And then, he quit thinking altogether.
“What do you think?” she asked, turning in a circle. “Would this set a man on fire?”
“Um.” He coughed, closed his eyes. Didn’t work. He could still see her, the image burned into his brain for all eternity. “I...ah...probably shouldn’t be in here.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she said breezily.
“Still...this...um...” He mentally recited the alphabet. Yup, all the letters were there. Apparently, he’d only lost the ability to use those letters to form actual words. Backing up, he shoved his body against the door. And kept his eyes shut. “Not a good idea,” he muttered.
“Why, Cole Foster, are you embarrassed?” A slow, sultry laugh whispered through the air. She brushed his jaw with her fingers. “Don’t be silly. You can’t give me your opinion if you don’t look. And I really, really need your opinion.”
“You...ah...” God help him, if he opened his eyes, he was going to do something he should not do. “Haley,” he croaked. “Call Haley. She...er, loves clothes.”
“But you’re here now, and you’re my best friend.” Another deep-throated laugh that sent his already out-of-control libido into another hemisphere. “Forever friends, right?”
Cole swallowed, nodded. He was behaving like an idiot, he knew, but didn’t see a way around that fact at this particular moment. Rachel was involved with another man. The only available course of action was to make his escape before he gave in to his baser instincts.
Reaching behind him, he located and twisted the doorknob, cracked open the door and slithered to the side. He’d just...well, he’d wait outside the store. By the time Rachel reappeared—spitting mad, probably—he’d have regained his control.
Almost as soon as the thought had processed, a warm body—Rachel’s warm body—was pressed against his. He heard her hands make contact with the door, heard the door click shut again. In a very different circumstance, this could be every man’s fantasy coming true.
Not in this scenario, unfortunately.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, her mouth at his ear, her breath hot against his neck. “With all of the help I’ve given you, you can’t do this one miniscule thing for me?”
“I... Andrew wouldn’t like it,” he said, though he couldn’t care less about that. He needed an excuse and that seemed a rather good one. “He has that jealous nature.”
“Andrew no longer has any issues with our friendship,” she said, her mouth still dangerously close to his. “I told you that, remember?”
“Uh.” Great. He was back to speaking in grunts.
“Sweet, though, how you thought of him.” The warmth of her body, her breath, the touch of her mouth on his skin, disappeared as she retreated a few inches. “But he understands our...relationship quite well. Perfectly, in fact.”
“I wouldn’t like it,” Cole said, hanging on to the only rope he had. “If you were my girlfriend, that is. Showing yourself off to another man. No. No, Rach.”
“But you’re not Andrew, now, are you?” She paused, sighed. “Open your eyes, give me your opinion, and we can get out of here.”
Nope. There wasn’t any escaping this.
Cole breathed in through his nose, visualized standing in an ice-cold shower, gripped his hands into fists and...opened his eyes.
Again, she swirled in a circle. “What do you think?”
Blood rushed to his head. He pressed himself harder against the door.
“You’re beautiful, Rach,” he said quietly, unable to tear his gaze away from her.
What she’d chosen to model wasn’t a negligee, but a long, sheer, sleeveless gown in a rich, satiny midnight blue. The neckline plunged almost to her belly button, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of luscious, creamy skin that reminded him of moonlight.
It was the back, though, that stopped Cole’s heart. Because, well, there wasn’t a back. Technically speaking, anyway. Nothing existed but bare skin from the arch of her neck, down the length of her spine, all the way to the swell of her hips and the indent of her lower back.
Bare. Deliciously, exquisitely bare.
Mine, his primal self declared. She. Is. Mine.
Seemingly unaware of the hunger roaring through Cole’s blood, the heat and the desire and the need awakening every nerve in his body, or of how close she stood to a man on the edge, she ruffled her hair with her fingers, so that it billowed and fell around her face in a soft, glorious tumble, fluttered her lashes and struck a centerfold pose.
“Will this get the job done?” she asked. “Or should I look for something else?”
The gown, from the color to the fabric to the way it slipped and slid over her body, was made for Rachel. Only for Rachel. He couldn’t say otherwise, couldn’t state that she should find something else when nothing else would be as perfect.
Jealousy replaced hunger. Anger at himself, at the entire situation—a situation he created—overtook desire. There was only one answer he could give her, in spite of both realities.
“Buy it, Rach,” he said in a near growl. “Andrew will be on his knees.”
She smiled broadly, brightly, catapulted her body toward him so that he had no choice but to wrap his arms around her. “Thank you for being such a wonderful friend,” she said. “I just adore you, Cole. So very much. Why, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out,” he said. “I’ll always be here for you.”
He breathed in her scent, that spicy, fruity fragrance that was—to him—all Rachel, and fought the nearly overwhelming urge to tease his fingers beneath the rich, midnight-blue fabric, to stroke her moonlight skin. To caress and touch and pleasure her until she moaned his name.
