《Suspiciously Obedient (Obedient #2)》


 Page 1

    Chapter One


    Attaboy.Advertisement


    Mike felt the most bizarre sense of pride that he could, somehow, maintain an erection even through the horror of his realization that Lydia had driven him to a place in his soul and body so wild and free and hot and Bacchanalian that he had lost part of his mind and forgotten that hidden cameras dotted his office.


    Logic dictated his life. Analysis and crafty, clever considerations and calibrations of every facet of every circumstance he found himself in, in order to compute the most advantageous outcome for himself. And holy fucking shit! he had lost his head ¡ªbig one and little one¡ªover this woman who was nestled in his arms right under reality television producer Jonah Moore¡¯s camera.


    How could he have let this happen? How could he have allowed himself to be driven to this point, by this incredible, luscious woman? Who, he now realized, he had just fucked twice. Once with his body, and then he fucked her over by losing his head.


    Pretending to be middle-manager Matt Jones for the television stunt while hiding his true identity ¨C CEO of Bournham Industries, Michael Bournham ¨C had been a no-brainer a few weeks ago. But now? The no-brainer had turned into the biggest mess of his life.


    Afterglow was replaced with self-revulsion and the seconds ticked by, their breathing shifting into concert with each other, the patterns of the room of touch, of sound, of sight and taste and feel, all creaking past him in time, nanosecond by nanosecond, as the full implications of what had just happened sunk in. Oh, how he wanted more of her.


    Oh, how he had just destroyed that.


    The worst part, though, was that she sat here, still over him, her bare skin pressed into his, a little half-smile on her face, tiny sighs and pants of contentment, and he couldn¡¯t even enjoy it. How do you fall for someone and lose them all in the same second? First, he had to get them out from under any more tapings. Second, his mind clicked into modes that he used as CEO in intense negotiation situations. Third, he needed to make sure he did not say her name and that her face did not go near the camera. Fourth, they needed to get out of there as fast as possible.


    And then, he realized what he needed to say. ¡°I¡¯m starving,¡± he said quietly, whispering in her ear, eliciting a shiver of delight from her that made him just want to take her again. Fortunately, logic was kicking in and he could hold his body at bay, but not for much longer.


    ¡°Me too. What do you want to go get?¡±


    You, he thought. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Let¡¯s decide when we leave.¡±


    She peeled herself off of him and straightened her skirt and shirt, and then started to turn toward the camera. He leaped for her, pulling her down, taking her mouth with a kiss¡ªthe only option he could think of to hide her face from the damn camera. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the red light turn back on. Shit. He was right. They were videoing him. If he said anything to her right now it would just put her in even more danger of being fully revealed.


    ¡°Mmm,¡± she said, pulling back. ¡°Round two?¡± she murmured against his mouth.


    Not here, he thought. ¡°Not here,¡± he said. ¡°Let¡¯s go, recharge our batteries, fuel up, and then¡­your place?¡± he said.


    She got a funny look on her face and said, ¡°I¡¯m not sure if my gra¡ª¡±


    He closed his mouth over hers again. If she said ¡°grandma,¡± that would¡­oh, God, he just¡­the implications were spinning through his mind. This was getting to be too much. Even Michael Bournham, CEO, had his limitations when it came to stressful, no-way-out situations. He picked her up in his arms and carried her physically across the threshold of the office, plopped her down where he hoped there weren¡¯t many cameras, and grabbed his clothes. The hallway, he knew, had a camera on one end but not on the other. Unfortunately, that was the stairwell. If they went anywhere near the elevators, who knew? Jonah had made that snide comment the other day and now Mike really wondered what they had caught of their earlier elevator encounter.


    His eyes scanned the entire outer office area where her desk and the cubicles were located, searching for cameras. Looking at the ceiling first, he saw no red lights. Looking at her cubicle he saw nothing, then back in his office he could see the red glow. So, the outer office was probably safe but the elevators could be an issue.


    He dressed quickly and then, with as genuine and earnest a smile he could muster, he said, ¡°You up for some exercise? Let¡¯s take the stairs.¡±


    She looked down at her shoes¡ªwhich, thank God, happened to be sensible today of all days and not those red leather high heels that he had fantasized about her wearing in bed, and nothing else, while he fucked her silly.


    ¡°I¡¯m game,¡± she said. ¡°Work up an even bigger appetite.¡±


    He felt like a live wire, his brain exploding as he tried to figure out the best possible way to get out of this building, and all he could think of was to look at her and say, ¡°Race you!¡± And sprint down the hallway to the stairs.


    He could hear her shuffling and then, the pounding of footsteps behind him as she shouted, ¡°What are you? A third-grader?¡± Her voice carried as he slammed through the fire doors and started down the stairs, the pounding of his footsteps helping to clear his mind. As long as she didn¡¯t say her name, as long as her face wasn¡¯t caught on camera, there was some hope here. His cover was blown, and as he made his way down to the second flight of steps, he heard her shout from the top, ¡°Matt, slow down, for God¡¯s sake!¡±


    Matt. Oh, God, she still thought he was Matt Jones. Of course she did. He was too chickenshit to tell her, and now, racing brain and mind jumbled into one big ball of horror as he raced to get them out from under Jonah Moore''s prying eye, he certainly wasn''t going to spill all. In due time he would confess.


    Right now he had no time to do anything but try to protect her while keeping her in a state of double ignorance.


    His thighs pulled back, his back tightened, his knees drew up a little, his body willed by his chaotic mind to follow her direct order. It was the only way he could get through these moments, to do what she told him, to be directed for once. And so, he did, slowing down in the safety of the stairwell as she caught up, stood on tiptoes, reached for his face, and kissed him, breathless and laughing.


    By the time they reached the street level, his quads were in agony, she complained about her feet, and they stood in the dark, the buzzing of nighttime in Boston a welcome balm for the zinging in his own mind.


    ¡°Where to?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Anywhere but Jeddy¡¯s,¡± he answered.


    Oh, the sound of her laughter, almost lyrical and lilting. She was happy, genuinely happy, and he had made her that way. No¡ªhe hadn¡¯t.


    Matt Jones had.


    Tempo Bistro was the kind of place she and Krysta had talked about, hoping someday some guy would take them to because it was about five steps above their pay grade at Bournham Industries. Matt must be doing okay if he could suggest it, and Lydia wondered how much room she had on her credit card in case this was a Dutch dinner.


    The atmosphere was Asian fusion¡ªbeautiful, slim lines, simple Zen look. As they were seated at a small table she glanced to her right, noticing what looked like a first date. A blonde woman sitting across from one of the hottest guys she had ever seen¡ªhe looked like a blend of a firefighter and a model. And the woman was clearly about as nervous as you could get. Blind date? she wondered. You go, girl.


    Then she turned and looked across her own table, staring into those strange green eyes. She hadn¡¯t done so bad herself. What a wild ride, literally and metaphorically. An hour ago she was perched in his lap, fucking him passionately, giving in to so much that she had held back these past few weeks. And now she was sitting across a dinner table from him, that post-coital bliss shattered by his weird need to go out and get something to eat, with a strong suggestion that they could pick things up where they left off later, in her apartment. Oh, how she hoped that offer was still valid after they ate. She could go all night, something in her unleashed and ready for beyond more.


    When the server appeared, Matt began to order and she realized he was ordering for both of them. Flattered and offended all at once, she interrupted him. ¡°I may not want what you¡¯re ordering,¡± she said.


    He looked at her, surprised. ¡°I am so sorry,¡± he said, reaching for her hand. ¡°I wasn¡¯t trying to be rude or imposing, it¡¯s just that I come here so often that I know all of the good dishes.¡±


    Something in her flared and melted at the same time as she struggled, seconds ticking, until finally she just let go, let herself trust that she didn¡¯t have to fight every gender battle as if it were the war. ¡°Go ahead. If you know the menu well, then I¡¯m going to trust you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± he said, raising his eyebrows, an uncertain grin spreading into one that was more confident.


