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Authors: Gretchen Galway

Tags: #Contemporary, #Romance

This Changes Everything (5 page)

BOOK: This Changes Everything
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The joke was on her. She hadn’t dressed down because she wanted to win the bet; she’d done it to protect her pride. If she’d put on a sexy dress and her expensive makeup and had her hair done—and
then
nobody had believed she was his girlfriend—she would’ve been hurt. For all the progress she’d made since the divorce, she’d feared she couldn’t handle that kind of blow. In other words, she’d been a coward.

Enough. She turned on one of the many showerheads and got under the hot spray, letting it sting, washing away the evening.

After she finished and dried herself off with those thick resort towels you could never find at the store, she bandaged her foot and swaddled herself in pajamas and a terry robe, then took the time to blow out her hair, glad she’d had the time and privacy to screw her head back on straight. Now she’d get something to eat and be good as new.

She was standing in front of the entertainment cabinet, looking through the room service menu, when he stumbled into the room.

Within seconds, she realized he was as drunk as she’d ever seen him.

“Cleo,” he said. He strode past the bed and fell to his knees at her feet, dark head slumping forward. “You win.” Slowly, with the pained movements of the intoxicated, he pulled a stack of dollar bills out of a paper bag and began counting them out, setting them down around her feet like a faded green patio.

“Where did you get a bag of money like that this time of night?”

He shushed her noisily. “I’m counting. Don’t interrupt. Twenty-seven, twenty-four, thirty…” He began to laugh. “Just kidding. Kidding I don’t know how to count. Twenty—shit. I forget. Let’s start over.”

She reached down and hauled him upright. “I hope you didn’t knock over a convenience store.”

“It’s not as much as it looks. Not
quite
a thousand. Mostly twenties at the bottom. ATM units. Not as funny though.”

“Not as funny but easier to put in my purse.”

“Right. Purse. Because you’re a girl.” He grinned. “Cleo.”

“Yeah, that’s me. You aren’t going to get sick, are you?”

“Hope not.” His smile faded. “I gave you my germs earlier. Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your germs I’m worried about. It’s your undigested stomach contents.” She grabbed his arm to stop him from swaying. “You need to sleep this off. Big day tomorrow.”

“So true. Thanks.” He patted her on the shoulder and lurched away, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. “Did I bring a toothbrush? Oh, right. I already unpacked. I’m a very organized man. I take pride in my”—he burped—“powers of organization.” He went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

She set down the menu and glanced at the clock. Past eleven. Too late to eat anyway. After scooping up the cash, which she stuck back in the paper bag, she stripped off the robe, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin. As soon as she closed her eyes, memories of the way her body had reacted to a little hugging and kissing, all done in jest, washed over her.

How embarrassing. She wasn’t fifteen. She’d been married, for God’s sake. She should be immune to a little playing around.

It’s just that it had been so long. So very, very long. Years of living as a cautious recluse had made her as needy as a dried-out houseplant in front of a watering can.

The bathroom door opened. “Cleo?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to have to sleep with you.”

Her heart lost a beat. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t fit in the bathtub.”

She wondered if it was too late to call a cab. Laughing silently, she rolled onto her side and curled into a protective ball. “All right, then. You can use the bed. Just don’t hog the covers.”

“Don’t hog. Got it.”

The lights went out. As he climbed into bed, he made a funny sound she realized was supposed to be the oink of a pig.

“You poor man,” she said. “You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow.”

The snoring began instantly.

Poor him?
she thought.
Poor me.

7

W
hen Sly woke
, furry-tongued and cotton-brained, the bed was empty. He rolled out onto the floor and staggered over to his pants, lumped in a pile by the TV. He pulled out his phone, glad he hadn’t forgotten it at the bar last night, and squinted at the screen. Looking at his phone always helped wake him up, no matter how much he wanted to slip back into unconsciousness. His calendar scrolled past with today’s agenda, his list of longer projects flickered at the top of the screen, and unanswered text messages popped up one by one.

