Playing for Love at Deep Haven (6 page)

He placed his
palms on her cheeks as he had that night so long ago when she returned from the
bus station. He pressed his lips against hers and was shocked by the
familiarity of her after so many years, as if the part of his brain wired for
Violet was suddenly tripped like a circuit breaker, turned on, alive.

To his
everlasting gratitude, she stepped toward him, not away, and whether it was deliberate
or unintentional, he didn’t care. She flattened her hands on his chest as he
parted the seam of her lips with his tongue, tasting the lip gloss he had noticed
before. Cherries or strawberries or some other
-
erries
, it was light and sweet, but the
inside of her mouth tasted better. Tasted familiar, like College Violet, like
the girl he’d loved. His tongue found hers, lightly touching, then swirling
around it, as his hands slid from her face, over the contours of her neck to
her shoulders, down her shoulder blades to the small of her back, where he
locked his fingers, pulling her away from the door, closer to him.

This was exactly
how it had felt that weekend, only they were both older now, more experienced,
more mature. He’d been a boy kissing a girl that weekend, and tonight he was a
man kissing a woman. His whole body responded to having her back in his arms,
tightening, hardening, wanting more from her, more from this woman who had
haunted his dreams for way too long.

She moaned or
sighed or whatever it was, it sounded like fucking heaven in his ears—an unexpected
A-flat—and he tilted his head, repositioning his mouth over hers so their lips
were flush and he had full access to her, full contact, full—

“No!”

He wasn’t
expecting her to push him away, and he was surprised by the amount of force she
used.

Her chest heaved
up and down, and she covered her mouth with her hand, working her jaw. Her eyes
were fierce and furious, churning with emotion.

“Don’t. Ever. Do
that again.”

She held his
eyes until he nodded once, then she walked by him, up the stairs like a queen,
leaving him hot and bewildered on the cold marble landing below.

Chapter
5

Violet managed
to make it upstairs without her knees buckling under her but all bets were off
once she was safely inside one of the upstairs bedrooms. She flicked on the
light and flopped down on the queen-size bed in front of her, distraught,
confused, and more aroused than she’d ever felt in her entire adult life. Her
insides tossed and turned, making her feel dizzy and sick and . . . hot. Oh
God, so unbelievably hot.

She hadn’t seen
that coming.

She’d had no
time to brace for it or decide what to do about it or deflect it with a clever
refusal. No. He’d unwittingly gotten a totally and completely genuine response—wanton,
needy, and pliant in his arms, without a shred of self-respect for herself or
protection from the emotional
mindfuck
he’d treated
her to nine years ago when he’d left her naked and alone in his dorm room after
taking her virginity.

Well played, Violet. Way to go with the decisive boundaries.

She rolled onto
her back, throwing an arm over her eyes and clenching them shut tightly. The
last time she’d seen him, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Now here
he was kissing the daylights out of her like he actually wanted her.

The worst part? It
felt amazing. It felt exactly the way it had that weekend in college, only
deeper and more perfect, more . . . grown-up. Was it possible for her old
feelings, her old infatuation, to flare up again so quickly? It seemed like it
should be impossible, like her feelings for
Shep
should keep her protected from falling for Zach all over again. Which they
probably would have, had she ever actually gotten over Zach. Damn him anyway!
She didn’t want to feel nineteen again! And she didn’t want her traitorous body
to like it so much!

She sat up as
she heard the scraping sound of him dragging her suitcase down the hallway. He
knocked lightly on her door.

“I’m guessing
you’re in there, Violet. It’s the only door that has light shining underneath. Vile?”

“Don’t call me
that,” she muttered under her breath, sitting up and staring at the closed door
with arms crossed. She wanted to be angry, but her body betrayed her, tingling
with an eagerness to open the door, pull him into her room and clamp her lips over
his until she saw stars. She told her body to shut the hell up.

“Um. I have a
fire going downstairs. Nice and warm. And Scotch. It’s good Scotch.” He paused
and she pictured him standing in front of the door. All tough-rocker and hard-bodied
and brooding.

“I promise I
won’t touch you. I’ll sit across the room, and you can just tell me about your
life. Catch me up on the past nine years.”

He knocked
again, softly.

“Come on, Vile.
Please?”

