Practice Makes Perfect

  “Um . . . yes?”

  Payton climbed off him. “I don’t believe this—that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” She grabbed her dress and shoes off the floor. “Eight years, J.D.! Eight years! At least I assumed we’ve been fighting for some legitimate reason, like politics, or socioeconomic issues, or at the very, very least because you’re rich and my family is from the wrong side of the tracks.”

  J.D. laughed out loud at that. “Wrong side of the tracks? What is this, 1985 and we live in a John Hughes movie? I don’t give a shit whether your family has money. That’s almost as stupid as fighting over the Clark Kent comment.”

  Payton slipped on her dress. “Almost, J.D., but not quite. Definitely not quite.” She stormed off into the living room.

  J.D. followed her. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I need to cool down. I might say something I’ll regret.”

  She was sliding one of her heels on when J.D. walked over, grabbed her hand, and pulled her away from the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said firmly. He led her out onto the balcony. “If you need to cool off, you can do it out here.”

  “It’s eighty-two degrees out here. Jerk. Ninety with the heat index.”

  “Well, then, the fresh air will do you some good.” He shut the balcony door behind him and blocked her way.

  Payton folded her arms across her chest and waited.

  J.D. sighed. “Look—Payton—I understand that you’re angry with me, and for once I understand why. I would, however, like to point out that you aren’t entirely innocent in all this—you’ve lobbed more than your fair share of insults at me over the years, but notwithstanding that fact . . .” He ran his hand through his hair, then held his hands up. “What can I say? I fucked up. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  Payton softened a little at his directness. She knew how hard it was for him to apologize, especially to her. And he was right—regardless of how it started, once their fighting had begun she’d hardly been an innocent bystander.

  “It’s just that . . .” she bit her lip nervously. “I liked you from the start, J.D. I really wish things had been different, that’s all.”

  J.D. stared her straight in the eyes. “You have no idea how much I wish that, too, Payton.”

  He looked so serious right then that it was impossible for her to stay mad at him. Plus he was still in his boxers and that was becoming a definite distraction. With a smile of acquiescence, Payton pointed. “Are you planning on blocking that door all night?”

  J.D. relinquished his post at the sliding door and joined her at the balcony rail. “Not if you promise that you’re not going to leave.” He slid his arms around her.

  “I’m not going to leave,” she said, leaning back against his chest.

  They watched the waves crash against the beach, and Payton laced her fingers through J.D.’s. “You know, I think that was the fastest, most rational way we’ve ever resolved a fight. We’re so much better here.”

  “It’s because we’re away from the office,” J.D. said. He sounded firmly convinced about that.

  Payton closed her eyes. “The office . . . don’t remind me.” She hadn’t thought about the partnership competition between them for the past several hours and wanted to keep it that way.

  J.D. spoke softly near her ear. “I’ve been thinking—tomorrow is Saturday. Why don’t we spend an extra night here? Frankly, if one of us doesn’t go into the office tomorrow, then the other one doesn’t have to, either.”

  Payton turned around to face him. “Stay here together?”

  J.D. shrugged. Nonchalance or feigned nonchalance? It was hard to say.

  “I figured you could move your things into my room in the morning,” he said casually.

  Payton thought for a moment. Or rather, she pretended to think for a moment. She shrugged as well. “Sure. Why not? I like it here.”

  “Fine. That’s settled then,” he nodded.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay.”

  Payton held up her finger. “But I pay for half of the room.”

  J.D. grinned. “You know what, Payton—you go right ahead. At fifteen hundred bucks a night, you won’t get any argument from me.”

  Her eyes widened in shock. “Good god—that’s how much you’re paying?” She paused. “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Hmm, since the room costs that much, it’s a good thing I didn’t plan to do much sleeping.”

  J.D. laughed and pulled her close. “I really, really like . . . the way you think.”

  Payton smiled. She suspected there might have been a little slip and cover-up there. And the truth of the matter was, she really, really liked . . . the way he thought, too.

