Tangled Up In Love Read online

  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.”

  His mouth quirked in a hint of a smile. “I know. But thanks, anyway. The naked knitting lessons, especially, really paid off.”

  A flush of heat suffused her cheeks at the reminder. She’d known that would come back to bite her in the butt someday—and not in the good way.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replied, rolling her eyes and hoping he wouldn’t notice her blushing. “You’re lucky I didn’t take the opportunity to do a little amateur acupuncture with the needles. And you still owe me that thousand bucks.”

  He gave a bark of laughter and slapped her on the thigh. His touch alone sent her temperature rising by a good ten degrees. Having him treat her with such familiarity, as though they were buddies—or lovers—shocked her into losing her breath altogether.

  “That’s my Ronnie, always quick with a comeback and ready to do bodily injury, if necessary. Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”

  He continued talking . . . she knew this because she watched his lips move . . . but for a moment, all she could hear was a loud ringing and the echo of him saying, That’s my Ronnie. Over and over, the comment played through her head like a scratched record. And her heart skipped a beat wondering if he meant it, or if it had been merely an off-the-cuff figure of speech.

  As her hearing began to clear, he said, “No, I want to say thank you for suggesting that I ask Zack about an exclusive. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself a lot sooner. He agreed, though, and we conducted the interview earlier this week.”

  He shifted beside her, his leg bumping into hers as he leaned his arms on his knees and rubbed his hands together almost nervously. “I’ve already been shopping it around.”

  This was good news, right? Ronnie’s nose wrinkled. It sounded like good news, but then, why was he fidgeting and acting so uncomfortable?

  “I’m glad,” she said carefully. “I hope you get some good nibbles.”

  Pushing up from the couch, he stalked across the room, digging his hands into the back pockets of his jeans as he began to pace.

  “That’s the thing,” he muttered, pointedly avoiding her gaze. “I already got some nibbles. More than nibbles—I got huge, marlin-sized yanks on the line. As soon as word got around that I’d gotten an exclusive, candid interview with the Rockets’ star goalie, my phone started ringing off the hook. At work and at home.”

  As the speed of his words increased, so did his strides. And then suddenly, without warning, he stopped and spun in her direction. Eyes locking on hers, he said, “I got an offer from Sports Weekly.”

  She was still digesting that information when he rushed forward and plopped down on the sofa beside her again, this time on her other side, forcing her to shift to hold his gaze.

  “Sports Weekly, Ronnie. Can you believe that? They’re only, like, the most popular sports magazine after Sports Illustrated.”

  A smile spilled across her face before she could think to stop it. Not that she would have; she was truly happy for him. It seemed they’d both been offered their dream jobs in the same week.

  “Congratulations,” she said, and meant it. Then, even though she suspected she already knew the answer, she asked, “Are you going to take it?”

  He’d be crazy not to. The same way she’d be crazy not to take the job in Chicago.

  His head bobbed in a nod. “I already gave my two weeks’ notice at the Herald.”

  Her grin broadened and she leaned in to hug him. He felt amazing—hot and hard and oh, so inviting.

  She tried not to let her hunger or her growing sense of loss slip into her voice when she said, “Good for you. You deserve it, and I know you’re going to love covering all those games and interviewing all those sports figures. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

  His arms around her back tightened and she closed her eyes, swallowing hard as emotions threatened to overtake her.

  “Yeah,” he whispered softly just above her ear. “It’s going to mean a lot of traveling, though, following different teams through each sports season.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” she told him, forcing a brusqueness into her voice that she didn’t particularly feel. “And after a while, I’ll bet you even start to like it.”

  She gave his shoulder a firm pat, pulling away before she did something stupid like spill her heart out or jump his bones for one last ride on the train to O-town.

  “I’ve got some news, too, actually,” she continued, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from its knot behind one ear.

  She hadn’t actually made up her mind until that very moment, but now that she knew Dylan would be out of town more often than he was home, that he was about to embark on the career he’d always wanted . . . she couldn’t stay here and watch that without either going insane with jealousy or succumbing to her need to throw herself at his feet, so it was better to follow his lead and get the hell out of Dodge.

  Pasting a wide smile on her face, she pitched her voice an octave higher than her mood would naturally convey and announced, “I’m moving to Chicago.”

  Row 20

  Dylan felt as though he’d been dropped from a very tall building and had yet to land. His vision narrowed, going dark at the edges while his hearing went haywire, fading in and out like a hard-to-tune radio station.

  Ronnie was moving? To Chicago?

  Since when?

  “I got a new job offer, too,” she said, doing that eerie thing where she read his mind. “At the Chicago City News. It’s a more prominent paper, better money, will provide me with better career opportunities. So it’s, you know . . . good. Just what I’ve always wanted, too.”

  Yeah, it was just freaking fantastic. Just what she’d always wanted.

  Except that she wasn’t supposed to want to leave Cleveland.

  Okay, he’d known that was part of her agenda practically from the beginning because it went hand in hand with climbing the ladder to success, but still . . .

  She wasn’t supposed to want to leave Cleveland, because she was supposed to want to be with him. He was supposed to have won her over with his sophisticated charm and out-of-this-world sexual prowess.

  Dammit. Hell, damn, shit, fuck.

  This wasn’t going at all the way he’d imagined. In fact, it was so far off track, he might as well be in Siberia.

  Think, Stone. Get your ass out of the fire and back into the frying pan.

  “This is great,” Ronnie went on, bouncing to her feet. “We’re both starting new jobs, turning new corners in our careers and our lives. It’s amazing how things turn out sometimes, isn’t it?”

  She had her arms wrapped snuggly around her w
aist, emphasizing the generous curve of her breasts where some goofy-looking monkey had its finger stuffed up its nose.

  How was it even possible for that to turn him on?

  Maybe it had something to do with knowing the exact size and shape and feel of the breasts the stupid chimp was pressed up against, and being able to see the slightest hint of nipple through the gray cotton.

  Taking a deep breath, he clenched his fists to keep from running a hand down the front of his trousers in an effort to rein in his raging libido, and forced himself to focus on the little fragments of his life that were currently breaking apart and spinning out of control.

  Now, what had she been saying? Oh, yeah. That their lives were coming together so well, and they should both be so happy.

  Screw that. A new job wasn’t going to make him happy. It wasn’t going to make her happy, either. Neither was moving across two states.

  And if she was happy about it, then she wouldn’t be standing there looking pale and pinched and hugging herself like her pet parakeet had just died.

  He knew her well enough by now to recognize that the smile on her face was for his benefit, not her own. His heart lifted as that knowledge seeped into his bones, making him push back his shoulders, straighten his spine, and puff his chest out just an inch or two. He grinned, brimming with renewed determination.

  “Actually,” he said slowly, “I’m not sure it’s as great as you think.”

  Her phony smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, see,” he drawled, taking half a step forward to crowd her, “I didn’t come over here just to tell you about Sports Weekly.”

  Her voice was soft and reed-thin when she said, “You didn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  Another step forward. She licked her lips and took a nervous step back. It took all the self-control he could muster not to flash a wide grin before grabbing her up and kissing her senseless.

  Moving at the speed of molasses, he leaned in, amused when she leaned back, then over until he could reach the paper sack he’d left on the floor while they’d eaten. Straightening, he noticed that her chocolate-brown eyes had gone round in wariness.