Do-Over (15 page)

She ran her fingers up and down his length. “But you did. I want you to be my first.”

He opened his eyes. “Your first?”

“The first man to make love to me in my new bedroom.” His body tightened under her hand. “Please, Mark.”

She was his fatal weakness. With nothing more than a
please,
she’d tipped the scales in her favor.

“Get my wallet from my back pocket.”

She did, and he rolled a condom down a degree of hardness that just plain damn ached.

As he lifted her, he said, “Wrap your legs around me.”

He braced her against the unfinished drywall and entered her. It was a hot, tight slide, a mix of fire and heaven.

“Not bad for my first,” she said, half-gasping, half-laughing.

Her first. God, how he hated what that implied.

“Your only.” He moved in and out of her with powerful intent. “I want to be the only man to have you in here.”

Words. All it took was words for Cara to arch and shatter. She closed her teeth over the cords of muscle where Mark’s neck met his shoulder, and he came perilously close to spending himself. He held her until she returned to the world, then again said, “Look at me.”

He was shaking. He loved her, and he was so goddamn scared that it wasn’t going to be enough to keep her.

“Only me,” he repeated as he renewed a deep rhythm.

His climax slammed through him, so sudden, strong and hard that he called out to her. He wasn’t alone. Cara’s cries joined his, echoing against the concrete floor and the metal ductwork exposed above. As they quieted and stilled, the construction workers’ music cut off, nailing stopped, and hoots and applause started.

Shit.

Still shaking, Cara buried her forehead on his shoulder. “They heard us. I’m so embarrassed…. I can’t believe I did this.”

He left her body, and her legs slid slowly to the ground.

“I need to get myself together,” she said. Her voice trembled and tears rimmed her lower lashes. “This was…wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, though the words seemed so inadequate for pushing her too far, too fast, for stealing what she wouldn’t freely give.

“So am I.”

Her reply was a knife to Mark’s soul. Once again, he was alone.

Cara avoided Mark until he left for New York and the Newby closing. This time, he did the smart thing: He let her.

O
N
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON
around four, Cara entered Retreads with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other.

Bri looked up from her wedding planner. “So what are we celebrating?” she asked. “I know it’s a celebration because champagne isn’t pity party stuff.”

“I accepted a new job this morning.”

“No!”

“I did! It’s right here in Royal Oak, and I’ll be the most neurotic person in the firm.”

Bri snorted. “Like you weren’t already.”

Cara handed the bottle to her. “Just for that, you can open this beast.” Any excuse worked when you were afraid of champagne corks.

Cara’s friend made short work of the bottle and filled the glass flutes with bubbly. They toasted, then Cara settled on her favorite couch.

“Much as I never turn down free booze, shouldn’t you be drinking this with the shark-man?” Bri asked.

“He’s in New York.” Cara sipped her drink. “And I never told him I was looking for a new job, anyway.”

Bri stalked closer, her vintage Carmen Miranda banana-girl dress flouncing as she walked. “Excuse me, but the last time we talked, weren’t you all fluttery and saying how this could be the real thing?”

“Um…yes?”

“And you haven’t even told him you’re leaving your job? Honey, I think you need a better therapist’s couch than this one,” she said, nudging its wooden claw foot with her big toe. “So what’s the deal with you and Mark?”

“Things have been a little weird between us lately.”

“Weird,” Bri echoed.

“Yeah, weird,” she said in her best take-no-crap voice. Bri was her best friend, but some things still remained private. She didn’t like to think about, let alone discuss, sex with Mark and how he’d scared her with his intensity. And how she’d scared herself….

“Okay, I know when to drop something.” Bri drained half of the liquid in the narrow flute, then said, “So tell me about this new job.”

“It’s kind of a good-news, bad-news thing,” Cara said. “The good news is that I’ll be doing a lot of stuff I’ve always wanted to try. The bad news is that the job pays about forty percent less than what I’m making now.”

She said the rest of the bad news in a rush, as though it would cut the pain. Nothing would, though. Giving up on a dream was supposed to hurt; that’s what made a girl keep one until the bitter end.

“I backed out on my condo deal today.”

Bri spun back from the metal worktable, where she’d set the champagne bottle. “No way.”

“I’ll never be able to afford it now. I’m out my initial deposit, but that beats trying to pull this off and eventually having the place foreclosed from under me. Besides, my apartment is okay. It’s a little colorless compared to the condo, maybe, but it has all its parts.”

