Caught Up In Raine

by L. G. O'Connor

  “Come on. Admit it. I’m too cute to hate.” More glaring from her at me. We do inner and then outer thighs with twenty-pound weights.

  “Are we done yet?” Jillian moans, draped over the seat, looking spineless.

  I glance at the clock. It’s only been twenty-five minutes. “Stop whining. One more set of free weights, and you’ll be free to go.”

  When she finishes, she collapses onto the mat and lies down on her back. “I might not be able to walk tomorrow—or lift anything—or sit down.”

  I chuckle. “Wait until the day after.”

  She narrows her eyes and does something very un-Jillian: she flips me the bird.

  “No need to get hostile about it.” I’m only mildly offended. I ease down onto my good side next to her and prop myself up on my elbow. Beads of dampness dot her upper lip.

  “You did well,” I say softly.

  She cups my cheek with her hand, and gives me a small smile. “You’re a good trainer. But it was fun giving you a hard time.”

  “Thanks . . . and I noticed.” Her words make me feel good, valued.

  Her hand drops away from my face. “Coffee. Shower. Pack. Go. That’s my plan from here. Did you want to follow me down to the beach house or meet me there?”

  I shrug. “Follow you, I guess. You’ll be writing all day?” I’m hoping to spend a little time together.

  Her eyes show a sliver of disappointment, like she’s read between the lines of my question. “Unfortunately . . . but maybe we can spend some time together tonight. I have to get some of this draft done to meet my deadline.”

  “Not a problem. I have a project for school to bang out.” I run my finger down her arm. “Do I get to read any of this masterpiece you’re working on? I mean, I’m kind of like Drew, aren’t I? I’d like to get to know this dude I’m representing.”

  Her lips move but no sound comes out, and the look in her eyes is a cross between fear and horror.

  “Um, was that a weird request?” Didn’t seem like it to me.

  “Uh . . . no. It’s not a weird request. It’s actually a nice request. It’s just . . . um, it’s . . . Robert was never interested in reading my work,” she says, and shakes herself. “Can I think about it? It’s only the first draft, so it might still suck.”

  “It’s up to you. I’m just saying I’d be interested, that’s all.”

  “Thank you, it means a lot. I really do appreciate your interest,” she says, trying to push up into a sitting position before she looks at me pathetically. “I might need help getting up.”

  I chuckle and get to my feet, mindful of the dull ache in my side. If my ribs weren’t a problem, I’d scoop her up off the floor and carry her out of here just for the hell of it. Instead, I offer her my hand. “We need to keep this routine up every other day. If we’re not back by Wednesday, maybe we can take a run or something to keep our momentum.”

  She snorts. “No need. The shore house has a gym, too.”

  “Sweet.” I can’t wait to get back into my own routine once my ribs allow it. I miss the gym in the townhouse complex where I lived with Vanessa. But that’s the only thing I miss. Funny, I haven’t missed Vanessa at all.

  Chapter 21

  Jillian

  I CLUTCH THE PAGES tightly to my chest. “You’re sure you really want to read them?” I ask as my fingers twitch nervously.

  After driving the hour and ten minutes to get to the beach house this morning post workout, I had a very productive day. Over dinner, I decided to take Raine up on his offer and explained the whole concept of beta reading and critiquing. Still, the thought of anyone, especially him, reading my first draft paralyzes me. But until this morning when he offered, I never realized how much I resented that Robert had never once asked. Granted, I assume Raine’s request has more to do with his curiosity about Drew, his doppelganger, than my actual writing. Why else would he volunteer to read a romance novel? Most men would rather have their fingernails removed one by one.

  He fluffs a square throw pillow before he lies down on the couch in my office and shoves the pillow between his head and the rolled arm, propping his feet up on the other end and crossing them at the ankles. His brow shoots up and he reaches toward me, wiggling his fingers. “Gimme. Unless you don’t want my opinion.”

  I do want it. My face flushes. What will he think of Drew? There’s nowhere to hide; my words are bare on the page for him to judge. I sigh and peel the pages away from my body. Walking over, I hand him the latest scenes. At the last second, I snatch them back. “Wait. There’s a love scene in here.”

