Game On Box Set: Time Out\Her Man Advantage\Face-Off\Body Check Read online

  Each day he waited for the phone to ring. For Sam to show up and tell him she’d overreacted. She was sorry.

  And each day ended with him going to bed in howling frustration.

  At last it arrived. The day with the big black ring around it.

  She was leaving.

  In a panic, he realized that she wasn’t going to come crawling back. If he wanted her, he had to go and do the groveling, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Truth was he didn’t even care, he couldn’t let her go without saying goodbye, without trying to make things right. In a panic he’d rushed to her house, but he was too late. They’d already left for the airport.

  He’d wanted to write, and didn’t have a clue what to say. Waited for her to get hold of him, and his in-box remained Sam-less.

  Now here he was, back in her bed, and as the old familiar feelings rushed through him his smile faded. He wondered how he could have been so stupid.

  He felt like a drug addict who manages to stay clean and sober for a decade and then one day thinks he’s strong enough for one drink. One toke. One hit.

  And finds himself as deeply addicted as ever. No twenty-eight-day program would ever help him now.

  A decade of sobriety and he was starting down a slippery downward path. If he didn’t act fast, he’d be lost forever.

  The sleeping woman beside him stirred. She was even more gorgeous than she’d been at twenty-two if that was possible. Her mouth was a little firmer and there was a tiny fan of crows’ feet around her eyes that were new to him, but she had grown into herself. Instead of bravado, she now had true confidence. Her body had filled out nicely and in all the right places. She looked, smelled, tasted fantastic…familiar.

  Greg raised a hand to smooth her hair back off her face and let it drop, not wanting to wake her. She was so peaceful sleeping. Not arguing or stating her case or in some way trying to piss him off. He realized how much he’d missed her.

  Not just the sex, which had never been as good.

  He’d wondered over the years if his memory might be faulty because no woman, and there’d been a few, had ever felt as right in his bed as Sam. Maybe he’d never experienced the highs he and Sam had reached together because they were each other’s first, and he’d built that time up in his memory to some lofty height that reality could never achieve.

  Making love with her again had been—if possible—better than he remembered. They both had a little more maturity and experience but it was something beyond that. Something elemental with them, as though they knew each other’s bodies and needs as well as they knew their own. Instinctively. It was weird. But in a good way.

  He lay on his side, watching her sleep. It wasn’t just the sex, there was some magical quality between them that had always been there. That he’d never believed he’d find again.

  What was it? And why with this woman and only this one?

  A pain pierced his chest so quickly he thought for a second he was having a heart attack.

  And in a way he supposed he was. Because the truth, when it hit him, was inescapable.

  He was still in love with this woman. Had loved her since before he understood what love was, had believed in them enough to propose marriage when she headed off for university.

  He’d so carefully avoided her for years and his plan had been working. He got on with his life, she got on with hers and if they happened to bump into each other—between high-school weddings and the fact that her brother was his best friend—they dealt.

  When it did happen that they found themselves in the same house or garden or wedding chapel, he’d made sure they had the minimum possible contact.

  So why, today, had he thrown away a decade of self-protection?

  Since when had he become self-destructive?

  And now that he was on this dangerous path, now that he’d fallen so spectacularly off the wagon, what the hell was he going to do about it?

  He knew there was only one thing he could do.

  With a weight of sadness that felt like an anvil on his chest, he pressed a whisper-soft kiss on her shoulder blade and then rolled soundlessly out of bed.

  5

  SAM WOKE WITH A SLOW, satisfied smile. Not even wanting to open her eyes so she could savor the memories of the night before.

  She stretched her arms over her head, pointed her toes and stretched her lower half, enjoying the feeling of being in her body. Of everything that body could do, had done, had experienced and enjoyed through that long, delicious night.

  She turned and reached for Greg. Wanting to tell him—she didn’t even know what—but wanting him to know how special it had been, the day that had stretched into night. They’d been so starved for each other.

  A sweet tingle went through her as she thought about him.

  Amazingly, she still wasn’t satisfied.

  Her questing arms hit cold sheets. Puzzled, she opened her eyes. She glanced around and squinted at the clock. It was almost nine. She hadn’t slept this long on a Sunday morning in ages. But then she hadn’t been this relaxed in ages.

  She remembered trying to speak, to tell Greg how much she’d missed him, but he’d looked at her with that smile in his eyes that told her everything she needed to know, and then he’d sent her to sleep with a kiss.

  He was so sweet. And she was so happy to have him back.

  The bathroom door was shut so she raised her voice. “Hey, lover boy. I think I’m out of food. How ’bout I take us out for breakfast?”

  He didn’t answer. She raised her voice louder. “I hope you made coffee.”

  With a huge yawn, she rolled herself out of bed, shuffled into her robe and pushed her feet into fuzzy gray slippers.

  When she padded out to the kitchen she experienced her first twinge of doubt. The coffeepot was cold. The kitchen, pristine.

  And as her senses sharpened she realized that she didn’t hear anything or even have that notion of another person being in her place.

  And then she saw the note.

  A bright yellow Post-it slapped in the middle of her fridge like a pimple on a forehead. It read:

  Thanks for last night.

  You’re the best.

  G

  She read the note. Once. Then she read it again. And again, but the obscurity of the message didn’t change. Nor could she squeeze any more meaning out of it.

  Thanks for last night? Like she’d done him a favor? Changed the oil on his car or picked up his dry cleaning?

  You’re the best. While she naturally agreed with the literal translation of the words, it was the sort of phrase you’d throw out to a waitress who brought you an extra side of toast, or someone who’d done you a favor, such as changing your oil or picking up your dry cleaning.

  Somebody with whom you’d had the best sex ever? In your whole pathetic life? Thanks for last night. You’re the best, wasn’t cutting it.

  Even the signature was abbreviated. Deliberately casual. G. Like writing three more letters would have killed him?

  And where was the part about calling her, or seeing her again?

  Because she was a lawyer and tried to consider all sides, she actually peeled the note off the fridge and flipped it over. As though there might be more on the other side. But it was as cheerfully, blankly yellow as one of those little smiley faces.

  By the time the coffee had brewed and she was sipping her first mug of the day, she realized that he’d very deliberately avoided any mention of calling her. Or seeing her again.

  That note was telling her she’d had a one-night stand. No promises. No expectations.

  No implied future.

  She ripped the note a few times. Then she tossed the little pieces. They floated to the trash like jagged yellow confetti for a wedding that would never happen.

  For the strangest moment, she felt like crying. Standing there in her designer kitchen, drinking her fair trade coffee in a sleek black mug, she felt like crying.

  But Sam wasn’t one