Holiday Hideout

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  It was a revelation that almost knocked him over with its intensity. Suddenly, there was a goal in his life that he could reach. Maybe he’d never convince the board to expand the company, but he could win Cleo back. Their love had a quality and depth to it that made him certain that even the passing of five years—that even the existence of a man named Perry—made failure impossible. If he wanted her, he would win her.

  And he did want her. Desperately.

  And once he had her, everything else would seem so much less important.

  So he’d sent the card. And he’d planned this reunion, all the way down to the tablecloth and the music.

  But now, seeing her expression, he wondered if he’d gone too far, too fast. She’d come, and that had to mean that she believed at least in the potential of a reunion. But at the same time right then she looked like a deer in the headlights.

  Maybe he had laid it on a bit strong.

  “Too much?” he asked, cocking his head toward the faux restaurant.

  She looked at him, her mouth open a little, and then, incongruously, she burst out laughing. “Well, you always did know how to surprise me.”

  He relaxed. Whatever tension had filled the room between them had faded with her smile. “What’s even more surprising is that the food is actually going to be better than it was from that restaurant.”

  She quirked a brow. “That’s not actually surprising,” she said, and they both laughed.

  She had a point—that first meal had been barely edible. Still, Josh felt he’d outdone himself tonight. He’d spent so much time in the kitchen preparing the sauce, in fact, that he’d gotten into the shower later than he’d planned. Thus the half-naked state, which, he only just realized, was still his state of clothing.

  The realization shot another warm burst of satisfaction through him—even after all these years, he was that comfortable with her.

  As if she was reading his mind—another good sign in Josh’s opinion—she looked him up and down. “Not that the view isn’t great, but if you’re planning on dishing out hot spaghetti sauce, I think a shirt might be in order. They don’t teach many first-aid skills in law school.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to be so conventional,” he said. “But if you insist.”

  “I think I’ll have to.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and Josh’s heart leaped. Despite a rocky start, this was going well.

  “Give me one second,” he said then hurried into the bedroom to change. He returned to find her gone. A cold wave of disappointment mixed with fear crashed over him. Disappointment that this reunion had failed. Fear that he’d never get her back. The depth of his emotion didn’t surprise him. For five years, he may have subjugated his thoughts and feelings for Cleo. But now that she was back to being front and center in his mind, he knew that he had to have her—or, at the very least, he had to try.

  If she’d decided to turn tail and run, then he intended to run after her.

  He heard a noise from the kitchen area, and turned in that direction, relieved.

  She was standing by the counter, an inscrutable expression on her face. “For a second, I thought you’d gone,” he said.

  His words seemed to baffle her. She gestured to the stove. “I was going to dive in and stir the sauce, put on water for the spaghetti. Maybe make a salad.” She shrugged self-consciously. “Sorry. I guess I’m falling back into old habits.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “But it’s your night to be waited on, remember?”

  She shook her head, her expression determined. “Don’t be silly. Come on. It’ll be fun to do it together.”

  With an ease that surprised him, she slipped over to the stereo. She stopped the loop he’d set for “That’s Amore” and scrolled through the playlist on his iPod. A few minutes later, and Lyle Lovett filled the small kitchen. “There,” she said, coming back to him and bumping him with her hip. “Music to cook by.”

  He couldn’t disagree, and as Lyle crooned about his life and loves, Josh and Cleo worked side by side in the kitchen, boiling the pasta, stirring the sauce, making the salad. Deciding to push his luck a little, Josh plucked an olive out of a jar and held it out for Cleo, who was rhythmically stirring the sauce in time with the music. She hesitated, but then her lips parted. He fed her the olive, his fingertips brushing her lip. It was the most erotic sensation he’d experienced in years.

  For a second, Cleo held his gaze. Then she blinked, and the moment was over. She turned back to the stove. “I think the pasta’s done,” she said. Josh had never been so disappointed by food being ready to eat.

  Once the table was set, he pulled out her chair for her, and she sat with a flourish. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said with a small smile. And although there was nothing wrong with the way she said it, he sensed a distance between them.

  He sat opposite and took a sip of wine, and the reason fell into place with a unique clarity. She’d helped him cook. She’d changed the music to something light and not particularly romantic. Without saying a word, she’d shifted the tone of the evening he’d planned to something much more casual, more platonic.

  And yet she was still here, sitting across from him, sipping wine and looking relaxed.

  Josh had spent the last five years in high-powered negotiations, and he understood what was happening. He’d moved faster than she’d expected and put her off balance. She was pulling back, creating distance so that she could regain her footing. But she wasn’t running. She wasn’t saying no.

  That was okay by Josh; he wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t need to be, because the woman he wanted was only a few feet away. And surely he could span a few feet over the course of a couple of days.

  He leaned back in his chair, silently letting her know that if distance was what she needed to feel comfortable, then he was more than willing to give it to her. “So tell me about Washington. About the firm.” He grinned. “Have you made partner yet?”