“
Don’t call me that!
” she yelled, leaping
up and whipping open the door. He must have been leaning against it because he
plowed into her, knocking her onto the bed with the solid wall of his chest.
She gasped as he fell on top of her, his shocked eyes blinking back at her, his
body hard and heavy over hers. She knew she should yell at him to get off of
her, but she was utterly mesmerized by his darkening eyes, his breath on her
face, the way his lips parted, but didn’t make a sound. Her entire body felt
electric from such close contact, his solid chest pressing into hers, heaving
from the effort of his breathing.

“Violet—” he
finally whispered in a low, tender voice.

It snapped her
out of her starry-eyed stupor. “Off me, Zach. Now!”

Bracing his
hands on either side of her head, he pushed back, then steadied himself
 
against the doorway, suppressing a grin. “You
surprised me.”

She brushed a
loose hair out of her face and propped her hands on her hips, trying to look
formidable and put-together and probably failing miserably.

“
Don’t
call me Vile,” she growled through
clenched teeth.

He put his hands
up in surrender, but his lips twitched. “No problem.”

“And
don’t
touch me again.”

“Whatever you
say.”

She gave him her
most annoyed stare, blowing another strand of hair away from her nose and crossing
her arms over her chest. “What kind of Scotch?”

***

“
Glenlivet
.”

He shoved his
hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb, trying to regain control
of his body, which was proving difficult. The last thing he’d expected was to
suddenly be on her bed, lying on top of her, but it made his whole body hum
with longing to touch her again. And now she was trying to look all composed,
but instead she just looked adorable. It would definitely make things easier if
he wasn’t so attracted to her. But he’d
always
been attracted to Violet; she was as hot to him now as she’d been to
him then. She was still Violet. He bet she still wrote the kind of poetry that
blew his mind and demanded more from his music. He hoped he’d get to find out
before she left for her goddamned hotel.

“Single malt?”
she said, mildly impressed, shaking him out of his thoughts.

He gave her a
look that said she shouldn’t be surprised.

“Oak aged?”

“Of course,” he
scoffed.

“Some newer
brands are aged in steel.”

“Not the stuff I
buy.”

“Says the person
who got me fall-over-drunk on Kentucky straight sour mash once upon a time.”

Zach grinned. He
had always liked his whiskey, but after being introduced to Scotch by the
Juilliard professor who’d been his senior-year advisor, he’d quickly developed
a taste for it instead.

He cringed,
laughing softly. “Long time ago.”

“Aged twelve,
fifteen, or eighteen years?” she asked.

“Which one gets
you downstairs?”

“Why? Do you
have all three?”

“Maybe.”

“Now you’re just
trying to impress me.”

“Nah, if I
wanted to impress you, I’d tell you I spent last New Year’s with Steven Tyler.”

“Zach, if you
really wanted to impress me, you’d tell me you spent last New Year’s with Bob
Dylan.”

“We don’t
exactly move in the same musical circles, Vile…let.”

“Maybe you
should remedy that, Z.”

He laughed
lightly, shaking his head. They were settling into their quick repartee like
they’d never parted ways. Like they hadn’t lost each other so long ago. Plus, she’d
just called him Z, and it made him so stupidly happy he wanted to kiss her
again.

“I get the couch
to myself,” she said, raising one perfect eyebrow.

“I’ll sit in a
chair across the room.”

“I mean it, Casanova.
No more . . . you know.”

“Duly noted,
Vile.”

“Seriously? Can
you not even help it? You’re just going to keep calling me Vile all weekend?
Another girl would take offense.”

“But you’re not
another girl, are you?” His eyes swept down her body once before finding her
eyes again. He wondered if she could feel the energy, like he could, sparking
and snapping between them.

She took a deep
breath, taking her hair out of its deranged ponytail and running her fingers
through the long, straight, dark strands, to gather them up neatly. “Just for
the record, you shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have kissed me. We
can’t pick up where we left off, Zach.”

“In a million
years I wouldn’t want to pick up where we left off. Where we left off is the
biggest regret of my life.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could
stop them.

Her body lurched
back as if he’d slapped her, and she lowered her arms slowly to wrap them
around her body. She searched his eyes, and he considered a joke or follow-up
remark but decided against it. Best to be honest with her from the start and
just hope she wouldn’t back out of Scotch in front of the fire as a result. He
wasn’t sure of much in his life, but he was sure of this: fate was throwing him
a bone, just like Cora said. So he stared back at her, steady and unblinking,
until she finally looked away.