  He shakes his head and sniffs. “Hand ’em over. I’ve been fucking since I was fifteen. I think I can handle it.”

  “No need to be crude about it.” I thrust the pile at him.

  He stares at me with wide-eyed innocence and points at his chest. “Me? Crude? That coming from a woman who flipped me the bird this morning.” He rolls his eyes. “Jillian, my point is that you don’t need to worry about my sensibilities,” he says, air quoting sensibilities.

  I glare at him. “Yeah, that reminds me. I can barely lift my arms after this morning, and muscles I didn’t know I had are having a rebellion in my thighs.”

  “Your thighs, huh?” he teases with a sexy growl.

  I forgive him for his comment and my thigh pain. How can I not? He’s a combination of adorable and hotter than hell, and he’s stretched out in front of me making me wish I were twenty years younger and a lot hotter.

  Giving him a wry smile, I offer him the pages. “Here.” He grins and takes them.

  “Pen?” he asks.

  “What do you need a pen for?”

  He looks at me like I’m mentally challenged. “To . . . make . . . notes . . . in . . . the . . . margins.”

  I’m tempted to hand him a crayon. Too bad I don’t have any.

  I stamp back the five feet to my desk and toss a pen at him. “Catch.” He fumbles for it.

  “Hey, Lady, you could’ve poked an eye out with that throw.” He glares at me and uncaps the pen.

  I smirk and look at my laptop, ready to start the next chapter. But a few seconds later, I peek over at him. His blond brows are knit together in concentration. The bruising on his face is starting to fade. He chews the end of the pen as he reads. I try to get back to work, but the thought of his eyes on my work make me feel like I’ve been tied up and left naked for his personal viewing.

  Every once in a while, he stops to scribble some notes on the pages. I do everything in my power not to ask him what part he’s reading when he bursts into laughter and writes what seems like a paragraph. My blood pressure suddenly escalates. What the hell could he be laughing at? There isn’t anything funny in those scenes!

  The words on the screen start to blur together. My hands hover over the keyboard without touching it. Nothing. I write nothing for a full hour as he reads through fifty pages.

  More rustling of paper from the couch.

  “Done.” He swings his legs over the edge and onto the rug, and then walks over and slaps the pages on my desk.

  “Well?”

  He answers with a sexy smile and a wink and then heads toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  He stretches and yawns, his T-shirt rising up over the low-slung waist of his jeans with frayed bottoms. Smooth, taut abs peek through. Get a grip, Jillian.

  “I’m going out to sit on the deck, and then I’m going to hit the sack.” He gives me a rakish smile. “’Night, Jillian.”

  “’Kay, ’night.” I’m torn between wanting him to stay to keep me company and wanting him to leave so that I can read his damned comments.

  The moment he disappears from view, I flip through the pages. My trembling fingers rattle the paper. I take a deep breath and read his first comment. His handwriting is better than I expect. Legible even.

  “First, I hate bony girls. Do you know what it feels like to get jabbed by a rib when you're having sex? Probably not. Why does she have
to be fashion-model thin? Give me some soft curves any day. Second, she's too young. This would be soooooooo much hotter with an older woman and a younger guy. Don't you think?”

  What the . . . ? My thighs tingle unexpectedly at the same time I grit my teeth. Is he serious? I move to the next comment. “Okay, sorry Jillian, but Becca is a bitch. I wouldn't sleep with her. Seriously. I wouldn't. Next . . ."

  I move to his next comment. “Now, I'm offended. But don't be offended by what I'm about to say. Drew is a pussy. Let him be the man, not Becca. She's got bigger balls than he does. It's plain embarrassing. She's got him whipped. I just don't feel it's authentic or real. AND . . . AND . . . there is NO WAY his dick is staying that hard that many times in one night. How can ANY guy ever live up to this? This is setting very unrealistic expectations for women. Not to mention, this guy is too much of a wimp to deserve a cock that big (I'm just saying).”

