The Redhead Series

  I laughed so hard at the image I had tears in my eyes. “Oh man, you know Lane is riding high on his Time fame!”

  I was just about to ask why he’d been at Holly’s offices when she said quietly, “Aren’t you going to ask me how he’s doing?”

  I stopped laughing almost instantly, but the tears remained. She didn’t mean Lane.

  “How is he?” I whispered.

  “Miserable,” she said.

  I was quiet, taking it in.

  “Grace, you know I love you, and I will support every decision you make. But I think, well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  “I think you might have been wrong on this one.”

  I sighed heavily. “I know you love me, but I just need this right now, okay? I know you don’t understand why I did what I did—hell, I barely do. But right now, I just need some time. Please, let’s not talk about this again until some more time has passed.”

  She waited a moment, then agreed. We talked a few more minutes, then she told me she loved me, and we said good-bye.

  This whirlwind romance with Jack had brought up every insecurity I’d ever had. Sure, we were great when it was just us, but when you put it in the context of real life? It had to end. I didn’t know what I wanted in my romantic life, but it no longer made sense for me to be playing house with a twenty-four-year-old. No matter how much I loved him.

  And Michael? He was my rock.

  We spent even more time together. A few nights, he walked me home from rehearsal, and we talked about anything and everything—avoiding all things Hamilton, but anything else was fair game. We let some feelings out that had been carefully walled up for weeks, years even. Did it make me forget about Jack? No, but it did help. Spending time with Michael and remembering how good and simple things once had been was incredibly helpful. It eased some of my guilt over the terrible way I’d ended things with Jack.

  One night, when rehearsal had ended early for a change, I heard Michael call after me as I headed out the door.

  “Hey, Grace!”

  “Hey, what?” I smiled as I turned around.

  “Great rehearsal today. I didn’t think you could get any better, but, man, lately you’re really on fire!” His whole face lit up. He stood next to me in the doorway, hair wild. His warm brown eyes gazed into mine.

  Those damn eyes. I’d thought about them for years.

  “Yes, well, breakups are great for creativity, aren’t they?” I chuckled ruefully.

  He stopped smiling instantly. “Oh shit, Grace. I’m sorry. I know this is tough right now. If there’s something I can do . . .” He trailed off.

  “No, it’s okay. You just gotta go through it, right? I’ll see you tomorrow.” I patted him on the arm and turned to walk out.

  “Grace?”

  “Now this is getting ridiculous.” I laughed, looking over my shoulder.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I was going to take a walk, then grab some dinner on the way home. Why? What’s up?”

  “Well, I was thinking we could grab dinner and maybe a movie?”

  No movies. Time posters everywhere. You can’t handle that.

  “Ugh, no movies,” I said, shaking my head vigorously and pointing at the poster on the bus stop across the street.

  “Oh, right! Of course. That was rude. I just thought . . . I don’t know . . .” His head tilted down toward the ground.

  On impulse, I reached out and raised his chin. “How about just dinner?”

  I surprised myself.

  I definitely surprised him.

  We’d eaten dinner together countless times since I’d moved to New York, but this was different. We both knew what I was asking.

  My fingers felt the scruff of his whiskers. He hadn’t shaved today. His hand tentatively reached up and took mine, raising his eyebrows to see if this was okay. It was the first time we’d physically acknowledged each other this way since being thrown back together. Up until now it had been playful hugs and punching.

  “Dinner sounds great,” he said, grinning.

  My heart beat a mile a minute. “Let’s go.” I opened the door and led him out into the street. Into the city.

  As we walked, we kept our hands clasped. At one point, he noticed me glancing down at our entwined fingers.

  “Is this okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s okay.” I nodded, shivering a little in the night air. I had on my leather coat, but it was November on the East Coast, and it was cold.

  He let go of my hand and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer. He looked at me, questioning again, and I nodded once more, although the Drawer was rattling a little.

  Had enough time passed since the end with Jack?

  It’s been weeks.

  It was time to explore these feelings I was having. It was a little strange being so close to another man, but this was Michael, after all. Still, my thoughts strayed to Jack. I wondered what he was doing tonight. I wondered if he’d ever understand what I was doing.

  I wondered if I’d ever understand what I was doing.

  Michael smelled different than Jack, but good. Like wool and sage and lemons. And Right Guard. He smelled the same as he had in college, when I fell in love with him. This felt odd but right.

  We ended up at a small sushi bar on the Upper West Side, close to my apartment. I’d become a frequent patron of this restaurant—fantastic spicy tuna rolls. We squeezed into a booth at the back and ordered hot sake. As we sipped, I realized we could very well be on our first-ever date.

  I was suddenly nervous, and it seemed he was as well. I’d look at him, then he’d look away. He’d stare at me, and I’d look down at the table. We were in a constant state of blush. He was red to the tips of his ears, and I could feel my chest burning bright.

  When we both looked away for the tenth time, I reached across the table and grasped his hand. “We’re being silly, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said, letting his breath out all at once. He looked instantly more relaxed, and I giggled.

  His eyes twinkled. “It’s silly that after all the time we’ve known each other we’re so nervous,” he said, picking up his sake with the hand that wasn’t clasping mine.

