Lying in Bed

“Come in, come in.” Ira Bridges welcomed the newcomers as he headed for the door. Delilah had written: Intimate relationships satisfy our universal need to belong and the need to be cared for in a clean, easy to read cursive on the whiteboard.

“There are nametags on the end of the tables,” Ira continued, his voice friendly, his smile wide and earnest. “Find a seat and please fill out the three-page questionnaire so we can get that out of the way. When you’re finished, come into the center of the room and find a spot … on the floor.” Ira beamed at the surprised murmur. “That’s right. Surprise is a wonderful part of intimacy, and it’s also a large part of this week, so keep on your toes.”

Ryan leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I’m going to grab us seats.”

She jerked sharply, caught off guard, her eyes wide and her lips parted. He wanted to apologize but as soon as she settled, he wanted to surprise her again.

“I’ll get the nametags,” she said, then hurried away, glancing back at him once.

He walked more sedately to his chosen seat then stared at the papers in front of him without seeing a word. The last time he remembered touching Angie on purpose had been a brush of fingers across the back of her hand. He’d wanted her then, but it had been at the party, and she’d been dressed as Scully, and though he’d never tell a soul living or dead, one of the main reasons he’d gone into the Bureau was because of Dana Scully and the X-Files.

Not the best thing to think about when there was so much on the line. The sting, the convictions, the promotion. After pouring himself a glass of ice water and downing half the drink in one go, Ryan started filling out the paperwork on the clipboard.

The first page looked like something he’d find at a doctor’s office. Some overarching medical issues, which were easily dismissed, some personal info about family and work and hobbies and that kind of crap. Since they were using their own basic backgrounds, he was able to fill in the blanks in short order. He kept checking the still-open door, glad to have his mind occupied.

“Here.” Angie dropped his nametag, already filled out, in front of him. When she sat, she shifted the chair closer to his.

He didn’t acknowledge the tag, just slapped the sticky side to his shirt. Then he flipped to the second page of the questionnaire. “Shit,” he said, under his breath.

“What?”

“Page two.”

Angie checked out the material before she looked at him. “What’s the problem?”

“You need to go first. Just make sure I can see your answers.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment as she studied him, but she relaxed quickly with a nod. He went back and fiddled with page one while she attacked the intimacy portion of the opening challenge.

The first question alone had stopped him in his tracks.

I think of my partner lovingly many times a day.

He doubted he’d ever thought lovingly of anyone. Not that he didn’t have good thoughts about people, especially about women, but lovingly? “What does that first question even mean?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“We’re in love,” she said. “You’d think of me lovingly a lot.”

Right. They were in love. If anything, he should go overboard on this questionnaire. Still, he’d take his cues from Angie, follow her lead. Make it appear that it was love with a background note of desperation, that brought them to this retreat, desperation with a mask of love that made them want to put in the effort. No sweat as a concept, but he hadn’t really thought through the language issue.

Statement two was no better:

We feel warmth and connection at least twenty minutes a day.

Who the hell knew how many times they felt connected? He felt connected to the L.A. Kings hockey franchise, at least when they were winning, but that lasted the length of the game.

He leaned closer to Angie with a sigh. “This is gonna suck. Even if they don’t play new-age CDs.”

She snorted. Daintily. Whispered, “It’ll be fine. Go with your instincts. Pretend they’re asking about you and your personal trainer. Trust me, all the answers will make perfect sense.”

He probably should have been insulted by that, but it actually made him laugh. He decided that when he was in doubt, he’d go with the opposite of his instincts, and he should be okay.

He glanced again at her paper, then stayed for a while, reading. Most of her responses were unsurprising given her backstory. The one about initiating sex equally made him blink. She’d given that a “Happens often.” Good to know.

Confident that he now had the game down, he tackled his sheet, filling in the numbers for Ryan Ebsen, a man dedicated to keeping his wife and her checkbook. By the time he reached the end of the third page, he figured this thing with Angie was going to work out just fine.

