Tangled Up in Love (29 page)

Not that she wanted him to go. Oddly, she found herself wishing he’d come back and climb into bed for another round of pop goes the weasel.

Only a week ago, he’d have done just that. He’d have held her wrists above her head, covered her with his body, and used every seductive skill in his extensive arsenal to convince her to blow off her responsibilities for the day and stay in bed with him doing the nasty.

She’d have probably gone for it, too.

So why wasn’t he doing that today? Why had he sneaked out of bed instead of waking her with kisses and his already rigid erection pressing into her hip? Why had he let her sleep through the night instead of rousing her again and again the way he would have only days ago?

It all felt very peculiar to her, and she couldn’t decide whether to be nervous or relieved by his behavior.

She heard the front door click and let out a sigh. Throwing back the covers, she padded naked across the room.

Her mind was the same maelstrom of confusion it had been before she’d opened the door last evening to find Dylan on the other side—looking sexier than any man had a right to—and lying in bed contemplating the mess her life had become wasn’t going to help her figure things out any sooner.

Grabbing her robe, she went to the bathroom to shower and dry her hair, then started fixing her makeup and getting dressed.

She was no closer to having answers to her problems than she had been yesterday. If anything, she had more questions . . . and more emotions welling up to get in the way.

This wouldn’t have happened a month ago. Before she’d made the colossal mistake of challenging Dylan to learn how to knit, and then compounded that colossal mistake by agreeing to help him learn, her life had been fine.

With the exception of a few minor personal issues, her life had been freaking perfect, and she’d have had no trouble deciding whether or not to take the job in Chicago. In fact, she probably would have had her bags packed before the associate publisher had even finished making his offer.

But now . . .

Now she’d resolved a few of her original personal issues, only to replace them with a big, honking butt-load of new ones. Ones that had her doubting her own desires, questioning her own judgments, and wanting things she had no business wanting.

Grace’s brilliant suggestion that she “sleep on it” and let her subconscious find the right answers for her hadn’t done a whit of good, unfortunately. Probably
because she and her subconscious had both spent the night sleeping
on Dylan
instead of her current pile of moral dilemmas.

And moping around her apartment, wishing solutions would magically appear before she left for work, wasn’t going to get her anywhere, either. Finishing her last bite of toast, she shrugged into her coat, grabbed her purse, and took off.

Things were getting down to the wire, and if she didn’t figure out what to do soon, about all of it, she was afraid her head would explode. She’d tried talking to her friends, searching her heart, making a list of Pros and Cons . . . next up: a Lucky Eight Ball, Ouija board, and maybe Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Surely one of them could give her a definitive answer about whether she should turn her back on Dylan and take the job in Chicago or stay in Cleveland and take a chance on a man who made her laugh, made her
crazy,
kept her on her toes, and could give her a dozen big Os in a single night.

A few days later, on Friday, Ronnie held her breath as the latest issue of the
Herald
hit her desk. It was late, almost time to head home, and today was the day Dylan’s column came out The day she would discover whether he’d succeeded in his knitting lessons or not.

She almost hoped he had, even though it would mean she’d lose and would have to return his beloved Harrison Award.

Flipping through the pages, she found his column, her eyes immediately locking on the grainy black-and-white photograph of a long, dark, hand-knit scarf above the text.

Well, good for him. It wasn’t good for her reputation or her end of their supposedly bitter rivalry, but she was actually proud of him. He’d accepted her challenge and worked hard to learn how to do something he never would have tried to do on his own. Something other guys would probably rag on him about, if they hadn’t already.

A few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have thought he’d have the balls for it. Now she knew he had the balls for that, and a heck of a lot more.

While this sort of news would have had her frowning before, this time it made her feel warm and content. She didn’t need to read the article to know he’d succeeded, but her gaze scanned the words, anyway.

In his easy, flowing prose—which she’d always secretly admired—he chronicled her throwing down the knitting gauntlet, and how easy he’d thought such a challenge would be . . . only to find himself aggravated and perplexed when his yarn and needles wouldn’t get with the program. Though he didn’t mention her by name, he did confess to seeking one-on-one instruction, admitting to how helpful the lessons had been . . . especially those that had stretched into the wee hours and kept him
up
much longer than anticipated.

Anyone else reading his article wouldn’t have thought twice about his description or word choices, but she recognized the innuendo and knew he wasn’t referring so much to their knitting lessons as to what usually developed during them. The sly dog.

Once again, something that would have driven her crazy before didn’t bother her in the least now. Instead, it brought a smile to her face and pleasant memories to mind that made her tingle in all the right places.

Unlike most of his other I-did-it-so-there-take-that articles, though, this one didn’t present a counterchallenge at the end. It surprised her a little . . . they’d been playing the back-and-forth, anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better game for so long, she’d almost braced herself for whatever he would dare her to do next . . . and yet it didn’t. For some reason, after all they’d been through together, everything they’d done and discussed, it seemed natural for their competition to come to a quiet and peaceful conclusion.

Or maybe he didn’t intend for it to be over; maybe he hadn’t come up with anything just yet and would publicize her next challenge in a subsequent column. But by then it might very well be too late. She might be gone.

With the proof of his accomplishment tucked under her arm and a wide smile on her face, she made her way out of the
Sentinel
building. She still hadn’t made a final decision about the new job, but she’d dropped the associate publisher an e-mail thanking him for the offer and letting him know that she would have an answer for him first thing Monday.

A week should have been more than enough time to decide, but since she was still on the fence, she’d created a do-or-die deadline in order to force herself to go one way or the other.

And come Monday morning, she would. Yes or no. Go or stay. She had the weekend to decide, and whatever came out of her mouth then, she would stick with. No waffling, no going back.