    ¡°On this,¡± she said pointedly. ¡°But don¡¯t assume. Never assume.¡±


    The waitress smiled and said, ¡°First date?¡±


    They both exchanged a slightly bemused look and simultaneously said, ¡°Sort of.¡±


    The waitress laughed, shook her head slightly, and walked away. Lydia leaned into the table, staring at him, his face a jumble of emotions she couldn¡¯t identify easily. His hair was mussed, and she wondered how awful hers looked right now. All her makeup was probably melted or kissed off. Was her skirt as wrinkled as his shirt?


    What she saw in his face, though, was a careful cataloging of her. They were reading each other, trying to figure out the meaning of what had just happened in the office. Some part of her desperate to know, was also eager to just let it unfold without dissecting it or analyzing it or ripping it apart. Just enjoy the heat of his body, the glow of his look, the smile on his mouth when he kissed her. If there was more she was supposed to understand, she could understand it tomorrow. Right now, she didn¡¯t want to think. She wanted to feel.


    When the server brought the food she was glad she had trusted Matt. He picked some of the most tantalizing dishes. From shrimp bigger than her fist to delicate pieces of sashimi with flavors infused with lavender and lilac and something maple, it was a smorgasbord of Asian delight, and by the end of their meal she glanced over at the blonde and the firefighter-type again and saw that some spark was there, a deepening in the way that they handled the air between them. And she smiled to herself, wondering if someone else watching them saw what she felt.


    He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back in his chair. ¡°Sated?¡± she asked.


    His eyelids flew open, a dark, smoky look emanating from him directly into her. ¡°Not yet,¡± he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. ¡°But we have dessert yet to enjoy.¡±


    He wondered if it was obvious¡ªwhether she could tell that he was distracted, whether his eyes revealed his deep panic, whether she could see how much he was pulled in two directions by a tug-of-war of his own making?


    A quick glance to his right showed a couple in that first-date dance, the woman a curvy blonde flashing smiles at her date, a built guy who looked like an Irish-Italian boxer. Her finger traced circles around the rim of her sake glass, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. In the dating world she was saying ¡°fuck me,¡± and from the cool, calm, suave demeanor the guy exuded, Mike could tell he knew it, too.

 Page 2

    Why couldn''t he and Lydia be that couple? What he wouldn''t give to roll the clock back and just ask her out at that employee orientation nearly two years ago. He''d wanted to. And he could have; she''d have likely said yes, even in her anger at his misconstrued condescension. Yet he''d held back, smart enough to know not to pursue her when she was pissed, and then¡­


    And then what? Why hadn''t he chased her? Years of financial statements and merger conference calls and red-eye jet rides blended into a blob of excuses. He got busy. Life got crazy. The rise to the top meant leaving lots of important things behind.Advertisement


    Lame. All of it.


    There was no easy answer, because at the heart of it all he had put his ambition ahead of himself. Cheating himself out of years of happiness. A thief of lives, and as he built an empire he had broken more than one heart.


    His.


    Hers.


    Too many.


    All of those thoughts whipped through his mind at breakneck speed as he tried to keep up with the conversation, grateful for a final platter of something that turned out to be tasteless and cloying. It wasn''t the food. It was him, appetite vanished and the world increasing the rate of speed with which it hurtled through space.


    Hours. If he was really, incredibly lucky, he had a few more hours to be with her before the entire world blew up. That video was like an asteroid on a collision course with his life. Even a nuclear bomb wouldn''t break it apart enough to be harmless.


    Inevitability sank in. Mike wasn''t the type to give up or give in, but right now he had one of the last, few conscious choices to make before the juggernaut of that sex tape took over his life, Lydia''s reputation, and Bournham Industries¡¯ gossips. Not to mention the board of directors. With a life that had been carefully calibrated to work perfectly, he knew it was all going to topple neatly as well. Like implementing a military coup¡ªit was always easier to conquer a highly organized society than to destroy one filled with chaos.


    Efficiency and corporate sociopathy had made his company a lean, aggressive leader in media strategies. Ironic, then, that the media itself would destroy him, playing endless loops of that tape until Buddhist monks in isolation in the Himalayas could recite every sound from memory.


    Lydia''s mouth was moving and he realized she was saying something to him, expecting a response. Glowing and excited, her clothes were a bit rumpled from being tossed aside in a heady rush, and her hair had a carefree look to it that made him proud. He had done that. Put the wrinkles in her clothes, the pink in her cheeks, the twinkle in her eyes, the moans in her mouth and elsewhere. Achievement came in many forms, so why hadn''t he reveled in this accomplishment the same way he gathered balance sheets, measuring his self worth by his net worth?


    If measured instead in orgasms and smiles, he¡¯d be a billionaire by now.


    Or die trying.


    Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Matt had changed a few minutes after they''d made love. Not the cooling off most guys went through after a one-night stand, where the air seemed to go stale and sickly within seconds, making her feel cheap and used even if she''d been a willing participant in her own debauchery. Only a handful of nights like that in her life, though; she learned what felt good emotionally and what did not quite well.


    Quick study, she was.


    No, this was a nearly palpable grief, as if Matt were about to be sent to the gallows, or awaited bad news. If they¡¯d been more familiar with each other, even a tiny bit, she¡¯d have been blunt and just asked what was wrong. Instead, though, she found herself having to go at the truth from the side entrance. Putting on a good face, he kept smiling at her, reaching for her hand, pretending to listen. But something wasn''t quite right, and finally she just decided to cut to the chase.


    ¡°What''s wrong?¡± she asked. ¡°You are acting like you just drowned a kitten by accident.¡± She leaned in and whispered mischievously, ¡°I know the sex wasn''t that bad.¡±


    His eyes were unfocused and he seemed almost drunk as he shook his head, trying to rid himself of a fog. ¡°Oh, no. Nothing.¡± Fake smile. She knew that one all too well; he was using the classic female maneuver, and she wasn''t going to let him get away with it.


    ¡°So the sex was that bad!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± That brought him back to reality. At the table to their left was a couple who looked like they got married during WWII, wrinkled faces stretched in a look of surprise, the woman covering her face with one hand and giggling into it. The old man looked at Matt and just shrugged.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t answer my question.¡±


    The old man leaned over and stage whispered, ¡°Bad sex is better than no sex, bud. Don¡¯t ask me how I know that. And,¡± he said, rheumy blue eyes peering at Lydia, ¡°get as much of it as you can while you can.¡±


    ¡°Marty!¡± his wife shouted.


    Thump. ¡°Ow! You kicked me,¡± he growled at her.


    ¡°You deserved it!¡± she snapped. The waitress looked at them nervously, standing in front of them with a heaping pile of soba noodles. Both dug into their food while Lydia and Matt tried not to laugh.


    ¡°Shall I kick you under the table?¡± she joked.


    Matt just blinked, studying her. ¡°You¡¯re not my wife,¡± he said with a sigh.


    ¡°Then you have no excuse for having bad sex,¡± Marty quipped. Thump. ¡°Ow.¡±


    ¡°Mind your manners,¡± his wife grumbled, her mouth full of wontons and noodles.


    Too polite to laugh in their faces, Lydia and Matt just ignored them.


    ¡°So, where are you from?¡± Matt asked her. She chuckled at the ¡°first-dateness¡± of the question and he seemed to recognize it too, laughing a bit as well.


    ¡°I¡¯m from Maine,¡± she said.


    He nodded. ¡°Portland?¡± Nearly everyone from Maine she¡¯d met in Boston had come from Portland, so she wasn¡¯t surprised by the question.