  So she took the hand J.D. held out to her and followed him inside.

  Twenty-three

  THEY SLEPT IN the next morning.

  Payton couldn’t remember the last time she had slept past seven—she woke up with a start sometime after eight and nearly panicked when she saw the alarm clock on the nightstand. But then she saw J.D. sleeping next to her.

  He stirred—he’d had his arm wrapped around her and she had thrown it off when she sat up after seeing the clock. Payton quickly nestled back in, hoping not to wake him. She wanted him to sleep. He needed the sleep—hell, they both did. And not just because it had been a very late night—although that probably didn’t help—not that she was complaining one bit—but more because they’d both been through an exhausting couple of weeks.

  And it wasn’t over. True, by agreeing to stay in Palm Beach until Sunday, they now had only one more actual workday to get through. But the hard part would come on Tuesday, Decision Day, the day the firm chose one of them over the other. Decided who was better, in essence.

  She and J.D. hadn’t spoken much about the firm’s impending decision since they’d arrived in Florida. But it was a constant nag in the back of Payton’s mind and she suspected he felt the same way.

  It was kind of funny, the thought of spending the entire day and night with J.D. Not funny in a bad way, just new. A month ago, Payton never would’ve believed she’d be here, in an oceanfront suite at the Ritz-Carlton, sleeping next to the man who had been her sworn enemy for the past eight years. But now, it felt . . . right.

  That was perhaps the scariest part of all—just how right it felt being with J.D. Because, whether they talked about it or not, they had a big, big problem facing them on Tuesday.

  Payton snuggled into the crook of J.D.’s arm. These were things she didn’t want to think about, at least not yet. For now, the most serious issue she wanted to tackle was whether the two of them were going to straggle downstairs for breakfast on the hotel’s oceanfront terrace or simply order room service.

  As Payton closed her eyes and began to let sleep retake her, she couldn’t help but think: normally, it would’ve gone against all her principles and better judgment to spend fifteen hundred dollars a night on a hotel room, or even half that. On the other hand—and this was her justification and she was sticking to it—she’d barely touched any of the three weeks’ vacation the firm gave her each year and she thought—What the hell?—she was allowed to have a little fun for one weekend.

  Fun. Payton opened her eyes again and glanced at J.D. Was that all this was between them? Fun?

  She knew, for her own good, that she probably should run right out of that hotel room, head straight for the airport, and get on the first plane back to Chicago. There was a definite danger in extending things.

  But then she watched as J.D.’s eyes fluttered lightly, then relaxed again, deep in sleep. She’d never seen him look so calm.

  Payton curled up closer to J.D. and yawned sleepily. Ah, screw it—she was staying.

  If for no other reason, she was curious to see how the whole oceanfront-terrace-breakfast-versus-room-service dilemma turned out.

  “SO WHAT WOULD you think about trying your hand at a rou
nd of golf this afternoon?”

  Payton finished her sip of freshly squeezed orange juice, set the glass down, and looked across the table at J.D.

  “I think that’s not very likely to happen,” she told him. But she sweetened it with a smile.

  Room service had won out for breakfast. Actually, it had turned out to be the only viable option—while the hotel provided every toiletry imaginable for guests staying in their suites, the only clothing currently available to Payton was a black dress with a ripped zipper and a Ritz-Carlton bathrobe. And while the robe was perfectly acceptable for breakfast on the balcony with J.D., a more interesting question was what the hell she was going to wear to walk back to her own room to get her things.

  Maybe she could borrow J.D.’s jacket or a T-shirt to throw over her dress when she headed down to her room. Sure, and maybe she could also just tack a sign to her ass that said, Hello, rich people, I just spent all night in someone else’s room getting fu—

  “But I was thinking,” J.D. cut into Payton’s thoughts, still on the golf thing, “that it could be fun if I showed you how to play.”