  My stomach clenches. Holy shit! Didn’t he realize I’m in the business of women’s fantasies? A muscle in my jaw jumps as I grind my teeth.

  I march straight out onto the deck into the darkness with the wrinkled pages clasped in my hand. A gentle breeze carries the salt air of the ocean over to greet me. The sweet smell of pot hits my nose a moment later, and stops me dead. The red tip of a joint smolders between Raine’s lips.

  “You take drugs?” I blurt.

  He chuckles. “No, I don’t take drugs. I smoke a little weed from time to time to relax. There’s a big difference. And it doesn’t interfere with my pain meds.” He holds it out to me. “You want a hit?”

  God, I feel old.

  I shake the pages at him. “Are you fucking serious?”

  He giggles. “I’m always serious when it comes to fucking,” he says and then mumbles. “I just wish you’d notice.” He already sounds stoned.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. I’m not saying anything.” He pats the seat next to him. “Sit, Jillian. Relax. It’s late.”

  I plop down and sulk. “So, you hate Becca and Drew?”

  He inhales and turns away from me to exhale. “No, I don’t hate them. I just don’t think they’re real.”

  “So what would be real to you?”

  “Why don’t you ever use my name?” he says, annoyed.

  I frown at him in the dark. “What?”

  “Raine. You never say my name. I say ‘Jillian’ like every other sentence when I speak to you . . . at least that’s the way it feels. But you never say, ‘What do you think about that, Raine?’ ”

  I sit back in my chair, again with my mouth agape. He unwinds me in a strange way. If I stop to think about it, maybe he’s right. Rolling his name over my tongue has an intimate feel to it. It’s not that I don’t want to enjoy the sensuous texture of it through my lips, because I do. The truth is I’m not ready to fully surrender to this fantasy. I wish real meant that I could trust that he’d be interested in me for more than one date. His living arrangement is temporary, I can’t forget that. But it’s so damned tempting.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . . .”

  He tamps out his joint, places it in a small tin box, and snaps it shut. Getting up, he reaches down to me, and says softly, “Give me your hand.”

  My heart skips a beat. Without thinking, I offer him my free hand and he pulls me to my feet. I’m in his arms, pressed against the hard lines of his chest, before I can react. His breath warms my cheek. “I’m real, Jillian. Me. If you’re interested in finding out what that means, let me know. I’d be happy to show you.” He kisses my forehead and lets me go. I stand frozen.

  Like right now?

  He leaves me standing there, and I listen as his footfalls recede down the hallway toward his room. I’m tempted to follow.

  If it was only that simple.

  Our kisses are burned into my memory. Every detail: from the taste, to the feel of his lips, to the warmth of his body, to the rush of heat that courses through me whenever I revisit them in my mind. One minute I want to throw myself into his arms and be done with it, and the next I’m afraid of what a stupid, irresponsible decision that could turn out to be for me. It’s almost a guaranteed path to heartbreak. I keep reminding myself not to let my feelings seduce me into believing one date could turn into a future together . . . or permanently fill the emptiness in my heart.

  But at some point, I’ll have to commit . . . one way or the other.

  Chapter 22

  Jillian

  “THAT’S NOT A WORD!” I yell at Raine. The Scrabble board is between us on the living room carpet. After a frustrating day of writer’s block at the keyboard following Raine’s comments last night, I gave myself the night off to spend some time with him, and to rethink Becca and Drew.

  “What? Yes it is!” he says with conviction, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. He’s lying on his side with his elbow resting on the ground, cradling his tawny head in his hand.

  “There’s no x in tricks, Raine!”

  “Yes, there is! ‘Silly, Rabbit. Trix are for kids,’ ” he replies.

  “That’s a breakfast cereal, not a word!” I laugh.

  “So? That counts.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”

  My cell phone rings and I lunge for it on the coffee table without getting up. I topple over when I overextend my reach, falling on the carpet and kicking the Scrabble board.

  “Ticklish?” Raine grabs my bare foot without waiting for an answer and passes his finger over the bottom.

  He’s found my Achilles’ heel. I let out a high-pitched squeal of laughter.