As he plugged back in to his life, he remembered Cleo. She must be at the spa, getting her massage. And as his mind cleared, he had the sense to see her clothes were still in the dresser, and her muddy sandals parked next to her empty backpack in the closet.

She hadn’t bailed. Grunting with relief, he went into the bathroom to wash up and rehydrate. Touching her had crossed a line, a line he’d been trying not to think about. Perhaps before that moment at her apartment a couple of weeks ago, he could’ve kissed her for fun and it wouldn’t have meant anything. Now it meant something. He just didn’t know what.

Instead of taking a shower, he got dressed for running and went out, hoping to sweat out the rest of the poisons he’d poured into his body the night before. It was already past nine, late for him, and kids were already swimming in the pool. It still looked like rain, although none had fallen. Perfect for running.

An hour later, sweaty but refreshed, he was limping past the pool on his return when he heard his name. He scanned the few bodies stretched out on the deck chairs, all but the children wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants on the overcast autumn morning, but didn’t see who had called him.

“Sylvester!” It was Teresa, waving to him from the water. She jumped out at the edge and strode over. “Back from a run?”

He nodded, careful to keep his gaze above her chin. For a second he’d glimpsed erect nipples pressing against her sheer white one-piece, and she wasn’t making any moves toward one of the fluffy towels stacked nearby.

“I saw you at the bar last night,” she said.

That wasn’t good. He’d been hammered and alone, like a wounded baby deer just begging for the she-wolf to eat him. “I bet that wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She gave him a naughty smile. “Even at your worst, you’re not bad. Not bad at all.”

He made a show of wiping the sweat off his forehead. Maybe his ripe odor would drive her off. “I should get going.”

“I didn’t see Cleo last night.” She looked around. “She doesn’t run with you?”

He wasn’t going to explain anything; it only encouraged her. “She’s expecting me now. Excuse me.” Returning his neon-green earbuds to their conversation-blocking location on his head, he began to leave.

“Hope everything’s OK,” she called after him. “She looked a little upset at breakfast.”

In spite of the danger, he turned and removed the earbuds. “Breakfast?”

“I was surprised you weren’t there.”

Cleo was going to kill him. She’d endured breakfast with Teresa by herself. “I’m full of surprises. You hated that about me, remember?”

“Maybe I’ve learned to appreciate spontaneity in my old age.” She looked down at her glistening, toned, picture-perfect body and shook her head. “Not getting any younger.”

“So true,” he said, happy to leave that bait on the hook. If she wanted to hear him say she was as lithe and lovely as a nineteen-year-old swimsuit model, she was going to be disappointed. “See you later.”

This time he managed to escape, wondering as he ran up the stairs why he’d thought he couldn’t resist Teresa on his own. Whatever appeal she’d had for him was long gone. Bringing Cleo had been unnecessary and potentially dangerous.

Dangerous? He strode down the walkway to their room, wondering at his choice of words. What’s the worst thing that could happen? She’d tell him she wouldn’t be his friend anymore? No. They weren’t first graders. Their relationship could handle a little ambiguity. A little excitement.

A little danger. The thought spread through him like a warm breeze.

Mumbling repressive curses under his breath, he went into the room, saw it was empty, and got into the shower. To distract himself, he used three of the four showerheads in the cavernous stall. After he’d lathered and rinsed, he got out to shave and brush, and eventually he began to feel like his old self again. He walked out of the bathroom with his mind on a late meal and Poppy Lee, whom he hoped would be at the preview for the silent auction at two.

“Jeez, Sly,” Cleo cried, slapping her hands over her eyes. She stood right outside the bathroom door in a pink sundress. “Have some consideration for my nerves.”

“I’m decent.” He readjusted the towel slung around his hips, wishing that were true. “I just need to get my clothes.”

She turned her face to the wall. “For a mogul, you aren’t very good at planning ahead. You should bring the clothes with you into the bathroom before you get naked.”