It would be so easy. The heat of her body pushed against his, the softness of her hair feathering along his jaw, the nearness of her lips and the sound of her breathing...everything about the moment, everything about her beckoned him, pleaded with him to act.
But he couldn’t, wouldn’t. Unless, “Are you in love, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” she said simply, instantly. “I am.”
He expelled a rough, ragged sigh and kissed the top of her head. Pulled her close for another heart-wrenching second, and then dropped his hold on her—figuratively and literally.
The gig was up.
* * *
Thursday morning, Rachel spent several hours readying the house for her mother’s arrival that afternoon. She could’ve phoned the housekeeping service her parents employed, but she actually liked doing domestic chores. Well, not all domestic chores.
She could go another lifetime without cleaning a toilet, thank you very much.
However, she did enjoy the simple routine of dusting or vacuuming or folding laundry. The sort of busy work that allowed her mind to wander, consider and solve problems, and—as was the case today—fantasize about a certain sexy man.
And what might have happened in that dressing room on Tuesday if they weren’t involved in a crazy game of pretend. Nuts. All of it.
Rachel smoothed the sheets on her mother’s bed before pulling up the comforter. Truth be told, her skin still tingled from the intense, hungry look Cole had seared her with. The heat in his eyes had set her ablaze, from head to toe and everywhere in between. He’d wanted her, she knew, as much as she’d wanted him. Powerful knowledge, that.
Enough power that she’d almost let her guard down, almost told him the truth—that Andrew was no longer
in the picture—had never really been in the picture, that she loved Cole, that she’d figured out his charade and had turned the tables on him.
But every out she gave him to come clean on his own, he didn’t take. She wanted, maybe needed, for Cole to break the silence first, to tell her that she was Mary and that he loved her. Rachel. Whether that was romantic, silly, prideful or all three, she didn’t know.
Regardless, the fact was that he hadn’t come clean, which had frustrated and tormented her, so she’d kept her peace and continued on with her plan to torment him.
She felt fairly sure she’d succeeded.
Maybe someday, when this fiasco had come to an end, they’d return to that very same dressing room and finish what they’d started. Quietly. Discreetly. She allowed the fantasy to play out a bit before a soft laugh emerged. Okay, they probably wouldn’t do that—at least, not in a public dressing room—but the thought, and the image, was very, very nice.
Of course, she’d bought the nightgown. Soon, she hoped, she’d have the opportunity to model it for Cole again, this time without a game between them. On Christmas Eve, maybe. The outcome then would be far more fulfilling, for both of them.
Rachel moved to the other side of the room and opened the curtains, letting the midmorning sunshine roll in. After leaving the “store no man should ever have to set foot in”—as Cole had called the lingerie store—he’d suddenly become hell-bent on finishing the shopping for Mary as fast as possible. He had, in fact, dragged Rachel by the arm from one store to another.
She’d let him, somewhat amused by how the tempo of the game had changed. Before, he’d been all about taking it slow, henpecking every suggestion of Rachel’s to death. But on Tuesday afternoon, he hadn’t even hesitated. If she said to buy something, he bought it.
Even when she was being sarcastic. Such as the ridiculously large box of chocolates she’d pointed out as a joke, saying since “Mary” was his sweetheart, he could show her that by giving her enough sweets to last her a year. He’d nodded, grimly walked to the register, and a few minutes later had it in his possession.
From there on, Rachel purposely suggested gifts that were on the cutesy, ludicrous or somewhat lame side—at least so far as romantic gift choices were—just to see what he’d do. He bought every one of them, without putting up any type of a fuss at all.
When they were done, Cole had purchased the red silk negligee, the chocolates, a T-shirt that said “My Heart Belongs to Him” with an arrow pointing to the right, a stuffed toy poodle that yipped when you squeezed her—Rachel couldn’t resist that one—and finally, a package of glow-in-the-dark, heart-shaped temporary tattoos.
The second the last gift was bought and bagged, Cole had driven her to her car, hugged her tight and as she’d let herself out, had mumbled something about “a cold shower.”
Yes, she’d absolutely succeeded in tormenting him, which explained his frenzied need to finish shopping for Mary. Delightful, really. Rachel wasn’t done, though. She wouldn’t be done until Cole decided he’d had enough and spilled the beans on what he’d been up to. Then...well, then she couldn’t wait to tell him all that was in her heart.
Settling her hands on her hips, Rachel looked around the bedroom. Everything was ready in here. She’d already dusted, vacuumed and folded the laundry. Other than emptying the dishwasher, the kitchen was clean and the refrigerator was stocked.
She had a few hours to kill before picking up her mother at the airport. If Cole wasn’t working, she’d spend the time with him. Since he was, she did the next best thing—she sat down at her desk, powered on her computer and planned out her next move, with the beautiful vase Cole had given her in easy view. The vase, regardless of the rest, would be her favorite gift this Christmas. Maybe forever.
