Easy Love

by Piper Lawson

  Kind of cool. It shouldn’t offend me—hell, it’s nearly an admission of “science is awesome,” which is the one tattoo I’d consider getting.

  Today, it offends me.

  I force my attention back to the email message on my phone screen. “Describe your relationship in”—I frown at the font—“three words.”

  The woman looks at her boyfriend. “You first,” she says with a nudge.

  “Um. Great. Happy. Optimistic?” he ventures.

  She laughs. “I would say it’s unexpected. And satisfying. And hopeful. And I’m a psych grad, so I get that part of it’s in my head. Like, self-fulfilling prophecy. We’re more likely to work out our problems because we believe we’re compatible. But you could make that case for anything. People from the same town, the same school…”

  God, they even look alike. I’ve heard about couples looking like each other, or like their pets, but never gave it much thought. They have the same dark hair. And eyes and—

  “Everything okay?” she asks me.

  I glance toward the door. “I thought my friend—colleague—was coming.”

  The couple smiles at each other, and I go back to the list of questions Rena sent me this morning.

  “Tell me the best thing about your relationship.”

  “Respect. And honesty,” she says, and he nods.

  Respect and honesty, I think.

  Sounds nice.

  I set my pen down and my phone. “That’s all I need. Thanks for your time.”

  They leave hand in hand. They’re happy. Too happy.

  Who’s that happy in a relationship? Maybe they don’t really know each other.

  Maybe I’m being a prick because Rena said she’d show and didn’t.

  Tuesday, I nearly got knocked out by Jake because I had the focus of a toddler before he’s learned object permanence.

  After, I’d iced my cheek while leaving another message with the dean at UW about my position.

  Wednesday evening was parent-teacher meetings after debate, and I spent the time getting jerked around by parents.

  Thursday, Rena showed up at school looking like something out of a comic book.

  When she dropped that text and flashed me miles of leg plus a hint of the curve of her ass, every logical thought evaporated.

  I wanted to press her up against the lockers and do something that would get me fired.

  (It might be worth it. If I ever come to this girl, it’s going to be like a dam exploding.)

  Then Terry showed up.

  Her father.

  She conveniently failed to mention that the man who was one of my dad’s best friends, the same person who arranged to get me the job at Baden, is her blood.

  Needless to say. By Friday, I’m not in the best of moods.

  After making a few last notes, I head for the doors.

  It’s windy out, and I wrap my jacket around myself as I leave the café.

  I’m heading back to my lab from my solo interview when the call comes through.

  “Wes. It’s the Dean of Biological Sciences at the University of Washington. I’m calling about your job talk.”

  My hand tightens on the phone. “Thank you for following up. Have you found a date?”

  “It’s more complicated than we thought. It turns out that there were some dissenting factions within the hiring committee that extended you the offer in the spring.”

  I pull up on the street, ignoring the mutters of some guy bumping into me from behind. “My application was impeccable. I have a better publication record than researchers with tenure.”

  “That’s just it. They felt you were too perfect. The academic ideal is evolving. Universities are looking for faculty who are well-rounded. Who have experience in the world beyond the ivory tower.”

  When I hang up, I’m in a worse mood than before.

  I hate when people let you down.

  Which is only possible when you rely on them in the first place.

  But it’s not the dean who’s pissing me off. It’s Rena.

  Because I let her in. And she flaked on me by not showing up after she failed to let me in on an important piece of information—that her father’s the man I owe my present employment to. The one whose help I need to get me out of here.

  If we didn’t know one another, I could dismiss it as flaky. But she hid that information from me on purpose.

  I’m caught between deleting her from my phone and my life and stalking down to her office, dragging her into a room and demanding to know what the hell she was thinking.

  My phone buzzes on the way back with a text.

  * * *

  Carly: Hey, are you coming to drinks tonight?

  * * *

  Shit. I forgot.

  * * *

  Wes: Something came up. How long are you there?

  * * *

  Carly: 8 or 9.

  * * *

  Wes: I’ll stop by.

  * * *

  On the way into the lobby, I bump into the last figure I expect to see entering the building.

  “Rena.” I’m half convinced the woman will turn around and I’ll realize I’m wrong and she’s the product of my overworked imagination.

  But it’s her. She’s wearing a dress, gray with tiny sleeves that leave most of her arms bare, and a round neck that barely teases her collarbone.

  Lower, it skims her curves, ending high on her thighs. Her black boots reach her ankles and have pointy toes, but that’s not what I’m noticing.

  Her hair is down, and though I’ve seen it that way before it throws me.

  So does the small plastic carrier at her side.

  “Wes,” Rena says as recognition sets in. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “This is my lab,” I say flatly.

  “I came to Jake’s office. To return the earrings he lent me for the party.” She pulls a velvet case from her purse with her free hand.

  I shake my head, struggling for words. “We had a meeting.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaking at the edges.