  Payton grinned as she buttered her blueberry muffin. “I’m sure that would be fun. For you.”

  “Come on, Payton,” he baited her, “don’t you want to broaden your horizons? Try something new? Get a little insight into ‘my world’ as you like to call it?”

  She cocked her head. “You know what—you’re right. Let’s both broaden our horizons. I’ll learn how to play golf this afternoon and then you can, well, let me see . . .” She pretended to think for a moment, then pointed. “I got it: you can eat vegetarian all weekend.” She shrugged matter-of-factly. “Seems like a fair trade to me.”

  J.D. thought about this. Then he grinned, holding out his hands.

  “Or maybe we could just go to the beach.” He picked a large piece of bacon off his plate, bit in with relish, and winked.

  “Now that idea I like,” Payton agreed, tucking her legs underneath her and leaning back in her chair to take in the view of the waves breaking against the sand. Yes, definitely—the beach sounded great.

  A short while later, Payton walked down the four flights of stairs to her room. Not the most comfortable thing to do in heels, but she figured she’d run into fewer people in the hotel’s internal stairwell than in the elevators, which in turn lessened the odds that anyone would notice the patchwork job she and J.D. had done on her dress.

  Luckily, they’d found a safety pin to hold the zipper together. When pinning her, J.D. had kissed her neck and his hands had begun to roam, and despite the fact that Payton knew she needed to check out of her room before the time expired, he pushed her against the wall and they were on their way to some serious mischief when the telephone rang. It was the travel company, calling back to reschedule their flights for the following day. Payton snuck out, leaving it to J.D. to explain that yes, they both wanted to change their flights but, no, only one of them needed to book another night at the hotel. Fill in the blank.

  When Payton got to her room, she glanced at the clock and saw she had just enough time to squeeze in a quick shower before checkout. But first things first. She pulled out her BlackBerry and scrolled through her email. Luckily it was Saturday and things seemed relatively quiet. When she got to the end, she saw she had an email from J.D.—one that he’d sent about five minutes earlier. She opened the message and read:

  Stop checking your email and get back here.

  Payton laughed. Wow—for J.D. that was practically mushy. She showered, got ready, threw her things into her suitcase, and before she knew it, she was back on the “Club level,” opening the door to J.D.’s room with the spare key he had given her.

  Although now, she supposed, it was their room.

  Given their history, it was kind of surreal that she and J.D. had a “their” anything. Payton shoved her suitcase into the closet, figuring she’d decide later where to put her stuff. She paused in the marble-tiled hallway, suddenly hesitating before entering the main part of the suite.

  Maybe this was a bad idea.

  Maybe she and J.D. should have left things on a high note. Last night was perfect, and maybe that’s all they were meant to have together—just one great, crazy night, 95 percent of the details of which would have to be edited for content when she got back to Chicago and told Laney about it. Maybe now, in the light of day, things were going to be different.

  Payton headed into the living room and could hear J.D. in the bathroom. From the intermittent splashing of water followed by pauses, it sounded like he was shaving. She peeked around the corner and saw that the door to the bathroom was open, so she knocked lightly. He told her to come in, so she did and—

  —nearly did a double take.

  “Hey, you,” J.D. said with a smile, as he wiped his face with a towel. He had his shirt off, but Payton’s shocked eyes were focused elsewhere on his body, a little farther south.

  He was wearing jeans.

  J. D. Jameson was wearing jeans.

  He caught Payton’s expression in the mirror. “What’s with the look?”

  Payton propped herself against the doorway, enjoying the view. “Nothing—I didn’t think you owned jeans, that’s all.”

  Now he gave her a look. “Of course I own jeans.”

  Payton stepped into the bathroom. “I didn’t realize the Queen’s tailors worked with denim,” she teased. But the truth was, she loved it: very sexy-conservative-businessman-gets-down-to-earth-on-the-weekend chic. And had she mentioned that he was shirtless?