“We were good
friends. Give me a chance,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice even, the
A-flat from their kiss resonating like a tuning fork in his head. “Just come
hang out.”

“It was a long—”

“Long time ago,”
he finished, his eyes narrowing as she glanced up. “I know.”

She tilted her
head to the side, and it surprised him to see her expression soften. Made him
feel hopeful, like a door between them had just cracked open.

“We’re all grown
up now,” she murmured, like she was going to gently push that door closed again.

“That’s okay,”
he said, watching her closely, wedging his foot in the door before it could
click shut. He held up his calloused picking finger. “One drink.”

He was pretty
sure she was going to say no, so it surprised the hell out of him when she
nodded. He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until that little
jerk of her neck gave him permission to breathe.

“Okay,” she
said, unsmiling. “Give me a minute. I’m going to change, and then I’ll come
down.”

He dragged her
suitcase and bags into her room and pulled the door closed behind him.

***

Where we left off is the biggest regret of my life.

She’d
practically fallen over when he said that. It was the last thing she’d expected
to hear. It set her world off-kilter when he kissed her, and made her body
tremble when he fell on top of her, but neither instance impacted her like his
confession. He’d never said or done anything after that night to indicate that
he regretted his decision to push her away.

Part of her
brain, the sensible part, told her not to believe him, told her that she needed
to stay in her room and avoid him until Tuesday. But she had to confess, she
was curious. When had he decided he regretted it? When he threw on a pair of
jeans and left her alone in his bed? When she was crying her eyes raw down the
hall from him for the ensuing weeks? When he’d started seeing her with
Shep
? When he’d approached her that one time, only to turn
and stalk away? When exactly had he realized what he had thrown away? And did
it matter to her? (No, it didn’t. It shouldn’t. She hated that it did.)

She pulled off
her sweater and tank top and folded them carefully before putting them on the
rocking chair beside the window. Opening one door she found a closet and then
another, relieved to find it was a bathroom. A nice bathroom with a glassed-in
shower and triple shower heads
. Yes,
please. Can’t wait to give that a whirl later.

She looked at
herself in the large vanity mirror, brightened by about twenty white globe
lights around its perimeter. Yes, she had changed a lot since college. Baby fat—and
all the rest of the fat—was gone now. Her hair wasn’t a wild,
overprocessed
disaster with four or five different shades
of blonde, red, and a brown that had turned out purple. She dropped her glance
to the expensive black lace bra that kept her larger-than-average breasts at a
perky angle. She was different, all right.

A sobering
thought occurred to her: was it possible he’d broken up with the fat Bohemian chick
only to be interested in the svelte brunette nine years later? She couldn’t
help wondering. In the years since he’d walked away from her, she’d run just
about every possible scenario for him rejecting her, and her looks had always
taken a beating.

She pulled out a
beat-up, frayed, navy-blue Yale sweatshirt from her duffel and threw it over
her head. The sweatshirt swam on her small frame, but it was her favorite. She
was half-way down the stairs before she realized her mistake in wearing it. Oh
no. It was the same exact sweatshirt she’d worn practically every day of sophomore
year. She’d made out with Zach several times that October weekend in this very
piece of clothing.

She briefly
thought about running back up to her room, but he was waiting at the foot of
the stairs, holding the necks of three bottles in one hand and two crystal
tumblers in the other. She swore he almost dropped all five when he saw her.

“Holy shit,” he said,
staring at the oversize sweatshirt. “You still have that? You look like . . .”

“I didn’t . . . I
mean, I wasn’t trying to re-create any memories here. It was on top of my bag.
The, um, first thing on top of my duffel bag. I’m not trying to make a
statement . . . God, it’s just a sweatshirt.” She walked right by his open
mouth and wide eyes and turned toward the living room, her cheeks hot. She sat
down on the edge of the couch, on the middle cushion, and fixed her glance on
the roaring fire.

My battered heart

Split asunder.

Rent and torn.

Twisted flame.

She committed
the short verse to memory. She’d write it down later in her useless little
notebook of poems that no one would ever see.