“Some dreams are just a little too farfetched, Josie.”
Plunking the peel in the trash can, Josie spoke through a mouthful of juice wedges. “No such thing.”
“What?”
She swallowed, her voice clearer now. “No such thing. That’s why they call them dreams. If they were supposed to be not farfetched, we’d call them plans.”
“When I said I had a plan, having you go to Laura’s office and f**k her on her desk was most decidedly not part of the plan. Not.Part.Of.The.Plan.” Mike stretched his neck, turning it so hard that something popped. Twice. It felt good—he needed to release something other than his foot up Dylan’s ass.
“Yeah. Uh, well, I always said I’m a ‘pantser.’” At least Dylan had the decency to seem sheepish. Cocky and sheepish. How the hell did he pull that off?
“How about you try working on being a ‘keep it in your pantser’?”
Dylan bit his lips and did an “Aw, shucks” gesture, staring at his toes and kicking the floor lightly. Good try, buddy. Like you’re Opie or something. “I’m sorry, Mike. It really wasn’t planned.”
“I know.” He softened a bit, knowing Dylan was telling the truth. He never lied; that was one part of their relationship that made sense.
Shoulders relaxing, Dylan perked up. “So the good news is that she likes me again!”
“The bad news is that she still has no idea what we really want from her.”
“And the billionaire thing.”
“Yep.” They sat in a stony silence, the weight of too many unresolved issues smothering them. Mike felt a sudden sadness, a depression out of nowhere. Dylan got Laura today, and he was genuinely glad, if conflicted.
Dylan bit his lips.
Mike could feel his eyes rolling hard in his head as he stared at Dylan, and finally he said, “Whatever. At least you’re back in her good graces now, and maybe we can find our way through this one and not scare her off.” What Mike wanted to ask, and what he knew he couldn’t ask, was Had Laura said anything about him? Because if she had, and still slept with Dylan, that meant one thing. And if she hadn’t, and slept with him, that meant something else.
He wasn’t sure what either option meant, just that it meant something.
Dylan was staring at him, head cocked, eyes slightly narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest, bunching up his t-shirt. “You want to know if she said anything about you, don’t you?”
Shit. It was like the guy could read his mind! Then again, after ten years together, maybe he could sometimes. “Did she?”
“No.”
The silence that hung between them meant something too. Damn it. Mike knew it. But knew what? All this meaning and no clarity made him confused, overwhelmed, frustrated. Time for a run. This one might require a half marathon. “Hey man, I’m going to go do a half. Are you in?” Might as well invite him along.
“Thirteen miles? Are you crazy?” A loose thread on Dylan’s t-shirt caught his attention and Dylan played with it, slowly twirling the thread tight, nice and taut, and then snapping it, removing it. He flicked it into the trash can. Then he leaned back against the kitchen counter and stared at Mike. “You’re trying to pound the pain out of yourself.”
“How’s that any different from what you do? You just lift yourself into oblivion.”
“No, lifting is different. It builds strength. What you do just saps you.”
“Running centers me, it doesn’t sap me!”
Dylan thought about that for a moment. “Aw, what the hell. I’ll do five with you. But that’s it, man. You are not talking me into doing thirteen.”
“Yeah, well, far be it for me to ask you to say one thing and do another.”
The look on Dylan’s face told Mike that the barb had hit its target. “Come on, Mike. Don’t be like this!”
“Be like what?” Mike could feel himself stiffening, steel pouring into his body, making him tight, in control, immutable.
“Look,” said Dylan, “we’re not competing here. We’re not enemies here. We have the same goal, and the goal is to find somebody we can both love. Find somebody—”
Mike interrupted him “To replace Jill?”
Dylan let out a big breath of air. “I thought that’s what we were doing...” he said, shaking his head.
Mike frowned. Where was he going with this?
“But it’s not about that any more. It’s about moving on. It’s not about replacing Jill. It’s about—” Dylan paused, his eyebrows raised, his body relaxing. “It’s about Laura. It’s not about Jill, not any more.”
Just when he was starting to enjoy his self-righteous anger, Dylan had to go and get all reasonable and introspective. “All right, fair enough.” Mike held his hand out. “Truce?”