Then she stood up, leaned over the table to grab another pen, and he got a load of her picture-perfect backside.

Nope. No. This thing with Angie was gonna kill him. Dead.

4

“THE FOOD WAS REALLY GOOD,” Angie said, sipping her coffee from the back of the Blue Room. The group lunch hadn’t been nearly the ordeal she’d stressed over, but there had certainly been moments.

The whole lot of them had walked the short distance from the Lavender Room, passing another group, all of them holding fruity umbrella drinks. Angie had been tempted to switch her allegiance, or at the very least call room service for a cocktail of her own. Especially after she got a load of the weird as hell layout of their new location.

The lunch tables had been set up in odd configurations: some were long family style, some round that could seat eight, a couple of them could accommodate four and only one table for two. There were more seats available than participants and each seat had a complete table setting.

Delilah had asked them all to sit. Anywhere they chose. With no more than a glance between them, she and Ryan went for the round table for eight where, for the most part, they’d eaten and listened to other people talk. The person to her right had been Luke, husband to Erica. Luke had spent the bulk of the meal’s two courses telling her how he was only at this workshop because of Erica and how the whole point of intimacy was sex, and since they had sex pretty much every night, what was the point? He also mentioned the cost three or seven times.

Fortunately it hadn’t been difficult for her to play her role. Primarily because Ryan had kept checking in with her. Not with words. With a look, a smile, a roll of his eyes. Each one a string between them, connecting, strengthening, woven together like a safety net. That tie relaxed her enough that she was able to answer the few questions asked without over-thinking or stumbling.

The one time she’d tripped up was when she turned to find him staring across the table at Tonya Bridges, the yoga and tantric massage instructor. He’d looked riveted, interested. But then he’d turned back to the man to his left. Chris looked to be in his fifties. The two went on to discuss basketball until it was time for dessert and they’d all been “invited” to find different seats. Ryan had taken her by the sleeve and pulled her straight to the back of the room, to the table set for two where they hid like the bad kids during assembly as they watched the most confusing game of musical chairs ever.

“I think Ira’s wearing patchouli oil,” Ryan said as he fiddled with his linen napkin. He’d gotten coffee, nothing else, while she’d fixed herself a small plate of fruit. “Think he’s actually old enough to be a hippie?”

Ryan wasn’t looking at her, but that was okay because she was too busy scoping out the room to look at him. Their little table was situated close to the desserts. There were only three choices: a crème brûlée, a New York–style cheesecake, which was calling Angie’s name, and a bowl of fresh fruit. She ate another piece of cantaloupe and decided the cheesecake had to be a billion times better. “Delilah hasn’t had any work done I don’t think,” Angie said, pushing her grapes around. “Which makes me like her more, and also makes me question her involvement.”

“What? Why?”

“They’ve been living in L.A. and Vegas for years. Plastic surgery is practically required by law for any woman over the age of forty.”

He looked at her, clearly disbelieving. “That might be true for celebrities, but—”

“Ellen Fincher.”

Ryan tossed the napkin all the way past the table, which Angie doubted he meant to do. “Get out.”

Ellen was Palmer’s administrative assistant. Angie knew for a fact she was forty-seven, because Angie had been at the birthday party. Ellen’s present to herself had been eye lifts and some lipo. “Oh, I’m right.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but why does that make Delilah a more trustworthy person?”

“If she had a ton of illicit money, she’d probably have a nip or a tuck. She’s pretty, but she’s starting to droop. On the other hand, she could be saving every last penny for her dream retirement in Cancún.”

“Or maybe she’s just not that vain. You know—” Ryan stopped talking as Zach, the banker from Orange County, came by. Rachel, his wife, followed shortly thereafter, and all four of them chatted about how fantastic the food was until the couple wandered off.

Angie would have been fine with that if Zach hadn’t been eating his damn cheesecake right in front of her. But after four bites she’d broken like a dime-store toy. “You want anything?”

Ryan shook his head staring once more at Tonya, who was sitting at one of the long tables, talking with two other couples.