Thoughts of danger made him linger. He studied the dress she was wearing, liking the way it showed off her body. “You’re wearing pink.”

“It’s all they had.”

“All who had?”

“The store last week. The gray was sold out. They call this dusty rose. It’s all they had.”

He didn’t know why she was shopping for a dress last week or why she sounded insecure about it. “It’s pretty.” Clearing his throat, he walked past her to get his clothes out of the closet and the dresser, strode back into the bathroom, and put them on, checking himself out in the mirror on the door as he did.

Not getting any younger
.

Cleo loved to tease him about his looks. He knew he wasn’t bad, but she talked about him as if Hollywood would’ve been a reasonable alternative to Silicon Valley. As he buttoned his shirt, he struck poses in the mirror, just to prove to himself she was full of crazy.

He caught himself staring too long and slapped himself. He was the one full of crazy. Jesus.

“How was the spa?” he asked as he walked out. Very cool and casual. Not crazy at all.

Slumping against the wall, she sighed. “Fantastic. I felt so relaxed when it was over.”

“But not anymore?”

“It always wears off. I’d have to—” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind. How are you feeling, by the way?”

He noticed her face had turned as pink as her dress. “You’d have to what?”

“I’d need more than a professional massage. You know what I’m saying?” She offered an exaggerated wink, but he could tell her mirth was forced.

This new weirdness between them was all his fault. “Sorry about last night,” he said. “For everything. For fondling you, for drinking too much, for anything else I did that I don’t remember.”

“You snore like a congested elephant seal.”

Smiling, he gathered his wallet and phone. “Teresa said you ate breakfast with her, another thing I’m sorry about. Are you hungry for lunch?”

She hesitated. “Not really. It was quite a buffet.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you finally got to eat.” He went to the door. “The dinner’s at six thirty. Then the auction. Should we meet here?”

“Sure. Here’s good,” she said. “I have another dress I’m going to wear.”

“Another one?” In all the years he’d known her, he’d never once seen her in a dress. Now he was going to see her in two different ones, all in one day. “You’d do that for me?”

“I decided not to embarrass you anymore. For both of our sakes. Since I already won the bet, right?”

“Right.” He couldn’t bring himself to leave. “Look, Teresa noticed we’ve been alone a lot. Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“You really are scared of that tiny little woman, aren’t you?”

“Terrified.”

She smiled. “Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? All right, I’ll hang out with you. To help you out.”

As she walked past him into the hallway, he caught a hint of perfume. Not just shampoo. Perfume.

And he liked it. A lot.

“That’s what friends are for,” he said.

♢ ♡ ♤

Watching Sly eat his farm-to-table lunch didn’t help Cleo maintain the state of relaxation she’d achieved at the spa. How many meals had she watched him shovel in over the years? Why had
this
one suddenly made her think about what else he could be doing with those lips, that tongue, and those long, lean fingers?

The erotic turn to her thoughts depressed her. Sly was a friend. Perhaps her best friend, one she couldn’t afford to lose. Any lines they were stupid enough to cross would lead them into momentary pleasure and nowhere else.

“Want to look at the silent auction stuff with me?” he asked as they walked out of the restaurant.

“OK,” she said. “Let’s see what the butt lifts are going for.”

“Doing some early Christmas shopping?”

“Totally. You’re impossible to shop for.” She slapped him on the ass.

Which was a mistake. Now her palm was all tingly as it remembered the feel of his muscled cheek while they walked along the deck to the conference rooms. The ocean crashed against the rocks below them, gray and white water sending mist up in the cypress trees around the hotel.

It was one of the most romantic places she’d ever seen. Maybe that was the problem. She was too sensitive to her environment. It muddled the obvious: Sylvester Minguez was a workaholic who thought he was a slacker if he took a few hours to read a book for fun, whereas she lived life at half the pace he did, composing music that made her pennies, giving lessons to pay the rent, and intended to keep doing it. His parents were wealthy, hardworking accountants with a thriving business. Hers were clinical therapists who had retired to Oregon to grow organic vegetables. She and Sly could be friends who saw each other twice a month, but more than that?