  “Whatever.” I brush past her, then pull up. “You know what? It’s not okay.” I round on her. “It was your idea to meet the couple, and the things they said…” I turn it over in my head. I could say they were over-the-top, rom com bullshit. What I settle on is, “we had a hand in that. It matters that they met. That it happened like this. It fucking meant something to them.”

  “That’s good, Wes.” She tilts her head to look past me into the lobby, and the light catches on two red slashes over her cheekbone.

  Alarm has my body tightening. “What the fuck happened?”

  Rena’s gaze drags back to mine, and she holds the carrier between us like a shield. “My dad found out I forged his signature so Beck could go on a school trip Dad didn’t approve of. It didn’t go over well. He lost his shit, started yelling, and kicked Scrunchie, who got scared and scratched me. Skunks are fickle like that.

  “I wouldn’t be here except Jake has a buyer for the earrings, so I needed to return them today.”

  My justified anger falls away, replaced by protectiveness.

  I reach out to brush the hair back. She tries to duck out of the way, but my murmured “don’t” has her stopping.

  I trace below the line with my fingertip as if I can erase it. Her breath hitches.

  “Let me take you home.”

  She hesitates, lifting the velvet case. “I have to take these up.”

  I look past her toward the elevator bank. “Wait here.”

  I grab the case from her, take the elevator up and leave the earrings with Jake’s assistant.

  Two minutes later, I’m back.

  “Let’s go.”

  I pile her and the carrier into a cab.

  The ride is quiet. At the other end, I pay and we get out.

  I get her up the elevator and into the apartment. She fumbles with the key and pushes in the door, setting the carrier in the foyer.

 
I’ve wondered what her place looks like but right now, I couldn’t care less.

  I go past her, find the bathroom, and jerk open the medicine cabinet. Find antiseptic and cotton balls.

  I return to find her leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the cabinets on the other side.

  My attention moves up her legs slowly. I’m remembering when she came to visit. But when my gaze reaches her face, her eyes glint with tears.

  Fuck. My dean’s decided they might not want me after all, I have a mountain of debt, and neither of those seems to be driving the raging frustration vibrating through every part of me.

  I peer into the carrier. “Tell me what to do with…this.”

  “You can let him out.”

  I pull on the door and try not to spring backward as the thing bolts out.

  Rena smiles, sniffing. “Scrunchie, meet Wes. You wanted to meet my skunk.”

  “I distinctly said I did not want to meet your skunk.”

  She sighs. “He’s intelligent, discerning, loyal, does stripes a favor. Come back, Scrunch. You and Wes have a lot in common.”

  I don’t know where to start responding to that. Instead I step closer, lifting her chin so I can see the angry streak of red. “Hold still.”

  She tries to twist away. “It’ll be fine, Wes.”

  I love words, but right now, I’m tired of them. There are too many in my head, too many unsaid between us.

  Instead of arguing, I reach for her legs and lift her up on the counter. Her eyes widen in surprise.

  I roll up my sleeves, pour antiseptic on a swab and touch it to her cheek, less gently than I should. Her fingers find my arm. “You don’t need to do that,” she breathes.

  I don’t answer.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your father?” I counter.

  “I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just…” She takes a breath. “I feel like myself around you, and I didn’t want that to change. I wanted to pretend you were mine, not his.”

  I’m not sure what to do with that. Of all the answers I expected, that one never made the list.

  So I return to cleaning the scratches. “Your dad and mine were friends.”

  She lifts a brow. “I didn’t know that. Jake said your dad worked at the library?”

  I nod. “The few times I met your father, he always took an interest in me. I respected him. I still do.”

  “He’s very well respected in his field.” There’s a cautious edge to her voice.

  I recap the bottle and toss the cotton balls in the trash under the sink, then rub a frustrated hand over my face. “I don’t get you. One second it’s like you let me in, and the next you’re slamming the door.”

  She straightens her spine and meets my gaze again. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Wes.”

  “Why did he call you Josephine?”

  “My name’s Josephine Elizabeth Serena Crawford.”

  I blink. “Holy hell.”

  “Right? My parents insist on calling me Josephine, but no one else ever has. My college friends called me Serena, because I thought it was more grown up. But at home, it’s always been Rena.” She plays with her thumbnail. “Sometimes I think things would be different if my parents got along. You know. For Beck.”

  “You and Beck don’t look much alike.”

  “He’s my half brother. My dad couldn’t have any more kids, but he wanted a son. So they picked someone else’s sperm. My mom insisted Beck take her last name. My dad gives him a hard time because of it.” I turn that over, but she keeps going. “When you’re a kid, you think your parents know everything. If life doesn’t feel quite right, you assume it’s you. You start to wonder if you’re crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy.” My response is automatic.

  Her gaze lifts to mine, uncharacteristically serious.

  “The first time I had a panic attack, I thought I was dying. Then it happened again. And again.

  “I always survived, even if I didn’t think I would. I got used to the tightness in my chest. I learned to deal with it. Then I started having them every week. For a while, it was almost every day.

