncing, feet pounding, arms pumping an easy rhythm. They’d shared a passion for working their bodies to the limit, in bed and out.
The barbell clanged back onto his weight rack. Damn it all to hell.
He wiped off with a towel and stomped upstairs in disgust. They’d broken up because of his immature collegiate stupidity twelve years ago, thinking he could have his Laine and eat Joanne, too. He was still suffering for it, even though they’d managed to stay friends after the worst blew over. In fact, they’d seen each other off and on for the next seven years while they’d both lived in New York, before he moved to Chicago and they’d lost touch. Or rather, he’d tried to block her out.
Fat chance.
He took the second set of stairs two at a time and ran into the bathroom, shed his clothes, turned the stream full-blast and hot. Scrubbed furiously at his skin and hair, then stood, eyes closed, letting the water flow over him, then letting the memories do the same. He and Laine loved sex in the shower. She’d slide her slippery, soapy body over him, down to her knees, take him in her mouth and blow his mind. She’d tip her head up, his cock still between her lips, and give him that look of sensual mischief that said, You are so in my power, little boy. He’d reach for her and push her against the cracked yellowing tile in his crappy New York apartment and show her who was really in control.
God, they’d had fun. Sure, sex with other women since then had been fun, too. But nothing like the wild, playful passion with Laine. Even after their initial breakup, after the anger and bitterness and pain had blown over and they’d managed to be friends again, getting together invariably involved sex. Plenty of it. All incredible.
Grayson yanked off the shower, grabbed his towel and dragged it roughly over his body. Better get going. Time spent in useless mooning was wasted. He wasn’t even going to call Judy today or any other day to see what was up with Laine. Now that he was back east, the temptation to start things up again would drive him nuts. He hadn’t seen her in five years, not since he’d moved to Chicago. What was done was done.
He pulled on shorts and a cotton shirt and prepared for his morning commute to his office—a converted bedroom on the second floor. Given his and Chuck’s start-up company’s cramped and only semiprivate office space at 1841 Broadway, opting to call from home had been a no-brainer.
He sat at his desk and brought up the week’s schedule on his monitor. Meetings in the city nearly every day this week, which meant he’d get into the office fairly regularly, but spend too many back-and-forth hours on NJ Transit trains. Damn shame he couldn’t afford a studio for overnights. But with the price of real estate in N.Y., a midtown, one-room apartment would set him back more than his entire three-bedroom house here. And Princeton wasn’t exactly bargainsville.
He opened his e-mail program, scanned the messages, deleted ads promising him a larger penis or a chance to earn thousands at home.
Good. Carson Industries wanted a bid for their Web site; he’d send an e-mail to Chuck to let him know. And he’d managed to sell Granger Healthcare on the idea of redesigning theirs; they wanted a bid, too. Excellent. Other than that, more calls to make, trying to put Jameson Productions on the map in the Web design business. They’d done very well so far—he’d brought in enough jobs that they’d had to hire a second programmer, and Chuck had finally gotten his dearest wish—an assistant to spare him paperwork.
So it looked as though he’d be on the phone most of the day. Just not to Judy.
He picked up the receiver, made a call to Ralph Scannell, V.P. of Marketing at Office Mart, who was not Judy and who knew nothing about Laine. Ralph wasn’t interested in a new Web site or any other promotional material. Grayson shrugged. Rejection was part of the job. He made another call, strangely enough also not to Judy. Managed to chat with the office manager, but was stalled trying to get someone higher up in marketing. Three more calls, then three more, none of them to the woman known as Judy or anyone who could possibly tell him anything about his sexy ex-girlfriend Laine Blackwell.
In fact, he was going to sit here, with his butt parked in his overpriced ergonomically correct chair and not call Judy all damn morning long.
2
“YOU’LL NEVER GUESS who called me.”
Laine glanced up from her menu at Clark’s Diner, her and her oldest friend Judy’s regular Saturday lunch spot. She had a pretty good idea. The same person it always was when Judy said, “You’ll never guess who called me.”
“Who?”
Judy leaned forward, one dark brow lifted, brown eyes sparkling behind her narrow, aqua-framed glasses. “Grayson Alexander.”
“No kidding.” Laine did a quick internal scan of her emotions, noting with triumph that she wasn’t feeling even a hint of that crazy thrill his name used to provoke in her without fail. Nothing but friendly, affectionate warmth. “What’s he up to?”
“The usual.” Judy sat back, watching Laine entirely too carefully, so Laine continued to explore the menu she knew practically by heart. She wasn’t in the mood to be psychoanalyzed. She’d been trying to find a roommate for an entire week, in fact had interviewed her sixth candidate this morning. A woman named Shadow, who hoped it would be okay if she burned incense every day. Oh, and her pet rat would be welcome, wouldn’t he? Worse, Shadow had been the most promising candidate.