    ¡°No, a little town farther north called Verily.¡±


    ¡°Verily? Sounds Mayberry-ish.¡±


    She rolled her eyes with a smile. ¡°Something like that. My parents own a campground up there.¡±


    ¡°Really? A campground? Did you grow up there?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I did.¡±


    ¡°And you have brothers and sisters?¡±


    ¡°I have five brothers.¡±


    His hand froze. This wasn¡¯t an uncommon reaction and his eyes locked with hers, mouth going slack in a look of surprise and a bit of awe. ¡°Five brothers?¡± His brow furrowed. He said, ¡°Let me guess¡ªthey¡¯re all older.¡±


    ¡°Not quite. I have one who is younger. I¡¯m right in the middle, the fifth kid.¡±


    ¡°So you have¡­wow, I have all sisters,¡± he said.


    ¡°So, you know what it¡¯s like,¡± Lydia replied. ¡°Being the only one.¡±


    ¡°Yeah but¡­from the other end.¡± He paused and thought for a moment. ¡°Five brothers. This is going to get grim.¡±


    Her heart soared. That kind of comment meant that he was thinking about more, and until now, she had just been thinking about each moment, one by one, unfolding. The past few hours had been a heady rush of everything all at once, heart, mind, soul, and now here he was, talking about meeting her brothers. She wasn¡¯t sure what to say.


    ¡°You ready to get out of here?¡± he asked, eyes darting back and forth across the room.


    Full, and very much interested in spending more time with him in private, Lydia smiled and said, ¡°Sure, want to¡­¡± She paused, then looked him right in the eye, with the most determined look of an invitation that she had ever given a man. ¡°¡­Come back to my place for a drink?¡± Her middle finger traced circles around the top of her glass.


    His eyes broke away from hers and stared at the motion, transfixed. His neck and shoulder muscles relaxed and he reached for his wallet, pulling out a credit card to pay the bill. When he motioned for the server to come and handle the transaction, he found her eyes again. ¡°I would love a nightcap.¡±


    ¡°How about a morning coffee?¡± she said.


    The grin that spread across his face was shaky at first, and then, with a deep, gravelly voice, he answered, ¡°Even better.¡±


    They left, the old man from the couple waving with a lecherous smile, as they departed, Matt¡¯s arm around her waist, her stomach filled with butterflies. How could she still want more? she wondered. More, more, more, she thought. Of course, it was natural that she¡¯d want more, precisely because this, what she had with Matt, was more. It was more intense, more respectful, more emotional, and more promising than any set of interactions, of touches, and sighs, and words than she¡¯d ever had with another man. More.


    Stepping out into the cool evening air, hoping to cool her thoughts, the walk back to the office was reasonably short, and then the question, She hadn¡¯t driven in today, had he?


    ¡°Where¡¯re you parked?¡± she asked.


    ¡°In your spot.¡±


    Both laughed.


    ¡°Why would you take my spot?¡± she poked, as they walked to the very familiar location.


    ¡°You don¡¯t drive in half the time, so why do you need to defend it?¡±


    A tiny little piece of irritation mixed with the sheer joy of what she was experiencing. Memories of that first encounter in the parking lot, so long ago, and yet, so recent, fluttered through her mind. She shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s mine when I want it, and it¡¯s yours when I don¡¯t need it.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that the toddler creed?¡± he asked, opening the passenger door to his Toyota.


    She climbed in and had to concede that he had a point. ¡°Fine, what¡¯s mine is mine and what¡¯s yours is mine.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like my last girlfriend¡¯s mantra,¡± he poked back. Starting the car, he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way to the main street, then halted. ¡°I have no idea where you live,¡± he said.


    She gave him the address and he punched it into an old GPS. ¡°Calculating,¡± the machine said, and then boom.


    ¡°Seventeen minutes and fifty-three seconds?¡± she said. ¡°Well, that¡¯s fiction.¡±


    ¡°The machine doesn¡¯t know Boston or Cambridge,¡± Matt added.


    ¡°This time of night it shouldn¡¯t be too bad,¡± she said, as he made a left, and then for the next thirty minutes they chatted¡ªlighthearted banter that gave her the opportunity to live a dual existence, to let her own racing thoughts, assumptions, suppositions, and hopes all coexist with the small talk coming out of her mouth. This was going so much better than she could have ever expected, and taking him back to her apartment was going to be interesting. Grandma was gone for the night, staying at her boyfriend¡¯s house. She¡¯d been spending more and more time there, and it had left Lydia feeling a sense of neglect, of being left alone a little too much. Now she was grateful for the solace; it meant there would be no prying eyes of any kind in her relationship with Matt.


    What the hell are you doing, Mike? he thought as his hands turned the steering wheel to the left, and then, like a good little soldier, he turned to the right, following the GPS¡¯s precise instructions. Going back to her place was a natural next step, perfectly within the order of an evolving relationship, except this wasn¡¯t. Oh, how he wanted it to be, but oh, how he had fucked this one up royally.

 Page 3

    Turning his phone off had been smart. It felt a bit surreal to not have his hip or his upper thigh, or wherever the phone rested, buzzing nearly nonstop. The flood of calls, texts, and email notifications that filled his life so readily, so palpably against his body, had halted, giving him the ability to focus solely on Lydia. If only he had had this awareness back at the office, there were so many ways he could have prevented it happening¡ªand now, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he realized that what he was doing with her was scrambling to get the last little bit of normalcy that he could possibly have.


    Claiming a small amount of intimacy with her, carving it out of the remains of the day, would have to fulfill him for the rest of his life, because once she found out what he had done, there was no turning back. He had no way of explaining what had happened. Vicious scenario after vicious scenario whipped through his racing brain. This wasn¡¯t going to be a surprise, for him at least, but for her, it could destroy her, and the idea that he could destroy the woman whom, he had to admit to himself, he was falling in love with, made him sick.Advertisement


    Taking a deep breath, he kept himself calm. Where was the focused, centered, unflappable Michael Bournham who had built an empire? He lay ruined in that office back there. Drained, and ridden, and driven out of his own mind by his love and lust for Lydia. Pressing his lips together, he suppressed a very sour smile, too many emotions churning inside him and bobbing up for brief glimpses from an ocean of emotion, whipped up by the perfect storm. Lydia would hate his guts in the morning.


    Right now, though, she wanted him. She enjoyed him. The look on her face told him that she was enraptured by all this. Goddammit, so was he. Like a death row inmate, ready for his final meal, he turned the corner to what he assumed was her road, and she pointed to a small, nondescript building like plenty of others in Cambridge that housed multiple apartments. Parking was a bitch, but he finally found a place where he could nudge the rental in. Still playing the Matt Jones game, the junky little Toyota got him where he needed to go, and he parked it¡ªinexpertly, but managed nonetheless.


    They climbed out of the car and she reached for his hand, a bounce in her step that made her ass so much more appealing that he ever imagined a woman¡¯s could be. Her whole body was fluid, and excited, and enticing in a way that he knew he had no choice but to relish. In the morning their relationship would be a clusterfuck of unimaginable proportions. While he didn¡¯t have a crystal ball, he wasn¡¯t stupid¡ªhe knew how this would play out.


    For now, though, it wasn¡¯t morning, and the warmth of her fingers entwined in his, the brush of her upper thigh against his leg, all of it was his final meal. Lydia would be the appetizer and the entree, and most importantly, the dessert. As they entered the apartment, all he could think was that he needed to bury himself in her, in her scent, in the touch of her soft skin, their bodies melting together so that he could drive the thrumming fear and pain out of him.


    As Lydia flipped lights on in the small apartment, he noticed a Morris chair, a fine antique with a giant tie-dyed blanket that looked like something out of a Woodstock festival slung over it. She led him to the kitchen, which looked like something out of the Midwest, with rows of geese and a country feel to it. This was not your typical Cambridge apartment, where generally the decor ran from sleek Scandinavian down to a festive look at the past four decades of varying decorative styles, where the average seemed to be late ¡¯70s to early ¡¯80s, cheap Formica, and paneling.