So what if the difference between the apartment’s parts and the condo’s parts was sort of like the difference between her parts and a supermodel’s parts?

“You can do wonders with paint,” Bri pointed out.

“Sure,” Cara agreed.

Bri topped off Cara’s glass for her. Cara looked at it and decided she didn’t have the energy left to talk with Bri about the other decision she’d made—the one about cutting all ties with Saperstein, Underwood. It didn’t seem right with good wine in her hand and a friend in front of her who’d already put up with too much Adams-type drama. She changed the subject.

“You and Seth have been saving money for that Ireland trip, right?”

Bri shrugged, making the layers of white ruffles covering her chest dance. “The money’s no big deal. Two plane tickets, our bikes…some money to cover nights at bed-and-breakfasts. The challenge is someone to run this place.”

“Well, that’s where I come in. Now that I’m joining the ranks of the never-gonna-be rich, it’s not like I can buy you fancy china for a wedding gift that you’d never use. What I do have is time. I told the people at the new firm that I can’t start until the week after Labor Day. I want you two to take that month you’ve always been talking about.”

“No!” Bri screeched.

Cara laughed. “Yes.”

“Even Wenda? You’ll take care of Wenda?”

She’d forgotten about the cat. But hell, if she could spend her days dressing drag queens, she could spend her nights hanging out with an obese, cranky feline. “Even Wenda.”

Bri launched herself at Cara. “I love you!”

The fainting couch slid along the linoleum floor, and both women were bathed in champagne. Cara hugged Bri back. “Jeez, for a little thing, you pack a punch, girl.”

O
N THE
M
ONDAY
after returning from the Newby closing, Mark made the critical mistake of entering Saperstein, Underwood’s front door.

Annabeth was there, but this time dressed in a manner nearly befitting a receptionist. No spikes, no collar, no big gold ring in her nose, which she’d had pierced recently. He knew if he commented, she’d just bare her claws and drag them down his chest, so he settled for a sedate, “Good morning.”

“You’re just a regular kiss of death, aren’t you?” she snapped.

This wasn’t her usual Princess of Darkness garbage. She was really furious. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Cara. You’ve chased her right out of the firm. She gave her two-weeks notice today.”

Operating on pure anger, Mark made it to Cara’s office. Vic Mancini and a few of the younger associates were hanging around, drinking coffee and laughing with her.

“Out.”

No one even hesitated. They simply filed out the door.

“Nice way you have of working a crowd,” Cara said.

“No jokes. I think you have something to tell me.”

She folded one hand over the other and sat there like a polite schoolgirl. “I’m leaving Saperstein, Underwood.”

“So you
were
interviewing.”

She swallowed once, then said, “I’ve taken a job with a small firm in Royal Oak. I’ll be doing general practice, maybe even get into court every now and then.” Her smile was a little weak, Mark thought—to the extent he could think at all. “I’ve always wanted to try my hand at litigation.”

“So you interviewed and took a new job without even a word to me?”

“I didn’t think it would be helpful.”

His heart began to hammer so hard that he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. “Helpful? Jesus, Cara, we’re together about every waking hour—not to mention our share of sleeping hours—and you think it wouldn’t be
helpful
to talk to me?”

“Mark, I don’t know how to go about this…what to say…but I need you not to yell at me so I can keep it together.”

“I’m not yelling.” But he knew that he was.

“Since you came here, my life has been kind of a mess. Actually, to be fair, it was that way long before you arrived. I just hadn’t seen it yet.”

She looked down at her folded hands. “You asked me a while back if I was happy. The answer was no. I’ve been doing things because they were what I thought I was supposed to do, and not because I got any pleasure out of them.”

“Does that include your time with me?”

“No, of course not! But here it is…I’ve decided I need to make some changes before it’s too late. I’ve
given up the deposit on my condo and I’m going to downscale.”

The roaring in his ears slowed. “That’s it? You really had me scared—”

“I also don’t think it would be a good idea for us to see each other. I mean, I know I’m making the right decision about leaving S.U., but I also know I’m no saint. When I look at you, it’s like being mocked with all I’m giving up. I’m—I’m going to end up resenting you, and I never want that to happen.”

He stood stone-cold silent. Cara wasn’t the only one who could disappear.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s not you. It’s me.”

Had someone given her a copy of the guys’ breakup manual?