  “One year, when I was twelve, I bugged my parents to take me to Disney World. It was the one thing I remember them caving on. I rode the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster. Beck was too small, but I loved it. Something about the thrill outside of myself took my mind off what was happening inside.”

  Compassion works through me. It’s a piece of her I would never have guessed was there. “I didn’t know about the anxiety.”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Eventually you stop arguing with it and learn to live with it. Find what fixes it, even if it’s only for a second. You like roller coasters, Wes?”

  “I went to Disney once. I preferred Epcot.”

  Her mouth twitches, and I’m glad I’ve made her smile.

  Even if it’s only in part.

  And only for a moment.

  “It’s like there’s something eating you from the inside out, like an animal clawing at a door. And you can’t make it stop, but if you find the right distraction, the right diversion, you can make it go away for a few minutes.” The earnestness at the edge of her whisper strips away my defenses.

  “Antacid,” she says, and I frown.

  “What?”

  “In my purse.” I retrieve the bottle and she pops two and swallows. “What’re you thinking?” she whispers, toeing my leg with a sock foot.

  Looking at this girl hurts my heart because she makes you work for it. Not physically, but for the best stuff. What’s in her head, and her soul.

  “You can’t solve for it. You can’t ride a roller coaster or have some meaningless fuck”—the word echoes in the quiet apartment “—and expect it to go away. And I’m at a loss as to why a woman as bright as you thinks she needs to screw her way out of her own head.”

  Something occurs to me that makes all of this worse. I draw in a slow breath, resisting the urge to rub my neck.

  “That’s what you wanted the night we met.”

  “Wes…”

  I shake my head. “You didn’t even know me.”

  People hook up all the time, but the possibility that it could’ve happened so easily between us offends me. My reaction’s not quite rational, not quite appropriate, but hell.

  I’m not feeling rational or appropriate right now.

  Rena reaches for my tie, tugging slowly at the knot to loosen it. I feel her fingers work the top button of my shirt until it pops free. “That’s not fair.”

  “What’s not.” I suck in a breath, realizing my pulse was pounding against the constraints of the collar.

  She shifts back. “Hating me for wanting you.”

  I have to bite back the answer on the tip of my tongue, the retaliation for that bullshit plus the desire her words fuel in me. “I don’t hate you. But I don’t get why you think whatever’s in here”—my hand comes to rest lightly over her breastbone, and I feel the heat of her body through the thin dress—“can be fixed by another person, in a moment.”

  Rena’s eyes work over mine in the low light, but it’s the tremble of anticipation under my palm that has me stiffening.

  I want to tell her she’s wrong. I want to tell her I’m sad for her, so fucking regretful that this is how she is.

  I start to step back but her hand finds my wrist. Circling it.

  It’s not like the party, or the school. It’s the two of us, a dark apartment, all these fucking words I can’t say and the ones I have.

  I lift my other hand, brushing back a piece of hair from her face. I trace the line of her neck. Her lips part as her eyes fall closed.

  I understand her more than I did an hour ago, but part of me wants to go back.

  The rest of me wants to go deeper.

  My nose grazes the side of her throat. A breath falls from her lips, the lipstick faded, her pulse hammering under her skin.

  I need to stop.

  I skim my hands down her sides, from her ribs
to her waist to her hips, smoothing down the dress that’s ridden up her thighs.

  She hiccups a breath. “Wes...”

  There’s so much in that word.

  Uncertainty.

  Trust.

  Longing.

  It’s only my name, but there’s nothing she could say that would affect me more.

  I’m stepping away.

  But my fingers toy with the edge of her skirt, fascinated by the contrast between the heavy fabric and her silky-smooth legs.

  Her gaze darkens on mine.

  Like everything in life and nature, actions have consequences. If I do this for her, I’ll be the one paying the price.

  But I don’t stop.

  I slide a finger under the edge.

  15

  Rena

  I’ve always known what’s happening in life. It’s made me feel in control of situations I found later I had no control over.

  I can pretend to be in control with my parents in a civilized war.

  I can’t pretend I’m in control when Wes’s hips are spreading my thighs, the top button on his shirt undone, his tie hanging crooked around his tight neck.

  Not when that cut jaw twitches, his hair falling carelessly over his face. When he looks at me as if I’m the only thing worth looking at in the entire building. The entire city.

  I shiver. Even though it’s not cold, goose bumps rise on my arms and legs as he strokes my skin under my skirt.

  Higher.

  His nose grazes the side of my neck, and I shudder a breath.

  Because hell.

  I don’t know if Wes can fix what’s swirling inside me, but I’m terrified to let him try.

  “Is this what you want?” His voice is barely audible, but his lips brush the shell of my ear.

  As if in answer, my hands reach for his shirt.

  His mouth trails down my jaw, my neck. I pull myself toward him until I’m nearly off the counter, his hips pressing against my center.

  He pulls back an inch so I can look in those heavy blue eyes.

  No. I don’t want this, and I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. It’s been the day from hell, and Wes’s touch, his attention, is the best possible balm.