The stuffed toy poodle, however, came in at a very close second. Rachel chuckled as she searched online for local jewelry stores. Cupcake, indeed.
* * *
The Grinch had returned, grumpier and meaner and unhappier than ever. Cole paced in his kitchen, avidly ignoring the pile of gifts on his table. He’d brought them all out here to do what, he didn’t know. He’d even wrapped them. Why?
Who was he giving them to now?
Nobody. That was who. He supposed he could return them, every last one, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. Stupid and inane, but those gifts—the first five of them—represented his hope and belief in a future that would now never come into being.
Returning them would be emotionally akin to tossing Rachel out of his life forever, and that was something he would never, in a million years, do. He wasn’t capable of that.
Would never be capable of losing Rachel forever.
Friends, then. He was accustomed to playing that role in her life. He’d adjust again, once she returned to New York and they reverted to their normal text, email and sporadic phone call circle of communication. It was just now, while she was here, so soon after learning she was in love with another man, that made the prospect of mere friendship difficult to bear.
God, he’d lied to her today. Told her that he was working all day, when in fact, he wasn’t going in until this evening. He’d told her the same yesterday, too. Well, that and he’d had a date with Mary yesterday evening. What a joke.
Tomorrow, though, he’d see Rachel. She’d asked, and he couldn’t cancel or make up more excuses, couldn’t say anything but, “Yup. Sounds good, Rach.” So he had.
Cole stopped pacing, went to his spare bedroom closet and found a box he’d filled with books. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he removed each and every book and stacked them on the floor. He’d figure out what to do with them later.
In the kitchen again, he carefully put the gifts he’d bought with Rachel in his head, in his heart, into the box and sealed it shut. Stared at it for all of ten seconds and cursed. Loudly.
He’d made a—what did teenage girls call them? Oh—a friggin’ memory box. Lovely. Just lovely. Shaking his head, disgusted with himself, he carried the box to the spare room and tucked it back into the closet. Someday, maybe, he’d be able to get rid of them.
For now, though, he’d made his bed and he’d have to lie in it. And that meant keeping the charade going until Rachel was gone. Then, after a few weeks, he’d tell her his relationship with Mary had ended. No harm, no foul, right? Just as he’d planned if events turned out this way.
Too bad he hadn’t really expected that to be the case.
Too bad that he’d been about as wrong as a man could get. Cole kicked the box, slammed the closet door shut and left the room. Harm had been done, all right. To him. But hell, he couldn’t blame anyone but himself for that one, could he?
The best—the very best—he could do was ascertain this miserable outcome didn’t affect Rachel’s perspective toward their friendship. That would have to work. That would have to be good enough. Eventually, his focus would realign, his heart would heal and his perspective would match hers. And all of this would fade into the past.
* * *
She hadn’t shown. Rachel had waited at the airport in the luggage claim area for a full hour before realizing that Candace Merriday had not made her flight.
Worry crept in, and then fear. Rachel’s mother was not known for being uncommunicative, that was for sure. If she’d simply missed her flight, Rachel believed she would have phoned to tell her, probably with her new flight arrangements already set.
So yes, this was...odd. Atypical.
And disturbing.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear a dang thing while in the airport, Rachel waited until she was in her car to call her mom. Candace answered immediately, thank goodness.
“Mom? What happened?” Rachel asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is most definitely not okay,” Candace said, her temper and frustration pouring through the line. “Your father is behaving like a...a jackass!”
“I see,” Rachel said slowly, trying not to laugh. Laughing would be wrong. Her mother was obviously upset. But it was difficult, mainly because Candace Merriday rarely cursed, and when she did, never with such enthusiasm. “Is that why you’re not here?”
“What? No, I—” She broke off, took a breath. “My goodness, today is Thursday. I...guess I forgot, what with the turmoil your father is putting me through!”
“You forgot the day or that you were coming here?” Rachel asked, shocked beyond belief. Mom’s entire life was dictated by whatever was written in her appointment calendar.
“Both. Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. How thoughtless of me.”
Normally, Rachel would agree. Not in this case. It was just too...dammit, there was that word again, atypical. “It isn’t like you to forget anything, Mom.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she asked the one question she’d been attempting to avoid for days, “What’s going on with Dad?”
She expected a flood of over-the-top emotion, a detailed explanation of every recent grievance—real or imagined—her father had put her mother through and then a sobbing plea to “talk some sense into your father, Rachel. He listens to you.”
What she got was, “He’s asked for a divorce, Rachel. I believe he’s serious.”
For years upon years, Rachel had waited to hear these words. Heck, during some of her parents’ particularly rough spots, she’d prayed to hear them. Now that she had, she found the last thing she wanted to do was stand up and cheer.
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