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, fury scorching his soul.

Mark left. All in all, he’d liked it better when Cara Adams had thrown up on his shoes.

Cara’s Rule for Success 14:

Here’s the only rule that counts…

Follow your heart.

O
N THE SECOND
S
ATURDAY
in August, Bri’s wedding day arrived. Cara woke early, and a wonderful sort of optimism enveloped her. Maybe she hadn’t gotten this love thing just right, but Bri had. Last night had been absent of those nightmarish calls that other maids of honor told of, when the bride calls drunk and sobbing at three in the morning, sure she’s making the biggest mistake of her life.

Bri and Seth were packed and ready to take off for Ireland tomorrow afternoon, and Cara was looking forward to running Retreads for a month. Amazingly, she’d even worked a sort of peace with Wenda, high queen of cats.

In a bid to continue her progress on the new, improved Cara Adams, she had also signed up for an evening Pilates class and had bought an enormous stack of books to read for the sheer pleasure of reading.

Of course, she had her eye on a few changes she’d like to make to the organization of Bri’s store. A girl
couldn’t totally change her ways in a matter of weeks, after all.

At nine, Cara met Bri and the other bridesmaids at a hair salon in downtown Royal Oak. It was one of those upper-end places with Detroit’s signature techno music, impossibly exotic-looking stylists and enormous plate-glass windows looking out onto the street.

For Bri, Cara and the bridesmaids, updos and professional makeup were the order of the morning. As the stylist used some heavy persuasion and heavier mousse to get Cara’s flyaway hair to stay “up,” Cara watched the reflection of the morning street scene in the mirror in front of her.

Joggers, dog-walkers, friends out for a morning coffee, it was a perfect summer morning. One day, a million years from now, she’d have the money to live in the middle of this. In the meantime, she would have the kind of job that permitted her a morning in a coffeehouse, files in front of her, or an occasional non-vacation-day afternoon in the park doing nothing at all.

Suddenly, Cara’s pulse skipped. On the sidewalk across Fourth Street was her one regret: Mark. She hadn’t seen him since he and Stewart Harbedian had made a brief partner-type appearance at her going-away party a week ago. His dark eyes void of emotion, Mark had wished her luck and made arrangements to pick up the bar tab. Cara had wished that she’d been drunk enough to chase him. But no, she’d had only one drink and had still retained her self-restraint. Barely.

Right now, he was dressed for the weekend—jeans and a casual shirt. He looked, as always, too damn wonderful. Walking with him was a willowy woman
wearing one of those light and flowery summer dresses that Cara loved, but looked like a saccharine overdose on her. Of course it worked on the brunette. Bitch.

“I invited him to the wedding,” Bri said from the next chair, nodding toward Mark’s reflection.

Cara used the mirror to glare at her friend without ticking off the hairstylist. “Why?”

“For obvious reasons, like you’re a total idiot and someone has to make you do the right thing. He’s not coming, though.”

Morgan and the brunette were directly in front of the salon, but still on the opposite side of the street, thank God. Cara wanted to retain what bits of dignity she could. A vision of her with her hair mid-ratting was no memory she wanted planted in Mark’s brain.

“I appreciate the thought—call me a total idiot and all—but it’s time to let go.”

“I’ve been seeing him in town a lot the past few weeks,” Bri said.

“Does he ever stop in?” she blurted. So much for letting go.

“No, but he always slows down.”

Cara wasn’t sure exactly how that was supposed to make her feel better.

Bri’s stylist finished anchoring the bridal veil in place.

“What do you think?” Bri asked, her voice shaking.

Cara teared up. She hoped the makeup artist would be using the waterproof stuff. She planned to be doing a lot of crying today.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, using a fingertip to wipe away the tears. “Though I’d lose the Dead Kennedys T-shirt sometime before the ceremony.”

T
HESE DAYS
, M
ARK HAD
a built-in excuse for being in downtown Royal Oak. He owned a brand-new condominium there—so new that it still lacked countertops. The condo developer’s detail-woman had taken to shadowing him, as though following him through the streets of town was going to make him decide on the right color of granite any faster.

When he’d asked Jerome to give his opinion, Jerome had told him that being gay didn’t mean he had taste in decor any more than being from Georgia meant he was a peach.

Not that Jerome wasn’t willing to share on another topic. He’d been more than happy to point out that in refusing to see Cara, Mark wasn’t using the brains God had given him.