“He and Chuck Gartner—do you remember him? He was a year older than us at Princeton. Charming geek, about twenty feet tall…”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He and Chuck are making a go of their interactive media business. They have an office on Broadway by the park. And Grayson bought a house in Princeton on Knoll Drive.”
Laine nodded. “Sounds like he’s doing well.”
“I know. Huge sigh.” Judy patted her ample chest. “He still makes my heart go pitter-pat. Killer looks, perfect body and enough charm to sink the Titanic. Not that he’d look at a lonely, overweight doormat like me.”
“Oh, will you stop.” Laine glared and held up a finger. “One, you are not overweight and—”
“Ahem.” Judy raised her hand to interrupt. “I weigh what you do and I’m a foot shorter.”
“Eight inches. And I’m a beanpole. Two—” she held up a second finger “—you’re only lonely because you don’t get out there and find people to—”
“So shoot me, I’m shy.”
“Three, you—hey!” Laine let her hand smack down on the table. “Why don’t you find a Man To Do, too?”
Judy scrunched up her face incredulously. “Me? Are you kidding? I walk into a bar, men run out screaming.”
Laine rolled her eyes. “Utter crap. What about…whatshisname? At that bar we went to the night you—”
“Roy?” Judy pointed to her chest. “He was just into boobs.”
“Well…there’s a start. I mean they’re part of you.”
Judy let out a snort of laughter and shook her head. “Men To Do is not for me. I can’t screw a guy for the hell of it. I have sex once, I want to wash his socks for all eternity. It’s just who I am.”
“Nonsense. I used to be that way, too, but I evolved. You can, too.”
“Evolved?” Judy scoffed. “You mean you got massively hurt by Grayson and are scared to try again.”
“No.” The casual denial came out not so very casually and a strange, angry feeling invaded her stomach. “You’re always romanticizing our relationship. I was twenty. He was my first love. At that age, I thought if you fell in love, that was that, you had forever all sewn up.”
“It can be that way.”
Laine put down her menu and pressed tense fingers to her temples. “Trust me, I know. I hear it every time I go home. That’s how it was with my mom forty years ago and my sister ten years ago and what’s the matter with me that I can’t hang on to a man? I say they were just plain lucky meeting Mr. Right the first time. Nothing is ‘forever’ for sure. Not marriage, not career, not anything.”
Judy waved her off dismissively. “Gloom and doom.”
“It’s not all gloom. Look at all the stuff I’ve done in my life. I’ve had four jobs, dated six men, tried two different grad school programs and am headed for a third, met tons of people—I’ve had a blast. I’ve really lived, unlike my parents and sister who’ve done the exact same thing every day of their lives since birth. If I’d married Grayson I’d probably be at home now in the same house I’d lived in forever, in the same bathrobe and slippers I’d had forever, trying to keep track of about a hundred children.” She shuddered. “Now that is gloomy.”
“I don’t know.” Judy sighed and fingered the necklace of colored-glass beads at her throat. “Sounds pretty great to me.”
“Instead.” Laine picked up her water glass and toasted her friend. “Instead, I’m totally free and about to embark on my next great adventure.”
“Right.” Judy’s cynical eyebrow crept up the left side of her forehead, even as she hoisted her water glass and clinked with Laine. “He’s not seeing anyone, you know.”
“Who?” She knew damn well who. She just didn’t want to admit that he’d stayed in her mind even this long.
“Grayson.”
“And?”
“Neither are you.”
“And neither are you, Ms. I’ll-always-love-Grayson. Why don’t you try to go out with him?”
“Ohhhh, no. Oh, no. Ohhhh, nononono.” Judy turned a lovely shade of pink to match her cotton sweater. “Not me. This guy will always belong to you.”
Laine threw up her hands in surrender. “How can you think that? You were there for the entire fiasco in college. We weren’t meant to be. What’s the point of drumming all that up again?”
“Let’s just say that as much as it would make my life, I am under no illusion that he wants to know how I am when he calls. He always mumbles for a while then gets to the real point—‘How is Laine doing?’”
“So?” Laine picked up her menu. She was not getting into this. She was hungry and it would only make her cranky. Grayson was ancient history, and happily so. It had taken her years and years and years to get over him, her first real love; she wasn’t anxious to stir that up again. “He just wants to know how I am.”
“Nope. It’s more than that. He gets all awkward and choky-sounding when he asks.”
“Hair ball?” She moved from Salads to Sandwiches. Nothing appealed.