  “Tickle, tickle,” he teases.

  I hit ANSWER, hoping I don’t pee myself.

  “Jillian? It’s Kitty . . .” I pull my leg from Raine’s grasp. My face goes slack and my blood turns to ice when I hear the tone of her voice. It’s the same tone she used when Dad died.

  I rest my face in my hand and brace myself. “What is it, Kitty?”

  Raine sits up. I feel the heavy weight of his gaze on me.

  Kitty sniffles and I know. My heart pounds. “Vera had a stroke. She passed away a few minutes ago.” Her voice breaks and she sobs. “Can you meet me at the funeral home tomorrow morning?”

  I don’t need to ask her which one. I know that, too.

  I bite down on my hand as my eyes fill. Another one gone.

  Death 5, Jillian 0.

  “Yes.” I say through a choked breath. “What time?”

  Raine’s fingers dig into my shoulder. “What is it?” he whispers. I can’t look at him. I suddenly can’t get enough air into my lungs and I shake him off.

  “Ten?” she says through her tears.

  “Okay. I need to go.” I choke back the lump in my throat.

  “Will you be okay?”

  Of course I won’t be okay. “Yes. See you tomorrow.” I say, and hit END.

  “Jillian? What happened? It is your aunt?” Raine asks. His shoulders are tight and the desperate look on his face begs me to answer.

  I clasp my hand over my mouth and nod. Then I run.

  My lungs compete for air between my sobs as I race out the front door into the cool night. The waves crash on the surf on the far side of the boardwalk across the street. I dash out, avoiding the oncoming headlights, over the gangplank and onto the beach. The tang of the sea air fills my senses and a light breeze blows my hair into my face. The sand feels cool against the soles of my feet, sending a chill through me.

  I collapse onto the grainy surface and pound it with my fists, letting out a scream of frustration and loss.

  To me, each death is like another star winking out in the sky, one by one, carrying me closer to darkness and to my own death. Life keeps being stolen from around me.

  Warm arms envelop me from behind and pull me close until I sit between Raine’s legs, and his body shelters mine. He wraps the blanket I keep on the couch around us, creating a cocoon. Then he kisses the side of my head and rests his chin on my shoulder. I welcome the sudd
en warmth on my gooseflesh-covered skin.

  “I’m sorry I ran away,” I say, wiping my eyes with the back my hand.

  He doesn’t speak; he just hands me a tissue. His thoughtfulness touches me and I blow my nose. “Thanks.”

  The surf pounds the sand farther out in front of us.

  His breath is warm on my ear. “The day I came for the photo shoot, you asked me who I sat for to have my portrait painted. Do you remember?”

  I freeze when I realize he’s about to tell me something about himself—unprompted. I don’t know what to say. My mouth refuses to operate, but my hand squeezes his forearm in encouragement. I nod. His uncanny knack for diversion interrupts my grief.

  “It was my mom,” he says. “She was an artist.” He swallows before he continues. “She died in my arms when I was eighteen. It was spring, right before I graduated high school. She had pancreatic cancer. I still miss her,” he whispers, and his voice hitches.

  My heart lurches. I feel his pain as much as if someone sliced my heart open with a blade. I reach my hand up behind me and caress his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Raine. I understand.”

  I draw in a deep breath and drop my hand. I share something in return. “I lost my mom to cancer too—breast cancer—when I was fourteen. Vera was mom’s twin sister. She and Kitty have been my surrogate mothers ever since. They raised me with my dad. He died four years ago of a heart attack, like Robert. It’s just me and Kitty now.”

  Raine squeezes me tight and buries his face in my neck. “I didn’t know,” he mumbles. “I would have told you sooner about my mom. I don’t want you to go through this alone. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” I twine my fingers with his under the blanket and suppress a sob in reaction to both my grief and his empathy. Subconsciously, I think I always suspected that she was the one tied to his grief. It explains why he never speaks of her in the present tense. “You were close to your mom, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. We were close. She was the one person who really believed in me . . . encouraged me to follow my dreams. You know what was worse than her dying?”