His own mother had told him that he was—and this was a direct quote—“a total dumb-ass.”

Mark wasn’t a dumb-ass, just a little slow on the uptake. When he’d received the invitation to Bri O’Brien’s wedding, he knew there was no way he’d go and risk ruining her day, or Cara’s. But he had kept the note that Cara’s friend had added. One that told him the dates Cara was guaranteed to be found in Retreads.

Today, two weeks after Bri’s wedding, was among those dates. Mark peered out the front window of his condo, seeing if he could spot Cara in the shop across the street. The angle was wrong, the light reflecting off the store windows was bad, and he was worried that this scheme he’d come up with was—in his mother’s words—dumb-ass.

Because Cara had chosen, for whatever insane reason, to panic and dump him, didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed
to chase her down. He’d been scared and he’d been stupid, but he was over it.

He didn’t have an excuse for his lapse in straight thinking, but he did have an explanation. He’d spent his childhood watching the reverse relationship: his dad withdrawing and his mother sitting like a martyr. After a long talk with his mom last week, he’d finally concluded that his parents’ problems were just that—theirs.

Cara was his once-in-a-lifetime shot at happiness. Or maybe in this case, twice-in-a-lifetime, which made it all the worse that he’d just about blown it by projecting his parents’ marriage on his life.

Mark double-checked his supplies: cardboard, a fat black chisel marker and duct tape. Pretty flimsy stuff on which to build a man’s future. Because he didn’t want to leave anything to chance, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed the saleswoman who’d been so pleased to turn over this unit again.

“I need you to do me a favor….”

“A
NOTHER SLOW DAY
at retail central,” Cara said to Stella, her newly reacquired inflatable friend. Stella was currently attired in a green silk cocktail dress. Cara had tried strapping a “Jackie O” pillbox hat to the mannequin’s mushy head, but it kept falling off.

Annabeth had stopped by yesterday and delivered Stella, whom she’d liberated—in an uninflated state—from behind one of Mark’s file cabinets. The receptionist had been brimming with S.U. news: Suzy Harbedian was pregnant, Mark was officially a partner and Annabeth had finally consented to return to college. She’d decided that she wanted to be a marine biologist, and she was sure she’d get past her problem
with seasickness sooner or later. Her parents were total suckers.

Two weeks into this retail gig, Cara was ready for it to end. She was itching to start with her new firm, and to have some fun this time. As for her personal life, she planned to take it slowly.

When she felt she was capable of explaining herself, she would call Mark. She didn’t expect that he’d have any interest in picking up where they’d left off, but he did deserve a more coherent explanation of why she’d fled.

She hadn’t had enough faith in herself, or in her ability to change. She also hadn’t had enough faith in her capacity to love. And that was the saddest part of all. She was now the emotional equivalent of “all dressed up and no place to go.”

The phone rang. Cara wandered over and picked it up.

“Retreads.”

“Is this Cara Adams?”

“Yes.” The female voice sounded vaguely familiar. “Can I help you?”

“I need you to look across the street.”

“Across the street?” she parroted.

“Yes, and up. Unit 612 of the loft condominiums, to be exact.”

Which was exactly the unit that was to have been hers. “Is this some kind of prank call?”

The woman laughed. “Not at all. Do you think you could just do it?”

“Fine.” She set down the phone and picked up the pair of binoculars Bri had kept to check out the construction workers.

Someone
was
in her condo. Okay, her former condo. And they were taping letters to the windows.

A-R-A-C

“What?” she murmured.

Just then she saw a dark-haired guy yank down the
C
and move to her left.

C-A-R-A

“Oh, jeez.” Her heart slamming double-time, Cara ran back to the phone, said “thank you” and hung up without waiting for a response.

Mark. It had to be Mark.
She grabbed the binoculars again and fiddled with them for a clearer view.

Slowly, more letters appeared.

I L-O-V-E Y-O-U

G-O-L-D O-R B-L-A-C-K G-R-A-N-I-T-E?

Crying, Cara grabbed the keys to the store, turned the Closed sign right side out, locked up and sprinted across Main Street.

Minutes later, if anybody down below had cared to peek between the letters decorating the windows of condo unit 612, they would have seen two lovers well on their way to happiness.

A
ND UP ON
O
LYMPUS
, the do-over gods partied hearty because this was one moment that Cara Adams had gotten just right.