  “As I recall, you used to make me nervous all the time,” I said, sipping from my own tiny cup.

  “You nervous? Ha. You didn’t seem so nervous the night you attacked me,” he teased, setting down his cup and holding my hand in both of his. He traced the inside of my wrist with his fingertips, and my skin reacted with goose bumps.

  “I really did attack you, didn’t I?” I laughed as the waitress set down our tray, and we began to eat.

  “Yes, you really did. You actually knocked my head into the wall behind me so hard I saw stars,” he said, mixing wasabi and soy sauce with his chopstick.

  “I did? Well, I wanted to get your attention, and I figured shoving my tongue down your throat would do the job pretty quickly.” I laughed, suddenly feeling a little less at ease.

  “You always had my attention, Grace,” he said quietly, looking up at me through his long eyelashes.

  My heart leaped, then my stomach clenched. I thought of Jack.

  Michael picked up a piece of salmon with his chopsticks and raised it into the air. “Well, Grace, here’s to you. And to the show. And to Mabel, who I now think I created expressly to bring you back into my life.” He smiled, those damnable brown eyes warm.

  “To Mabel,” I added, raising my own chopsticks in celebration.

  We spent the evening enjoying each other. I felt more and more relaxed as the night went on, and despite some momentary pangs for enjoying dinner with another man, I pushed through it.

  This is what you wanted, remember?

  “Do you ever think about that night, Grace?” Michael asked as we lazily sipped the last of our sake, waiting for the check.

  “Yes. Sometimes. Do you?” I asked, knowing instantly what he was referring to, my voice steady. His gaze m
et mine, and neither of us looked away this time.

  “Yes. More so lately. Over the years I thought about you and wondered where you were, what you were up to. I missed you sometimes,” he said.

  “I missed you too,” I whispered, my voice no longer steady.

  The check came and he put his credit card down without even looking at the waitress. She took it away while we stared at each other.

  He licked his lips.

  I tugged at my hair.

  Our eyes never left each other.

  The check came back to the table, and our gaze finally broke as he signed the receipt.

  He stood and helped me with my coat. I was fighting with my scarf, trying to get my hair out from underneath it when he leaned in to help. I felt his fingers graze the back of my neck, and the instant spark from his touch made me take an extra breath. He brushed my hair out of the way and straightened it out. I stared up at him, the scent of warm wool and lemons thick in the air between us.

  “You ready?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I think so,” I answered, looking deep into his eyes.

  He led me to the door, and we walked the few blocks to my apartment. We didn’t talk. I kept my arm looped through his, and he kept me close. We stopped in front of my door, and he looked at me.

  “Well, I’ll see you in the morning, eight a.m.”

  “Yep, eight a.m.,” I answered, swinging my arms nervously.

  “Grace, I’m really glad we did this. It was really . . . nice,” he said. I felt a wave of nostalgia crash through me, as I remembered what had made me fall in love with him back in the day.

  “Me too,” I replied, focusing all my attention on that bottom lip.

  “So, good night,” he said, and turned to walk away.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That bottom lip, that lip. My entire world was tied to that bottom lip. Why were all the men in my life constantly biting on their lower lip? And why did I find it so sexy?

  I saw Jack—Johnny Bite Down—in my head, his face broken and sad that last night in L.A. I saw Michael holding my hand as we walked the streets of New York.

  You can do this.

  “Wait, Michael!” I called.

  He turned back, an expectant look on his face.

  “Do you want to come up for a while?” I asked, smiling.

  He looked at me, eyes full of questions.

  I nodded in affirmation.

  “You sure?” he asked, walking toward me.

  “Yes.”

  He came back to me. “Then, yes. I’ll come up.” He took my hand and brought it to his mouth. His warm lips pressed to my skin, and I stared at the man I’d let get away from me when I was twenty-one.

  The man who broke your heart, you mean?

  Yes, yes. Whatever.

  But he was here now. Again. And I knew we were perfect for each other. All the signs pointed to it. I mean, people float in and out of your life for a reason. Michael and I were meant to fix what we should’ve never let break in the first place, all those years ago. I knew he wanted me. I knew that for certain now.

  I took another deep breath and squelched the image that kept rising in my head: my George.

  I pushed it aside with all my might, slammed the Drawer, and reached for Michael’s other hand. Walking backward into my building, I pulled him with me. “Come on,” I said, and we went inside.

  fifteen

  Michael followed me into the elevator without another word. I took a deep breath as I pressed the button for my floor. My head was whirling—from the sake, from the closeness of Michael, from the distance from Jack.

  When the door pinged open, I looked at Michael and was overcome by the warmth in his eyes. He smiled hesitantly at me, and I smiled back. I extended my hand once more to him and pulled him out into the hallway. We walked silently down the hall to my door, and when I pulled my keys out, he took them and opened the door for me. He nodded and let me walk in before him. As I passed him, I took another hit of wool and lemons, and my eyes crossed a little. It was intoxicating.

  I took off my coat. He removed his. I asked him if he wanted anything to drink. He declined. I started to say something about the mess in my apartment. There was no mess.