  “Very funny.” J.D. reached for the short-sleeved polo shirt he’d tossed onto the marble vanity before shaving.

  Oh, hell, no. In two strides, Payton crossed the bathroom and put her arms around J.D.’s waist, stopping him from putting on his shirt. She stood up on her toes and kissed him.

  “What was that for?” J.D. asked.

  Payton smiled. “I don’t know—I think I missed you.”

  Wow. That had just flown right out of her mouth before she’d had a chance to think about it. She quickly covered. “Or maybe I just really, really, like you in these jeans.”

  J.D. peered down at her. His eyes probed hers, and she had a feeling he was debating whether to call her on her slipup. But then he grinned. “In that case, maybe I should never take them off.”

  Payton inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Banter. Flirtation. Good, this is what she knew—they were on equal ground again. She ran her hands along J.D.’s chest. Whether she admitted it or not, she had missed him. And it had only been an hour.

  “I have a feeling I could get you out of those jeans if I wanted to,” she said.

  “You’re certainly welcome to try,” he replied. He leaned down to kiss her, and Payton knew that her earlier hesitation had been wrong.

  Whatever this was between her and J.D., it most definitely was not over yet.

  THE DAY FLEW by far too quickly.

  It was after one o’clock by the time they finally stumbled out into the bright Florida sun. Although each of them had packed extra clothes, neither had a swimsuit, and while J.D. was thoroughly in favor of seeing Payton in a bikini, there was no way he was about to wear any swimsuit that came from a hotel gift shop. Payton laughed and called him a snob, but didn’t seem at all disappointed when he suggested they walk the beach instead.

  The walk led them to a nearby beachside café, which led to lunch and afternoon drinks—Payton looked as shocked when he ordered a beer as she had when she’d seen him in jeans—and by the time they headed back to their hotel they were both feeling good and warm and maybe just the slightest bit sunburned.

  Partly out of convenience, partly due to laziness, and frankly because there was no beating the view, they had dinner on the hotel’s oceanfront terrace. The “scene of the crime,” Payton called it as they ordered a bottle of wine. In one sense, J.D. agreed—that was where things had all started. But not really. In truth, things had started eight years ago, at a welcome orientation, wh
en he walked up to the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and introduced himself.

  J.D. never would’ve described himself as a particularly sensitive or romantic guy—and even if he did have any tendencies of that sort, he definitely would’ve hidden them far, far beneath his rational-minded lawyer exterior—but he was in touch with his emotions enough to know that, simply stated, everything about his weekend with Payton had been perfect and he wanted more time with her.

  The problem, of course, was that he had no clue whether she held a similar opinion on the subject. He sensed that she was holding back, and he understood that better than anyone. Possibly his favorite part of the weekend had been earlier in the day, the moment in the bathroom when she said she’d missed him. It was a rare thing for him to see her let down her guard like that.

  J.D. realized that, sooner or later, he and Payton were going to have to have A Serious Talk, and if she didn’t initiate it, then he would. If he had learned anything from the Clark Kent Stupid-Fuck-Up-Beyond-All-Stupid-Fuck-Ups, it was that he wasn’t about to waste any more time wondering or assuming what Payton Kendall might be thinking.

  “ADMIT IT—YOU were a little spitfire in law school, weren’t you?”

  Payton grinned at J.D.’s question, shaking her head no. “By the time I got to law school, my rebellious, instigating days were pretty much over. My freshman year of college, per family influence no doubt, I joined protests over . . . well, everything. But by my junior year, I guess I just got tired of being so . . .” She searched for the right word. “. . . angst-y all the time.”

  They lay in bed, again with sliding glass door open, so they could hear the crashing of the waves on the beach. This being their second night together, they had a routine now, a way “they” liked to do things. They had drifted into the airy, sentimental kind of conversation that lovers do after eight years of wanting to throttle each other and then realizing—oops—maybe we should just have sex instead.

  “I wish I could’ve seen you back in your angst-y college days,” J.D. said.