    ¡°Have a seat,¡± Lydia said, as she pulled out a couple of bottles from the cabinet. He spotted tequila and then some sort of mixer, and then she reached into the refrigerator to pull out a jar of orange juice. ¡°Something simple?¡± she asked and he nodded, admiring her body and her casualness. Something in her had moved closer to comfort and to the assumption that the two of them were together. He liked that. Watching the rhythm of her chest as it rose and fell through breath after breath, her hands competent and efficient in pouring the drinks. She turned, her cheeks pink and face bright and hopeful, and nodded back toward the living room. ¡°Let¡¯s sit in there,¡± she said.


    He stood and took his glass from her. The first sip was a bit of a shock. It was tequila, sours, and orange juice. It was good, however, surprising him. ¡°What is this?¡± he asked.


    She grinned. ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Just something I make. No name to it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll call it the Lydia-tini.¡±


    She chuckled, looking down at her body. ¡°I¡¯m anything but teeny.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lush,¡± he said seriously, taking this as an invitation to begin touching her body once more, sliding his left hand around her waist, his hands covering the curves of her body, as if he were memorizing them to call upon them in the future, a map of her. His other hand was hampered by the drink, and so he drank it all down in one gulp, the sting of alcohol almost making him cough. He bent at the knees to set the drink down on an end table.


    Her eyes were wide with surprise. ¡°That good?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re that good.¡± Now that he had both hands available, he sank them into the soft flesh of her ass, grabbing her and pulling her close, a little rough, though she seemed to like it. Her lips touched his briefly, and then she imitated him, slinging back the drink like a coed at her first frat party. As she licked her lips he stopped her, the ferocity of his kiss mingling with the sweet taste of citrus. Tongues dancing and hands roaming, they stood in her barely lit living room, the air a bit stuffy, the room on fire. He gently turned her around and then sat on the multicolored Morris chair, pulling her into his lap. She hiked her skirt up and straddled him, just as they had in the office. He broke away from a sultry kiss. ¡°Wait,¡± he said, ¡°isn¡¯t this d¨¦j¨¤ vu?¡±


    ¡°I think we¡¯ve been here before.¡±


    ¡°Not here,¡± he said, looking around her living room.


    ¡°No, but in this position.¡±


    ¡°How about we try a different position?¡± he asked seriously, catching her eye in what little light emanated into the room.


    Standing, slowly unfolding her body from his, she reached back with one soft hand and beckoned to him. Fighting within against the pounding, screaming conscience that told him he was taking advantage, that he had gone too far already, that he shouldn''t compound the inevitable pain by drawing this out, he followed her into a neat, gray and lilac room that was starkly furnished, so different from the country kitsch of the kitchen.


    This was Lydia''s room, and it reflected her. Any other day and he would scan the room, practically inhaling the details so he could learn more about her. Time was precious, though, and instead he viewed this as a swan song of sorts, a bittersweet night of passion and expression that would have to last him the rest of his life.


    Once she knew what had happened with the camera there would be no way to explain the truth. How could anyone believe that Michael Bournham, of all people, had lost his head and fallen so deeply that he¡¯d forgotten his own plan?


    Even he wouldn''t believe it, and it was his fault.


    For one split second he nearly stopped, his own ethics swaying him just enough to believe that it was better to end this as her hands wandered to his waist band, beginning to unbutton and unleash him. Her face carried the hooded look of a woman going into a layer of arousal and wanton desire, and his body responded accordingly, erection quick and ready at the thought of being in her again, except this time without cameras or the interference of clothing. All night long with his passion unbound and this woman before him? In a bed with no boundaries, no rules, no pre-conceived notions¡­


    And no future?


    Her legs bent and she kissed his belly as she pulled his shirt up and pants down, the aggressive move driving all thought from him. Were her lips about to follow the hand that now gripped him at the base?


    Indeed, they were.


    Mike lost all tendrils of linear ethical thought and succumbed.


    Bold. She liked being bold. Wrapping her lips around him and feeling the vibration of his reaction¡ªthe deep, gravelly moan that accompanied her touch¡ªsent a shock through her, the thrill of power. As Matt''s knees bent and he wavered, she pushed him gently back onto the bed, reveling in what she could do to him in seconds, using only one hand and her mouth.


    Oh, the pleasure of making his flesh grow simply with a move of the lips, an encasing, then a sweep of the tongue. Her own desire swelled inside as his swelled on the outside. Lydia slid his pants off and he made quick work of pulling off his shirt, soon leaving him completely nude as she worked his body from above, fully clothed. The disparity turned her on even more, the scratch of cloth against her nipples and the brazen feel of his naked skin against her clothed form. Knowing he was so vulnerable and she was in charge made each rush of skin against cloth like a sigh, each flick of her tongue like an order, every stroke of her palm a prayer of supplication.


    His. Not hers.


    Without warning, she found herself hauled on top of him, lips crushed against her teeth, his tongue now in full command of her, hands peeling away her clothes, her skirt pulled down, legs bare to the world, her shirt over her head and his mouth against the fabric of her brassiere, wetting the nipples through cloth and making her groan. No longer dominating him, it was Matt who took her now, her own eager flesh ready to submit.


    Naked in seconds, his hands roamed her flesh in a less-than-gentle manner that made her wet, craving whatever he would give her. They had hours, a large bed, and so much more to give and take after a rushed, frantic session back at the office. Loose with an unbridled curiosity, Lydia''s self-conscious nature, which normally would interfere right about now and whisper in her ear that her body should be covered, shut off like a circuit breaker snapping off.


    Hands on her full thigh, he sought her center, the red flesh slick with her juices and all too aware of his fingers, his touch practiced and divine. This was a man who knew exactly, with pinpoint precision, how to make her body hum. As his mouth pulled back and his tongue looped over one rock-hard nipple, she arched up, hips and shoulders curving like a gymnast¡¯s in an extended floor exercise, except this time the floor she pounded her body against was Matt.


    Strong arms reached under her ass and pulled her sharply to the right, centering her on the bed. With eyes wide open she watched his cut torso, so tight and perfect, like a fitness model¡¯s. Fingers reached out to stroke the little cutaway divots above his hips, such a contrast to her own soft, plump flesh in the same spot. He smiled, hovering above her.


    ¡°Touch it all, Lydia. Touch whatever you want. This is about you. All of it.¡±


    Speechless, she caught his eyes, the green intensity otherworldly once more. A blooming sensation filled her, giving hope to a long-held wish that maybe there really was a man out there who could make her feel so worshiped, so complete, so desirable that her mere presence was enough. Now on her back, Lydia relinquished herself as Matt pulled a pillow from beneath the tucked bedspread and slid it under her hips, the brutal yet sensitive friction of the cotton against her ass, the cold shiver that ran through her, all mixing together to make the room large and small, and time just an idea that someone else possessed.

 Page 4

    In here, none of that mattered as Matt kissed her belly, nuzzling his cheek against her roundness, her skin dimpling in as gravity favored her.


    ¡°God, I love your body. So beautiful,¡± he murmured. You don¡¯t have to say that, she thought. Many men before him had, a ritual that felt so false, as if they were blurting out the opposite of what they were really thinking in an effort to assuage guilt. Sometimes she did say it, adding to the awkwardness, making her uncomfortable and draining the sensuality out of what had been¡ªuntil that moment¡ªa perfectly fine experience.Advertisement


    ¡°Perfectly fine¡± now felt like a cheap imitation of what she had with Matt. He was breaking her, stripping down the Lydia who had needed so many layers of protection, all of these shields and walls and bushes of thorns to keep her from falling apart in the real world. Wanting someone like this had been part of her silly, over-analytical fantasy.


    Having him in her bed seemed downright delusional.


    The brush of his mouth against her mons made her hands tighten into fists, and then¡ªoh, yes¡ªthe first sensation she''d held her breath to capture descended upon her, his tongue achingly accurate, as if it possessed its own echolocation system for creating blind, sensual satiety. If he stopped now¡ªright this very instant¡ªshe would be devastated and beside herself, writhing in unrelinquished build-up that would require every sex toy in her arsenal, plus a few she''d have to invent from household objects of undetermined origin.