She only hoped that two days was enough time for her topsy-turvy stomach and roller-coaster emotions to settle down and pick something already.

Letting herself into her apartment, she deposited the
paper and her other items on a beaten-up credenza just inside the door, readjusting the matchbook from under one of the legs when it wobbled slightly.

She bypassed the kitchen and walked directly to her bedroom, where she stripped out of her restrictive dress clothes and changed into a pair of comfortable Bobby Jack pajamas. The monkey was picking his nose in the center of the gray, short-sleeved top, and hanging from a vine with a bunch of bananas in his hand over and over and over again on the matching bottoms.

Making her way to the bathroom, she swept her hair away from her face, twisted it into a makeshift bun at the back of her head, and held it in place with a giant clip. Then she washed the makeup off her face and headed back to the kitchen to find something to eat.

Thanks to the upheaval of her life the past several weeks, her cupboards were frighteningly bare. A trip to the grocery store would definitely be required over the weekend if she wanted to eat at all next week.

Turning on the radio for a bit of background noise, she shimmied and sang along to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” while she searched for nutrients. She may have only understood every third word of the song, but she liked the beat.

She found a package of saltine crackers and a can of vegetable soup in one of the cupboards, and half a block of cheese in the refrigerator. Not exactly her idea of a gourmet meal, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Dumping the soup into a saucepan and setting it on a stove burner to heat, she piled the cheese and crackers and a small knife on a cutting board and carried them into the living room. She hit the remote to turn on
the television, then returned to the kitchen to shut off the radio.

She had just turned, ready to go back to the sofa, when there was a knock at the door. Her stomach immediately took a nose dive as she pictured Dylan standing lazily on the other side.

She wasn’t expecting him, and in fact there was no reason under the sun that she could think of for why he’d be dropping by. He certainly didn’t need another knitting lesson; his column in today’s
Herald
had proven that the few they’d shared had paid off handsomely.

But before she’d challenged him to learn how to knit, she’d rarely gotten visitors. Even Grace and Jenna hardly ever dropped by her apartment; they tended to all meet elsewhere unless something specific was planned, like movie or home spa night.

For the past few weeks, though, she felt as though her apartment had turned into Grand Central Station. There was always a knock at the door, whether she was expecting it or not, and it was always Dylan.

On the up side, when he did show up, he tended to bring food.

Her spirits rose and her belly grumbled.

Then again, the last time he’d shown up without notice, it had been for sex and sex alone. And though she hadn’t complained—still wouldn’t, considering the pleasant ache he’d left between her legs—if he was showing up now to gloat over his slam-dunk win or for a post-win booty call, she swore she’d strangle him with his newly knitted scarf.

With a wary scowl drawing her brows together, she
made a point of turning the fire off under her soup so it wouldn’t burn, then went to the door, peered through the peephole, and slowly opened it to exactly the sight she’d expected.

He looked as good as ever, standing there in worn jeans and a soft maroon buttondown shirt. Also as expected—or rather,
hoped,
she was loath to admit—he held two brown paper bags of takeout.

“Dylan,” she said cautiously, trying not to let the delicious smell of Chinese influence her one way or the other. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said, lifting the bags a couple of inches in case she’d missed them.

So hungry, her mouth watered just imagining what might be in those bags. But she bit her lip to keep from licking them, and prayed her stomach wouldn’t pick that moment to growl and give her away.

“You didn’t come here just to bring me dinner,” she told him. “And you’re not here for a knitting lesson. I saw your column, and you obviously don’t need them anymore.”

Eyes narrowing, she folded her arms under her breasts and widened her stance. “You’re not here to gloat, are you?” she asked in an accusatory tone. “Because if you are . . .”

She couldn’t think of anything suitably threatening, but give her a minute . . . or a bite of moo goo gai pan . . . and she’d have a
list
of painful ways to punish him.

“I didn’t come to gloat,” he said with only the hint of a grin on his smug face. “I don’t need to. My finished product speaks for itself.”

That sounded a little too much like gloating for her tastes, but since he wasn’t sticking out his tongue and dancing a jig, she supposed she’d have to give him his brief moment in the sun.

And then it dawned on her. “You came to collect your Harrison Award.”

God, how she was going to hate giving that up. The idea of actually physically handing it over to him gave her chills.

His eyes filled with surprise for a second. “No,” he responded slowly. “Although now that you mention it, I would like it back. Let’s leave that for later, though,” Dylan said when she remained silent. “Can I come in?”

For a long minute, she stood there, undecided. On the one hand, he did come bearing Chinese. On the other, history had proven that any time he entered her apartment, she had a tendency to end up naked, with her legs pointed straight up in the air.

And she needed to maintain a clear head this weekend so she could decide whether or not to completely alter her life. Sleeping with Dylan again would only fog her brain and make that decision more difficult.

Dylan sauntered into the living area and made himself comfortable on the sofa, spreading out the small, white Chinese take-out containers on the low coffee table just as he had so many times before.

Drawn by the mouthwatering aromas, she joined him, sitting close and reaching for a set of chopsticks. He handed her an entire container of sweet-and-sour pork, having discovered it was her favorite, then picked up a box for himself.

After they’d eaten in relative silence for several
minutes, the sharp edge of Ronnie’s hunger was satisfied, and her mind rolled back to his reason for once again showing up at her door uninvited.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked, dipping her chopsticks into his container and grabbing a mouthful of noodles for herself.

He did the same, his arm brushing hers as he pilfered a chunk of orange-glazed pork.

“I came to thank you,” he said, after he’d finished chewing.

Of all the things he might have said, that was one she never would have expected. “Thank me for what? And please don’t say for teaching you to knit. You know I didn’t help you any more than I had to, and I wouldn’t even have done that if I’d known you were going to pull this one off.”