Dylan grabbed him and hugged him. “No need for a truce. There was never a battle.”
“Oooo, what kind of pasta is that? Spinach? Basil?” Laura marveled at the spread Mike was putting out for this meal. So much food! You would think they were having dinner for more than the two of them.
“It’s green.” He shrugged.
“Hold on! I’m mocked when I don’t know what kind of wine the red stuff is, but you get a pass on green pasta?” She mock pouted. “No fair.” Silly and playful, Laura felt giddy. The giddiness drove out the guilt. Sort of. In many ways, this date with Mike was a test. Sleep with Dylan. Sleep with Mike. Sleep with Dylan at work, sleep with Mike tonight in this amazing cabin. Then everything would be fair and balanced.
What are you, Laura? Fox News?
He stirred the pasta, steam floating up in swirls like magic potion from a cauldron, his white cotton button-down tucked nicely into tan business pants. Shirt sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, Mike looked a little too business casual for her. She liked him sporty. Sweaty.
Naked, actually.
What he was wearing now made her think of middle management. Corporate life. A flash of her beige office and her legs wrapped around Dylan’s naked as**s made her wince.
“You OK?” Mike peered at her, concerned. “Something wrong?”
Shake it off. “No, just—no.”
He bent over the stove, his frame so tall he had to crouch to fit under the hood. It made her feel liliputian. No one— ever—made her feel diminutive, yet somehow Mike mastered it. She liked it.
Liked his cabin, too. How in the hell did a ski instructor afford this? Four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a deck bigger than the house she’d grown up in, and a sliding door at the lower level where you could just ski right up, unbuckle your boots and snap off the skis, and come right in. Decorated in knotty pine and colors that screamed “Ski lodge!”, the place was amazing.
All this and an apartment in the city, too? He hadn’t invited her there, though. Just here.
Next date.
Why had he just turned the burner off? Laura took a big swig from her glass of Pinot Grigio (she was learning) and Mike grabbed the bottle, filling it instantly.
His grin was saucy, a wolfish look on his face. “Like the wine?”
Gulp. Three big mouthfuls and she finished half the glass. Thoughts of Dylan kept invading. The brush of his fingers on her inner thighs. The rasp of his stubble against her ear. The texture of his as**s as it tightened under her steady palms as he thrust—
Gulp. Enough wine and maybe he would quit invading her brain.
Maybe you should quit inviting him.
“Earth to Laura.” Mike. Oh, yeah. Mike. The back of his hand brushed against her cheek, fingers stroking her face, tucking loose hair behind her ear, then trailing lazily down to her collar bone, one palm cupping her breast as he bent down for a kiss.
The touch of his lips on hers made her swoon. Spinning rooms were never really her thing, but the wine hit her as his warm body crushed against hers and she went limp, his strong arms holding her in place as his tongue provided an elegant rough draft of what it was going to do in, oh, about five minutes,
On her clit.
She pulled back, blinked coyly, grabbed the wine bottle from the counter and filled her glass again. This time there was no pretense of gentility; she chugged it like a sorority girl at a kegger, placed the glass down on the granite counter with a click, and grinned like a fool.
“Are you really hungry for something green?” The flooding warmth that covered her was equal parts wine and arousal for what she knew was coming.
Her.
“I’m more in the mood for a pale blond.” His fingers brushed her loose, blonde curls away from her neck. She shivered, his touch like an unwinding sigh. Kisses delivered to her throat, her earlobe, then her mouth made her throat tighten, her legs loosen, and the rest of her melt.
“Or,” he added, one hand traveling up from her hip to her breast, “I’m pretty sure I’d prefer something pink.” They had both dressed more casually, the intent of the evening clear. When Mike had shyly suggested she bring an overnight bag, he didn’t need hand puppets, markers and a white board to explain what he expected from the date. Muscular and wiry at the same time, he managed to look like a gentle giant and a lanky teen all at once.
Right now, though, he was all man. Confident, sensual—and very much in command. She hoped he liked what she had worn, simple J.Jill casual clothes, with a flowing mauve skirt and top that hid her bigger parts but accentuated her face. She didn’t need to hide anything, with Mike (and that was the beauty of him), but she also felt unready to run around in crummy workout clothes or flannel jammies. Not yet.