    He wouldn''t make her resort to that, though, and as surely as she knew that what would come next would make her brain and body explode in a cresting that would make tsunamis seem like kiddie-pool ripples, she also knew that this would be the first of many (a lifetime?) of such comings.


    No goings.


    Matt was here to stay.


    One hand pressed into the skin above her pubic bone, pinning her in place, the tight, firm splay of his masculine hand against her feminine swell almost artistic as she studied it, mind unable to think words any longer. And then a fullness inside her wetness as he slid into her, fingers seeking the one spot in a woman that could drive her mad. She''d rather he fill her with what her mouth had just laved, but she could wait. Patience is a virtue.


    Though Lydia was feeling anything but virtuous right now.


    As his tongue teased and stroked, shifting her into higher levels of expansive pleasure, she responded with no inhibitions, moving her body and positioning herself to seek the best sensations they could create together. His warmth filled her and his body sought to make her climax, to fill her needs first as she writhed and moaned against his flesh, honing their sultry ministrations to a fine point of¡ª


    Oh! There it was. That moment when everything in her awareness shifted to something greater than her, the sound of her short breaths and the feel of his skin against hers the only reality her self could bear. And now her need for a long, slow, drawn-out stretch in bed was shooed away by the urgency of having him in her, filling her, hammering home what she wanted.


    With one hand she reached for him, pulling on his shoulders and¡ªregretfully¡ªmaking him stop what he was doing. ¡°I want more,¡± she gasped. He returned to what he was doing, her need coursing through her veins as if it worked to escape from her new goal, a contradiction of the flesh.


    She slid up the bed, pulling back. ¡°No,¡± she laughed, the sound so full-throated she felt like a ¡¯40s film noir star. ¡°I want all of you.¡±


    Standing on his knees, she gasped as his entire body was stretched out before her, so handsome and virile, all man before her, cobra-backed and muscled with a core that rippled. His rod stood at attention, ready for what came¡ªand what came would be both of them. Soon.


    ¡°I have a condom in my wallet,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°We used it,¡± she reminded him, reaching back for her bedside table drawer. The heat of his body covered hers as she twisted back. Kisses peppered the side of her breast, her ribcage, stopping at her hip, his hands groping as if she weren''t on display willingly, as if he had to take what he could with his palms and memorize her for some unspoken reason. His grip felt too intense, almost violent, and it rattled her for one reeling moment, suspending her between heightened want and a tinge of fear.


    And then¡ªone perfect kiss. Whatever possessed his hands was void in his lips, which were so tender tears threatened the back of her throat, his searching, gentle lips and tongue telling how much he needed and wanted her. As she fingered the foil packet and inexpertly attended to the requisite matters, rolling the condom over him while letting the kiss wash over her, two Lydias joined as one deep inside her, the fantastical daydreamer integrating with the hard-edged feminist. Couldn''t she be both in one human form?


    Couldn''t Matt make love to all the Lydias at once?


    Damn if she wouldn''t let him try. As ready as she, his kiss changed, mouth pulled back, face grave and serious, studying her. The sense that there was so much more beneath his surface, under the tight veins that bulged in his forearms as he suspended himself over her, in the pecs that rolled so perfectly over his ribs and breastbone, in the skin tone that was a little too sun-kissed for a cubicle dweller¡ªthat all made her want him so deep inside her that she could feel the vibration of his secrets.


    Spreading her legs, she lifted up and wrapped herself around his hips, his entrance into her a slow, gentle journey that picked up pace as he delved within, then pulled out, her hair spilling behind her on the pillow, his hands brushing against her waist. Matt''s thick, bugling thighs nudged against her ass as she wriggled and shifted for more contact, the drive of his body spearing her so fluidly and sultrily she wanted this to last forever. Her breasts were crushed under his chest as he leaned forward to kiss her neck, their heat making a thin layer of sweat break out on both, her arms around his shoulders, fingers beginning to claw for purchase as the wave within combined what felt like 147 different small ripples and pushed into a giant tidal wave, the sensation roaring up at once out of what seemed like a smaller, contented build toward climax.


    Breath hitching, she cried out, ¡°Oh, Matt, I¡¯m¡ª¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± he murmured, knowing what she meant, his thrusts increasing in speed and force¡ªand that was exactly what her body needed. Fingernails raking his back, throat gasping and spasming for something¡ªanything¡ªbig enough to let out the release of what this joining created, she felt every vein pop, every artery rush, all pores and skin alive and floating while energized with electricity and musk and his body hammering into hers, bringing her so much pleasure she couldn''t contain it.


    His neck tightened and she ran her hands along his collarbone as he rode her, his own orgasm right there, catching up to her within seconds, the two melding into each other with a force and ferocity she¡¯d never experienced before. How Matt could extract and infuse at the same time was bewilderingly delightful, their communion blending atoms and juices and nerve endings and kisses to make something so new and yet so old it had no time stamp. Sweat poured down her hairline now and her hands slid along his slick chest, hungry for the touch of him against her palm as little waves lapped against her clenched walls, holding him in as his own climax was milked out of him, leaving them both sated, spent, and panting.


    The sheet beneath her, now soaked, was a hot chill against her skin, a contradiction that fed so many other mutually exclusive parts of this moment. She wasn¡¯t supposed to sleep with her boss. Or with a man she barely knew. Lydia rarely brought men home. So many of her own rules violated explicitly¡ªby her.


    Sometimes breaking the rules meant achieving a higher good.


    Thank God she hadn''t maliciously obeyed her inner voice.


    Hips tilted up, Matt prone against her torso, she wiggled just enough to take his weight off her ribs, stoked and sated by what had just transpired. He moved just enough and then rolled off her, snuggling against her side. They were still on top of the covers and she moved in a contorted fashion to pull the comforter and top sheet out enough to wiggle under it, Matt following her lead.


    Exhaustion made her eyelids droop. No! Not yet! She wanted more. Sleep, though, had other ideas, and as she nestled herself against his tight wall of muscle, she heard him sigh her name, as if he never expected to say it again.


    The sound followed her into a deep slumber, the peaceful rest of a woman who broke her life¡¯s rules and found that they''d never really applied in the first place.


    Purring. Her breath sounded like a cat in a warm sunbeam, content and self-contained, assured it was in the one spot in the world where it belonged. Curled up in his arms, Lydia was exotic and innocent, worldly and na?ve, the very end of each side of all the spectrums of loveliness and intrigue Mike could imagine. All combined in the one woman in the entire world he most wanted.


    And could never have.


    Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had to tell her. Why hadn¡¯t he told her? Maybe the camera hadn¡¯t actually been on. His mind raced in two thousand directions.


    What if the taping hadn¡¯t been in place?


    What if they were in too much darkness and nothing was on camera?


    What if he didn¡¯t have to tell her?


    What if¡ª


    Real life crashed down on him. Peeling Lydia off him, regretfully, he stood and bent down to retrieve his phone from the pants pocket. He''d enjoyed the reprieve from his collapsing life, but it was time to assess the damage. A small door to the left led to a bathroom, and as he turned on the phone he dispensed with the condom and washed his hands.


    Attending to his phone, he found seven texts. Zooming in on the one from Jonah Moore, he read:


    8 a.m. Your office. Be there.


    And then:


    I mean it. Tape¡¯s being held back until 8 a.m., but then all bets are off.


    Whew! Thank God. Sagging against the door frame, he stared at himself in the mirror, bright green eyes pained with horror and the agony of knowing that he¡ªand he alone¡ªhad been the agent of his own destruction. Watching her sleep from across the room, he nearly rammed a fistful of anger, regret, and aching sorrow into the bathroom wall. What in the hell had he just done?


    Telling her the second he realized the cameras were on¡ªand Jonah¡¯s texts knocked away any magical thinking that they hadn''t been¡ªwould have been the smart thing to have done, but it was too late now. He couldn¡¯t believe he¡¯d lost his senses like that. Passion never overtook linear thought¡ªnever! Yet Lydia was the one woman capable of making his entire life unravel in one impassioned moan, one stroke of skin against flushed curves, one gasped promise of hope and more.