  It was small talk, and yet with Cleo it didn’t seem like small talk. Especially when her face lit up at the mention of her work. She talked with ease, telling him about the people in the firm, about her boss and mentor, about the excitement of delving into a new case, of prepping for depositions. He stopped her occasionally to ask questions, which she answered in detail, throwing in funny stories about client faux pas or the quirks of the judges she’d met. Her face glowed as she spoke, and seeing it gave him a nostalgic pang, because that was what he’d loved most about her—the intensity with which she loved her world and her work. Everything about her in college had been focused on being an attorney, and now that she’d made it, it was clear how much she loved it. The work, the firm, her friends. Even, please no, a possible boyfriend.

  He cleared his throat. “I saw a picture of you on Facebook with someone named Perry.” He hesitated then dove straight in, needing the answer. “Are you guys dating?”

  “Perry? We did for a while. But now, no.” Her words were firm, and Josh was almost knocked over by his relief.

  “You look happy,” he said, the simple words somehow managing to convey everything he saw in her.

  “I am,” she said. “And it keeps getting better. In fact, I was just assigned an amazing case. One I think you might be interested in. Our client is actually Argentina.”

  “No kidding?” He leaned forward. “Just last year I had a proposal before the board to—” He cut himself off. Remembering the way the board—led by his mother—had put an end to his plans to partner with an Argentine mining concern would only put a damper on the evening. “But Josh,” she’d said. “We need you here, not galavanting off to South America.”

  He should have pressed the point. He was certain that the venture would have tripled Goodson Mining’s net worth. But his mother had fingered the ring she wore on a chain around her neck—his father’s wedding ring—and said that she didn’t know what she’d do without Josh around. He’d quit pushing for the venture.

  “Josh?” Cleo’s forehead crink
led. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. It just— The deal fell through. It’s fair to say I was disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I know how much getting into the international market means to you.”

  He brushed it off as if it was nothing. “We’re on you now,” he said. “So, you got this case…?”

  “It’s a huge opportunity. I’ve only been on it for a few days, actually. I’m still trying to get up to speed. In fact—”

  He frowned. She’d stopped so abruptly that she gave the impression of a tape recorder suddenly being stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  She cleared her throat and looked abashed. “It’s just—it’s just that I actually brought some work with me.” She cringed a little. “Sorry.”

  He laughed then lifted his wineglass in a toast. “You haven’t changed, Cleo. And I’m very glad.”

  They clinked glasses, and he realized that he was happier at that moment than he’d been in a long time. It had been the right decision to send Cleo the card. This felt good. Perfect. At the moment, he could imagine no place he’d rather be, and no person he’d rather be with.

  “It’s my turn to ask questions,” she said. “You’re heading up Goodson Mining, I know that. But what about Harvard? When are you going to go? The company must be in a pretty good position by now, isn’t it?”

  “The company’s doing great,” he said. He ignored the question about Harvard.

  “So you’re focusing on expansion now? I remember that’s what you and your dad always wanted for the company.”

  “It was his dream,” Josh said, stating the truth as much as he was avoiding it.

  “So tell me about it. What’s the first step? Have you got the geological surveys from potential locations? Where are you thinking about expanding first?”

  Her words hit him like a battering ram, each one reminding him of the walls he’d encountered, the ideas he’d let go, and it made him feel as if everything he’d done over the last five years—all the localized growth and revenue increases in the company that he was responsible for—was nothing but a failure. He stood up and started for the kitchen.

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Josh?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been living and breathing mining for years—do you know this is my first vacation since my dad died? I think I should go on a conversational vacation, too. No mining talk.”

  He saw her brows rise, and her expression was an odd mixture of shock and something that he would have thought was irritation if he didn’t know better. The she laughed, and her expression cleared. “You’re right,” she said, letting go of his arm. “We have an entire weekend to talk business. Right now, we need to discuss more important things.”

  “Dessert,” he said.

  “You read my mind.”

  She got up to help him with the cheesecake he’d brought back from the deli. She put slices onto plates for each of them while he uncorked another bottle of wine and took it to the coffee table in front of the fire.

  He settled himself on the couch, and she did the same. They each reached for a napkin, and their hands brushed. He felt that zing again, and she jumped. He hid a smile, certain she’d felt it, too.

  “Sorry,” she said, smiling sheepishly. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

  “Maybe it would be better if we admit the situation’s a bit awkward,” he said.

  “Is it?”

  “We haven’t seen each other for five years,” he said. He took a sip of his wine and commented on the elephant in the room. “And the last time we were together, we were naked.”

  “Well, not the last time,” she countered. “You drove me to the airport. I distinctly remember wearing clothes. I’m pretty sure the airlines insist upon it.”

  “Still—”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “There’s still something between us, isn’t there?”

  “Is that bad?” He held his breath, fearing her answer. Knowing he couldn’t accept it if she said that there was no chance.

  “No,” she said softly. “It’s not bad.”

