Take Me Twice

“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.