  And then he came to me, all comfort and safe haven, and opened his arms.

  I fell into them, my face nuzzling against the soft fleece covering his chest. I could feel his breathing speed up as mine did, and I felt his arms around me, his face buried in my hair, his breath hot in my ear.

  I was spun backward in time to a futon and a boy and a girl discovering each other. My hands clutched at his fleece as his hands dug into the small of my back.

  “Grace,” I heard him say, and I shivered.

  I pulled away to look up and was momentarily blinded by the feeling shining from his eyes. I smiled shyly at him, and he bent his head. He pressed his lips to mine as softly and shyly as my smile. My stomach tightened as I allowed myself to feel everything coursing through me at that moment.

  His hands moved across my back, gently pressing me into his body. I deepened our kiss, tracing my tongue across his bottom lip and sucking it into my mouth. He sighed, his breath fanning across my face in a heavenly way.

  He answered my kiss with a deeper one of his own, his hands now tangled in my hair. My hands slipped around to his back, sliding up under his pullover, touching his skin for the first time.

  We pulled apart for one second, the space between us crackling. Our foreheads met.

  His hands moved restlessly from my hair to my back, continuing to press me farther into him. I felt his excitement at our closeness. It was thrilling.

  I trailed my nails down his back, and he groaned.

  “Grace, you’re killing me.” He laughed, and I smiled in response.

  “Let me,” I whispered.

  His hands crept between us, and he slipped my shirt out of my pants. My skin was on fire as I felt his knuckles graze my tummy, and I inhaled quickly.

  He stopped, bending his head to meet my eyes. “Is this okay?” he asked, concern in his face.

  You sure about this?

  Shhhh.

  “It’s okay, Michael. Really.” I brought my hands back around front and slipped them under his shirt.

  He grinned, then closed his eyes at the sensation of my hands exploring his chest and abdomen. I pushed up his shirt and kissed his skin. His scent was stronger here, the heat concentrated. I kissed across his chest and felt his hands raise my shirt. He began to undress me. I let him.

  We made our way to the bedroom, and as we walked, me backward and him forward, shirts were removed. We smiled and laughed a little, in the way that young kids do when they discover something new and exciting, but a little scary.

  We paused at the edge of the bed, neither of us quite sure who would make the first move, beyond simple exploration and into something much more serious. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and pushed him down onto the comforter. He quickly rolled so that I was beneath him, and held my face in his hands as he gazed down at me.

  “I’ve thought about having you this way again for so long, Grace,” he murmured, sweeping kisses across my forehead and down across my face.

  He bent his head to me, his curly hair tickling as he made his way down my body, kisses becoming more and more urgent. It felt wonderful and surreal and warm and comforting and weird and strange and too much.

  My brain and my heart began to fight, and my body waited to see who would win.

  His mouth sought me, nuzzled at my breast, and his wonderfully kind hands reached my bra, beginning to touch the skin underneath. I closed my eyes and felt his warm tongue touch me. My body reacted, and I arched underneath him. I heard him groan, and felt his lips encircle my breast. I opened my eyes and looked down to see his looking up at me.

  His eyes were warm.

  My body was cold.

  His rich, cozy scent of wool and lemons was now too thick, too much, too there.

  Lemon
s. My lemon trees. Home.

  Home is where your heart is. Where is your heart, Grace?

  This was wrong. Grace and Michael lived perpetually back in college, in what might have been. As lovely as this idea was, it was now all wrong.

  I felt my eyes burning. My heart had won. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and all I could see was my sweet Jack—the pain in his eyes when I closed my heart to him.

  “Michael, please,” I begged.

  “Grace, I know, I know,” he whispered, kissing me intimately.

  “No, Michael, I can’t. I just can’t,” I said, pulling him back up my body.

  “Gracie, what’s wrong?” he asked, sitting up and caressing my face.

  You are not his Gracie.

  “Please don’t call me that,” I said, tears running freely now.

  Horrified, he sat back on the side of the bed. I sat up, pulling my shirt back in place to cover myself.

  Tears ran down my face as I tried to explain to my dear, sweet friend why this couldn’t happen. “Michael, I’m so sorry, but I just can’t,” I said, brushing his hair back from his face. He’d slipped his shirt back on, and now sat with me, his arm around my shoulders. I’d wrapped myself tightly in a blanket.

  “I knew this was too soon,” he said. “I should never have come up here. This was too soon after, well . . .” He rocked me back and forth.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Oh, Michael, I just adore you,” I cried, throwing my arms around him again. I felt safe, now that I’d stopped what this was about to become. I still had alarm bells going off in my head, but they were starting to quiet down.

  “We just need to slow down. I’m not going anywhere,” he replied.

  I stopped short. I needed to be clear. I couldn’t leave him behind as another casualty.

  “No, Michael, I can’t do this. Ever,” I started, as he stared at me, blinking. “You’re too good a friend to me, but I think . . . I think our time has passed. Don’t you feel it? Doesn’t this feel too much like we’re trying too hard?” I begged him with my eyes, wanting him to see it, feel it too.

  “Aw, Grace. You’re too crazy for me. What the hell?” he slumped back on the bed, covering his face with his arm.