  He felt as though he was conducting an orchestra, and all the players had to come together in harmony. This holiday wasn’t about getting her in bed—well, not entirely. It was about getting her back into his life. It was about courting her. Dating her. And even though they’d known each other forever—even though he’d tasted every naked inch of her—it was also about starting over.

  He’d made over the kitchen and re-created their first date for a reason. This was a beginning, and he wasn’t going to push. In the end, he would win. He would get Cleo back.

  And he intended to thoroughly enjoy getting there, one small step at a time.

  “Do you remember how we used to play Monopoly?”

  She cocked her head, her mouth pursed in amusement. “I do remember. Are you quizzing my memory, or is there a nefarious purpose to your question?”

  “Entirely nefarious,” he said. “I saw Monopoly in the cabin’s games closet.”

  “Monopoly and dessert,” she said. “And, of course, the wine. Not bad.”

  “And good company,” he added, watching her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said without any hesitation, and in a voice that made him think that his plans were going to work out just fine. “Excellent company.”

  Half an hour later, he owned half the railroads, Boardwalk and was comfortably tipsy from all the sips of wine he’d taken when passing Go. She rolled, got six and landed on Chance.

  “Something good,” she said, then drew a card. “Yes!” She moved her piece to Go. “Two hundred dollars, please.”

  He held out the money, but waited for her to do her part. She picked up her wine and took a sip. “Do you have any idea how wasted we’re going to be if we drink every time we pass Go for an entire game?” she said.

  “We’ve done it before.”

  “Yeah, in college. When you’re genetically programmed to drink like a fish.”

  “Feeling a bit light in the head?”

  She shook her head then nodded. “I didn’t eat a whole lot today. I don’t think the pasta soaked up much of the wine.”

  “Want to stop?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She looked him straight in the eye, and he saw something flirtatious in her gaze. “Because I’m having fun.”

  He laughed. “In that case…” He picked up the bottle and pretended he was going to top off her glass. She squealed and backed away. “Stop! It’s your roll! If you don’t play, how can I achieve my goal of world domination?”

  “Isn’t that Risk?” he asked, mentioning another game they used to play.

  “Do the Vickerses have Risk?”

  “Didn’t see it. But they do have Twister.”

  “Do they? Interesting…”

  He recognized the suggestive tone in her voice, and he wanted to give a whoop of joy. Instead, he played it cool. “Could you settle for domination of only Manhattan?”

  “Is the Monopoly board based on Manhattan?”

  He frowned. “You know, I’m not sure. I could get my phone and look it up on the web.”

  She reached for his hand, held his fingers tight. “Just roll.”

  “Right.” Since he didn’t want to let go of her hand, it was an awkward roll, but he got a seven, which put him on Park Place.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Bwahahaha!” He twirled an imaginary mustache as he bought the property, thereby ruining her chance of blocking his efforts to put a hotel on Boardwalk.

  She yanked her hand back, and he regretted the move. At least until she smacked him with the pillow and he realized he needed his hand to defend himself. After a few minutes, he’d been backed into a corner of the couch and she was leaning over him, a pillow in hand and a smile on her beautiful face. Her green eyes sparkled, and she was so close he could count the smattering of freckles that dusted her cheeks and nose. She hated them, but he’d alwa
ys thought they were sexy as hell.

  She was breathing hard and she dropped the pillow, her chest rising and falling. Time stopped, and it was just them. The world no longer turning. “Josh, I…” Her lips were red and moist, parted just a bit, and he could feel her breath on his face. He silently prayed that she’d go with it. That she’d lean forward just a little more and kiss him. He could taste her in his imagination, peanut butter mixed with wine and just a hint of chocolate. Please.

  And then the moment shattered.

  She bolted back, her expression a mixture of surprise and desire. And, he saw, regret. “Sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. Really, really okay.

  “All this wine. I’m getting a little tired. Maybe I should crash.”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eleven.”

  “It’s later in D.C.,” she said.

  He hadn’t even considered how exhausted she must be. “Right. Of course. You take the bed. I’ll stretch out here on the couch.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course. It’s totally comfortable.”

  She stood. “Okay.” But she didn’t walk away. “Maybe I should just have a cup of coffee. I’ll probably get a second wind.”

  He jumped on the suggestion. “I’ll make you an espresso. The Vickerses just brought the machine up.”

  “I pull late nights all the time. I shouldn’t be such a wimp.” She smiled. “It’s just jet lag.”

  He remembered her being a night owl, going to bed when many folks were just getting up. “If Monopoly’s getting old, we can always roast marshmallows.” The fire had started to fizzle, but another log would bring it back to life again.

  “Marshmallows?” she repeated.

  “I’m up for alternative suggestions.” Like her body slick and naked beneath his. Probably best not to mention that idea, though. He shifted as certain parts of his anatomy responded to the prurient turn of his thoughts. Don’t think about it.

  “Marshmallows sound like fun,” she said.

  “Great. Excellent. You go find a couple of wire coat hangers, and I’ll get the coffee and marshmallows.”

  “Do you have chocolate and graham crackers?”