    More. There would be no more. Unless he told her right now and she simply forgave him.


    Impossible.


    If the roles were reversed he couldn¡¯t forgive her, so imagining the impossible seemed futile, childlike, the complete opposite of rational.


    Like that moment in the office as she writhed above him, lashing against him in a dance of release.


    Wake her up! Tell her! His conscience battered against him from the inside, striking hard with whatever weapons it could¡ªguilt the primary explosive.


    And yet¡­what good would it do? He could tell her and be thrown out, spat on, screamed at and hated.


    Or¡­maybe he could re-establish some of his Michael Bournham control and actually help get her out of this mess.

 Page 5

    Naked, vulnerable, and now nearly broken as he stood in her room, bare and on the edge of disintegrating, he pulled his enormous will into place and began to dress quietly. Robotic hands forced his legs into his pants, his shirt to cover his chest, and muscle memory was all he really had until he was fully dressed. Resolve flooded through him. Maybe he could soften the blow of the inevitable.


    Jonah Moore was a snake, and he would use the tape to extract whatever he could from Mike. Before that happened, he might be able to get Lydia out from under the worst of the media scrutiny. If he acted fast enough.Advertisement


    Starting for the bedroom door, he stopped, peering down at Lydia as she slept. Ah, God, why did he have to leave? A quick look at his phone told him it was nearly 1 a.m. Seven hours to do a life¡¯s work of saving the woman he¡­loved?


    Damn close. Closer than any other woman.


    ¡°Save¡± was an overestimate. ¡°Soften,¡± too. At best, Mike could get her away from the worst. One phone call and he could wake his human resource emergency contact and get the ball rolling.


    But first things first.


    Reaching down, he brushed Lydia''s thick hair away from her gorgeous jaw, the moonlight washing her hair a bluish black, like wet onyx poured over creamy skin. Her nostrils flared with each delicate breath, face relaxed, a twitch of a smile on her lips. I hope she''s dreaming of me, Mike thought, and then stopped.


    Of Matt? Of Mike?


    Damn it.


    Pressing his lips on her cheekbone, he lingered, inhaling her scent. Tomorrow all hope was lost. She would learn the truth¡ªall of it¡ªand the sheer volume of lies he¡¯d dealt her would be too large to overcome.


    He wasn¡¯t Matt Jones.


    He was Michael Bournham.


    He was part of a reality television show.


    She¡¯d been video taped without knowing.


    And they¡¯d had sex on camera.


    Which of those lies should she wave away? Were any of them small enough to forgive? In the aggregate they were too much. He¡¯d be lucky if she didn¡¯t stab him to death at work with a letter opener, or bludgeon him unconscious with a stapler.


    A wholly unfamiliar, raw feeling flayed him emotionally, throat tight and forehead pounding. Michael Bournham hadn¡¯t cried since his father had died, years ago¡ªand he damn well wasn¡¯t about to let a tear fall on Lydia¡¯s face and wake her up. Not like this. Never like this.


    Pulling back, he fought for control as he watched her, one hand gripping the door''s threshold so hard that in the morning he would find paint chips under his fingernails and know exactly how they got there, his forearm aching. From porcelain skin so delicate he could see her neck¡¯s pulse through it to the full ass that made him want to undress and slide against it once more, making her cry out his real name, Mike felt like he was watching a death. His own.


    Matt Jones would die tomorrow.


    Michael Bournham would wish he had.


    He texted Lydia, a quick single line:


    Sorry. Not feeling well. See you soon.


    And now, a text to human resources to start a process rolling that would need the next seven hours to put in place, if luck were on Mike¡¯s side.


    And if not, he¡¯d strong-arm his way through it.


    Chapter Two


    Jonah marched in to Mike¡¯s office¡ªno, marched was the wrong word. Swaggered. Absolutely ate the floor like he owned the place. Something deep had shifted in Jonah and Mike knew at that moment that his entire world was about to shatter. His breath became something other than air that went in and out of his body, breaking down into the distinct molecules, atoms, everything whirling about and in slow motion, going into his body, and then with great effort being pushed out. The light shining in from the window seemed particularly acute, brighter than he¡¯d ever noticed, the way it streamed in, glinting off the lamp, turning the papers from a utilitarian, functional set of flat objects into little works of art. His brain was keenly aware of the beauty in even the everyday norm of a cheap corporate office that smelled, still, like Pledge and mildew.


    Jonah stood. Mike didn¡¯t even bother. ¡°Jonah,¡± he said simply, squinting slightly, biting his lower lip and practically admitting defeat before the slaughter had even commenced.


    Jonah¡¯s smile didn''t even come close to touching his eyes, which burned with malevolent mischief that made Mike¡¯s balls crawl up into his groin, practically touching his Adam¡¯s apple, so tight and so creepy was the look on Jonah¡¯s face.


    ¡°We need to do some renegotiating,¡± Jonah announced, one hand smacking the top of the desk hard enough to make Mike flinch in spite of himself, in spite of his attempts to stay relaxed and to stay limber mentally, ready to play judo against whatever Jonah threw at him.


    The frantic scrabbling in the back of his mind he had to compartmentalize and keep away, because that was the sound of a rat in a cage, trying to escape. Escape the fact that he had just made love with Lydia in full view of a Hollywood producer¡¯s cameras and without her knowledge. And there wasn¡¯t a damn thing he could do to stop this from going as crazy viral as he thought¡ªno, as he knew it would, if it hadn¡¯t already.


    But that rat¡­that rat, he had to go somewhere else. Mike had to ignore him, because if he let it take over then he would become the rat. He would become a useless creature driven by baser instincts, and right now he needed every single brain cell in his logical, analytical mind if there was any hope of escaping this. Not for him¡ªthat hope was long gone¡ªbut for Lydia.


    The look on Jonah¡¯s face told Mike that Jonah thought he knew everything in this situation. But what he didn¡¯t know was that last night Mike had executed an order to offer Lydia a promotion, an extraordinarily large raise, and a transfer. Nothing he did right now, going forward, dealing with Jonah, would stop the video. He knew that. But he could lessen the impact if he got Lydia as far away as possible.


    Six months ago he had opened a new European office¡ªthe only European office for Bournham Industries, but an important one. A single flight, five hours direct out of Boston, would take her to Reykjavik, Iceland, for her new position as director of communications of European operations, with a tripling of salary, should she accept it.


    Those papers wouldn¡¯t be delivered until this morning, until after this conversation with Jonah. He hoped to God it wasn¡¯t too late. ¡°We know why you¡¯re here, Jonah,¡± Mike said, nodding slowly.


    ¡°Good,¡± Jonah announced. ¡°Then it¡¯s all down to the details. Here¡¯s what you¡¯re going to do, Mike. I have metaphorical fingers on the ¡®enter¡¯ button across¡±¡ªhe mugged, made his lips make a musing gesture, nodding his head left and right¡ª¡°fifty¡­no, ¡¯bout sixty sites, that can take this video and get it millions and millions, hundreds of millions of views in about an hour.¡±


    ¡°An hour? I¡¯m impressed,¡± Mike said.


    ¡°Oh, you should be.¡± Jonah blinked twice. The man¡¯s blink rate was so low that Mike wondered what he was on. ¡°But I don¡¯t have to do that, Mike,¡± Jonah said, pretending to admire a diploma on the wall. ¡°Here¡¯s what I want, Mike. You¡¯re going to give us an awful lot of investment capital in a new venture that I¡¯m starting.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Moore Productions.¡±


    ¡°Original name.¡±


    Jonah¡¯s lips went flat. ¡°It¡¯s my last name.¡±


    ¡°No, I know and it¡¯s¡­a very traditional approach. I would have expected something a bit more innovative from you.¡±


    Jonah¡¯s eyes went dead. ¡°I¡¯m doing the talking here. I need a minimum of $100 million to get started. We¡¯ll put out two features¡ª¡±


    ¡°$100 million?¡± Mike interrupted him. ¡°Bah! I don¡¯t have that kind of money,¡± he laughed. Watching Jonah play the alpha male was amusing. Mike knew damn well that no one had any real control here. If Jonah had the big mouth Mike assumed he had, too many people already knew about the tape. That made Jonah a bit player in this enormous mess. Which meant Mike could have some fun here.