Impossible.

They walked together into the room for the silent auction, which had panoramic windows of the sea and a harpist playing in the corner. The gentle notes added a heavenly quality to the foggy view. A man in a black shirt and pants handed her a glass of champagne, and another offered tiny plates of grapes.

“From our own vines,” he said.

She smiled and followed Sly to the far end of the longest table, near a grand piano that had a giant red satin bow on top, like a TV commercial for a luxury car during the holidays. But instead of imagining the beautiful wife running outside in the snow, crying with joy next to her beaming, proud husband, she imagined how nice the grand would look next to her couch. Well, she’d have to remove the couch to make room for it. But if she had that piano, she’d always be sitting at it anyway. No couch needed.

She’d probably have to take out the dining table too. And maybe a wall.

“That must be a nice piano,” Sly said. “You’re drooling.”

“That’s because I’m with you, sweetie,” she said absently. Oh, it had been a long time since she played a decent piano. She’d bought the best one she could afford, but… well, that wasn’t much. It had good tone but wasn’t the kind you’d want to roll around on top of in the nude.

Like that one.

“Seriously, Cleo, you’re flushed,” Sly said. “Do you need a few minutes alone?”

She shook her head to break the spell. “Let’s find the butt lifts.”

He picked up a brochure on the table. “How about a weekend in Vegas?”

“That’s practical. Because when you have too much money, you need to find new homes for some of it.” She sipped her drink, raising her eyebrows in appreciation. Not the cheap stuff she was used to. “This is good. Didn’t you want any?”

“Staying sober today. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She took another mouthful and searched the table for something Sly could waste his money on. A poster advertising a trip to the Sierra Nevada for “your adventurous canine companion” caught her eye. An all-expense-paid vacation for your dog. Bath upon return included.

Sly caught her arm. “That’s Poppy over there. Mind if I…?”

“Go ahead. I’m going to call the one eight hundred number for this place near Yosemite and see if they’ll take humans.”

Flashing her his trademarked grin, he left her to shake the hand of the gray-haired woman surrounded by a cluster of men in T-shirts and jeans. Cleo had seen pictures of Poppy Lee, fondly nicknamed the “Silver Helmet” because of her hair. She watched Sly join the group, offer Poppy his hand, and draw her away from the other men with speedy grace.

He really had that rare charm that made life look easy. A mere mortal like herself would’ve felt uncomfortable barging in like that. Not Sly. He got what he wanted, and people thanked him for letting them give it to him.

She set her empty glass down and applied herself to reading the other auction items. Some of them were up into the thousands, and she was tempted to put down Sly’s name. Although he was generous with her, he could be cheap, always looking for a bargain, and not likely to treat himself to any luxuries, even small ones. The trip to the Patagonian Andes looked pretty good. She was just picking up the pen when he tapped her on the shoulder.

“I hope that’s not for me.”

“You can bring one of those solar panel chargers and your laptop,” she said. “Work on the trail.”

“You make it sound like I don’t know how to take a vacation.”

“You don’t.”

He put his arm around her and led her away from Poppy, who had returned to the cluster of jeans and T-shirts. “We can go whenever you’re ready. I’ve set the stage for tonight.”

“Stage for what?”

“Talking to Poppy about Mark’s start-up.”

“Didn’t you do that just now?”

“You don’t rush these things.” His hand slid down her arm and squeezed her elbow.

Her body was rushing to divert blood to her erogenous zones. The dress covered her upper arms, but now he was touching bare skin, and she was having trouble concentrating on the poster advertising dog sledding in Vail.

It wasn’t her imagination. He was touching her differently. His fingers lingered, made tiny circles on her skin, explored neighborhoods they’d never visited before.

“You know,” she said, “I think I’d like to walk a little more. Get some fresh air. Should I meet you at—”

BOOK: This Changes Everything
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