    ¡°But I think we can come to some kind of understanding,¡± he added.


    Jonah matched the laugh with a mocking one of his own. ¡°Of course you have that kind of money, Mike. All you need to do is make this happen and you¡¯re a billionaire. Your board of directors is a handful of weeks away from providing you with an enormous buyout.¡±


    ¡°Funny thing about that, Jonah¡ªthat only happens if your show helps boost our profits.¡±


    Jonah¡¯s eyes went wide for about three seconds and then went back to normal. Ahh, Mike thought, he didn¡¯t know that.


    ¡°So, if the deal doesn¡¯t go through, how much are you worth, Mike?¡±


    ¡°What I¡¯m worth doesn¡¯t matter, does it, Jonah? It¡¯s about the company¡¯s investment.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve thought about that.¡± Jonah shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s not going to work. Too many questions and you have a board of directors to answer to for something as big as what I deserve. This should be a private deal between you and me.¡±


    ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°$100 million.¡±


    ¡°No way.¡± Stringing Jonah along could buy him some time. Promises meant shit right now; making Jonah think he could blackmail him would be worth a few hours of extra time to get Lydia into a safer environment, away from the media shitstorm that was about to be unleashed.


    ¡°And besides, there¡¯s the question of Linda,¡± Jonah said softly.


    The way the man said the name made Mike want to choke him. He could feel his hands going around that soft, pampered asshole¡¯s neck. Could sense his thumbs digging into his trachea, crushing all avenues for air to get in to pump that sleazy heart.


    ¡°Oh, wait,¡± Jonah said in a sickly sweet voice. ¡°Not Linda. Why do I do that all the time? No, no¡­her name is¡­oh, yeah.¡± His eyes lasered on Mike¡¯s. ¡°Lydia Charles.¡±


    Mike thought back to the moment on the desk with her. ¡°How would you know that, Jonah? I¡¯m not confirming or denying it.¡±


    Jonah made a face of disgust. ¡°Of course it¡¯s her. If you look at the video it¡¯s the long, black hair, the¡­the body, the¡­all of it. It¡¯s quite a video. You¡¯ve done a fabulous job there, Mike.¡± There was some sort of a hesitation in his voice, though. Mike had planted a seed of doubt. Seeds like that could grow into weeds.


    ¡°You have the video?¡± Mike asked.


    ¡°Sure do.¡± By Mike¡¯s count, they had made it into the office just for the very end. Two minutes max were on that tape, whatever he might have caught.


    ¡°How long is the video, Jonah?¡± he asked.


    ¡°The good part? About four or five minutes.¡± Oof. He took longer than he thought. Attaboy, Mike.


    No, no, erase the thought. Of all the times to be skilled, this one he wished he could take back. Not really, but¡­


    ¡°$10 million would be a fabulous deposit,¡± Jonah ventured. Fail. Whoever mentioned a dollar figure first always lost. Mike knew that cold. Jonah had already led with his $100 million request. Now he''d shaved off ninety percent. Price was irrelevant. The stakes, unfortunately, were not.


    ¡°Four or five minutes, huh? Can you say for certain that it¡¯s who you think it is?¡±

 Page 6

    Jonah¡¯s face shifted slightly. Aha! A tell. He wasn¡¯t certain.


    ¡°We¡¯re pretty damn close,¡± Jonah crowed. His tell was in his eyes, the reduced eye contact and how they flitted from object to object in Mike''s office. The seeds were germinating.Advertisement


    ¡°Give me a day to think it through.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± Jonah walked to the door, turned around and said, ¡°You have exactly six hours. My people will be in touch with your people. Oh, that¡¯s right. You don¡¯t have any people¡­Matt.¡±


    Mike looked up at the ceiling, peering intently at the corners. ¡°Are the cameras rolling?¡±


    Jonah got a look of alarm on his face and then sprinted out the door.


    ¡°You had sex where?¡± Krysta¡¯s eyes bugged out of her head, like something out of a Jim Carrey movie or a Bugs Bunny cartoon where the characters¡¯ eyes stretched out a foot away from their face before popping back in.


    ¡°In his office,¡± Lydia said in a quiet, meek voice, as if saying it softly would somehow make it less horrible.


    Eyes firmly back in their sockets, Krysta stared her down. ¡°How exactly does that fit into your plans for career advancement? You always said you despised women who slept their way to the top.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sleeping my way to the top,¡± Lydia protested, ¡°I¡¯m¡­sleeping my¡­way to¡­an orgasm.¡±


    Krysta was not impressed, she just stared with the most neutral expression that Lydia had ever seen¡ªand her mother had perfected the neutral disapproval look.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t something I planned, it just¡­pffffft,¡± Lydia said, blowing a puff of air out in frustration. ¡°It just happened.¡±


    ¡°Right, like the elevator situation where you let him take your panties?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, like that.¡±


    ¡°You slipped and fell on his dick.¡±


    ¡°Whoops!¡±


    ¡°Lydia!¡± The sound of her name coming out of Krysta¡¯s mouth felt like a slap. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing? You¡¯ve always told me that you never wanted to be like this, that you were very focused and career-driven, and that you hate the patriarchal corporate politics in the workplace, and that you were going to break the mold and be different from everybody else.¡± Her words came out in a breathy rush, the emotion evident and triggering a touch of guilt.


    Lydia¡¯s shoulders relaxed. She felt more authentic, more real, in this moment than she had in years. All those words had come out of her mouth. She would own them, and she would also own what she said next. ¡°It turns out I¡¯m not so different.¡±


    That took the wind out of Krysta¡¯s sails, and she seemed to become more real. ¡°That I understand.¡±


    Did anyone understand anything? Lydia wondered. She sure didn¡¯t. Matt had been so different after they¡¯d had sex in his office. He¡¯d been wonderful at Tempo Bistro, and amazing in bed later on, but something was off¡ªand she couldn¡¯t put her finger on it. She wanted to talk about it with Krysta, and yet, there wasn¡¯t exactly a flow of approval and acceptance going on between the two of them right now. She hated being judged. She hated that it was her best friend doing the judging. Worst of all, though, she hated that if the roles were reversed she¡¯d be even worse than Krysta was right now.


    Suck it up and put on your big panties, she thought. Holding her palms up in a gesture of surrender, Lydia said, ¡°Okay, okay, I got it. I own what I did, and do you know why I own what I did, Krysta?¡±


    Krysta just shrugged.


    ¡°Because I¡¯m a planner. I¡¯m that careful, almost OCD-like woman who organizes her purse when she¡¯s waiting at the dentist. I¡¯m efficient and I optimize my time, my money, my work, my presentations¡ªeverything. All of it goes through, like, a formula in my head, for how I can get the most and maximize everything, all while following the rules. Climbing on Matt in that office, having his hand slide under my skirt, the way that he touched me as if I were the only woman in the world¡ªI can¡¯t track that on a spreadsheet,¡± she whispered, a half-smile on her face that felt like a grimace. ¡°There¡¯s no project management system for slicing and dicing and allocating resources when it comes to your heart.¡±


    ¡°God damn it, Lydia,¡± Krysta said, ¡°now you got me all confused.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re confused? Try being me.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be you.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with being me?¡± Lydia protested.


    ¡°You try too hard. You have expectations for yourself that are so much higher than you have for anyone else,¡± Krysta sighed. ¡°If you think it¡¯s hard being you, you¡¯ve got to know that it¡¯s awfully hard watching you, Lydia, and I¡¯m worried.¡±


    ¡°Worried? Who are you, Sandy?¡±


    Krysta laughed. ¡°No, I¡¯m not your mom, and trust me, I¡¯m not telling your mom any of this.¡±


    ¡°My mother would have our wedding planned if she knew about this.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I think half your family thought you¡¯d never find someone.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know that I have found someone.¡± Lydia swallowed hard. Her cup of coffee was getting cold. She took a sip and winced. Too late, it was cold. Could Matt be the one? She¡¯d given up on the idea that there might be a one. The idea that there were some ones had kept her going, ignoring her career for so long, and then, of course, being burned by Dave had just made her crawl inside herself. Matt seemed to pull her out, luring her to reveal more and more of what lay under the facade of the progressive feminist corporate drone. ¡°I think I¡¯m falling for him.¡±


    ¡°Ya think?¡± Krysta said, guzzling the rest of her drink.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be sarcastic.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s like telling me not to breathe,¡± Krysta said back.


    ¡°No, I mean it,¡± Lydia protested. ¡°You aren¡¯t sarcastic that often. When you are, it¡¯s great, and you get the zinger, but I can¡¯t handle having you judge me like this.¡±


    Krysta¡¯s face looked like she was about to cry, and then she reached out and grasped Lydia¡¯s forearm. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on inside me. Maybe I¡¯m jealous.¡±


    ¡°Jealous? You want Matt, too?¡± Lydia asked, incredulous.


    ¡°No, no, no¡­not Matt. You,¡± she tsked, ¡°you know who I want, Lydia.¡±


    ¡°I think everybody at the campground knows who you want.¡±


    ¡°Except the guy I do want.¡±


    ¡°Caleb¡¯s pretty oblivious.¡± She wasn¡¯t going to bring up the fact that he was also in love with Stillman¡¯s daughter. Krysta didn¡¯t know that, and she didn¡¯t think that Krysta needed to know that. Why was it that the campground could invade her present life here in Boston? It invaded everything, spilling over and taking over like some sort of a virus or like those little tribble animals in the famous Star Trek episode, just filling the room, replicating until finally you were crushed to death.


    ¡°So, what now?¡± Krysta asked. They started to walk back to the office, headed to the elevators.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I guess I''ll see him here at work if he comes in today.¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn''t he come in?¡±


    ¡°He left my apartment while I was asleep. Texted me at about 1 a.m. And said he wasn''t feeling well.¡±


    ¡°The sex was that bad?¡±


    Lydia punched Krysta a little harder than she meant to. ¡°Hey!¡± she hissed.


    ¡°Sorry.¡± Krysta snorted.


    ¡°We¡¯ll take it step by step. He is my boss¡­¡± Lydia ran out of words. An endless loop of questions had poured through her mind, all of them the same ones Krysta was asking, and a hundred more. Could she continue to work with Matt? Should she continue to work with Matt? Was it time to try to find another position at Bournham Industries or another company? Did she need to disclose their relationship to human resources? What about coworkers? And, worse, what if this didn¡¯t work out and she had just completely destroyed her future at this company?


    The memory of his hot breath on her neck, how he had touched her as if her skin were the most precious item on earth, how his eyes had burned into hers with thoughts she could only understand with him in her. This wasn¡¯t going away, was it? The thought almost filled her with as much dread as the idea that it was going to end did.


    The pit of her stomach tightened into a ball of hope and fear at the idea that this was a real relationship, however new. Maybe her ideas about what could be really weren''t so outrageously idealistic after all. Maybe Matt was the one...


    The elevator doors opened, and the two of them crammed in with about eighteen other people. Krysta whispered in her ear, ¡°What if it doesn¡¯t work out?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t think that way,¡± Lydia hissed back.


    ¡°But you have to.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you just be happy for me?¡± Lydia said plaintively.


    Krysta closed her eyes and bunched up her face, her nose going out like a rabbit. ¡°Fuck,¡± she said under her breath, loud enough to make a couple of heads swivel, just an inch or so, to the left or to the right, enough to send the message that she¡¯d been heard. Krysta took Lydia¡¯s hand in hers and squeezed it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she said, ¡°I am happy for you. If this is what you want, go for it. Just be careful.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m being super careful. This is staying completely private,¡± she reassured Krysta. ¡°There is no way that anyone other than you, me, and Matt know what¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°Compared to the media mess you are about to unleash, Thailand¡¯s looking better and better.¡±


    Mike¡¯s jaw couldn¡¯t be any tighter as he listened to Jeremy¡¯s words. He¡¯d called his buddy and asked him to go for a run, thinking that it would allow him to clear his head, and that the two could grab a beer afterward and talk about it. Instead, he felt like some sort of disobedient preteen with Jeremy cheerfully digging the knife in.


    This time it was Mike who had broken convention, and in a big way. It pretty much wiped the slate clean for all of the times he¡¯d dug Jeremy out of some foreign jail, or untangled him from the arms of a group of beach bunnies roughing it on an intercontinental hike using daddy¡¯s money.


    ¡°Jesus,¡± Jeremy said, shaking his head and gasping, as he slowed his pace down. Of the two, Mike was more careful to stay in shape. Jeremy could still whip his ass in basketball, but when it came to running, Mike had him beat. ¡°Man, do you know what this is going to do to poor Lydia?¡±


    ¡°Oh, gee, Jeremy, I hadn¡¯t even thought about that,¡± Mike cracked.


    ¡°I know you¡¯ve thought about it,¡± Jeremy shot back, ¡°but have you really thought about it? That video, it¡¯s probably all over the place already.¡±


    ¡°No, I keep checking my phone. It wasn¡¯t as of fifteen minutes ago.¡±


    ¡°But you know damn well it will spread like wildfire.¡± Huff, huff. Jeremy¡¯s breath was getting labored. Mike decided to take it a little easy on him and slow down, but not too much.


    ¡°How could you¡­?¡± Jeremy paused, and shook his head, slowing way down. At this rate, the woman riding the motorized cart was going to pass them. They¡¯d zipped by about five hundred yards ago, and she¡¯d honked a friendly little horn at them, a little Scotty dog riding in the front basket of the cart.

 Page 7

    ¡°How could I what? Spit it out,¡± Mike said. He knew the question Jeremy was going to ask, and frankly, he reveled in the idea that he¡¯d be forced to answer the question, because damned if he could figure it out. He¡¯d spent hours trying to understand himself and finally had given up.


    ¡°How could you not tell her?¡±Advertisement


    ¡°I know, Jeremy, I know.¡± Mike picked up the pace. This conversation was getting as uncomfortable as he had assumed it would, and now it was time to try to drive out all of the mess. The steady thump of his feet, of the soles of his shoes against asphalt as they ran through the path around the park, didn¡¯t help. He thought it would, but instead he found that Jeremy had decided to pick up the pace, the topic of conversation too salacious to let a little thing like oxygen deprivation stop him. ¡°I froze. I completely froze.¡±


    ¡°Michael Bournham never freezes,¡± Jeremy insisted.


    ¡°Right?¡± Mike said. ¡°That¡¯s the problem. That¡¯s the fucking problem. I choked.¡±


    Jeremy stopped cold, leaving Mike to run fifteen yards ahead of him before he realized that his friend had stopped. He saw the top of Jeremy¡¯s head as he bent over, hands on his knees, great whoops of air coming into his lungs and rushing out. Was that laughter Mike heard as he ran back, jogging in place?


    ¡°What the fuck, Jeremy? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°You,¡± he laughed. ¡°You choked?¡±


    ¡°I choked.¡± Why was he making a big deal of this? Mike just wanted to run, exhaust his body until he fell apart, and then maybe this torment would go away.


    ¡°Michael Bournham, you finally did it.¡±


    ¡°Did what?¡±


    ¡°You finally fell in love.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°Only if you do it on camera.¡±


    Mike laughed in spite of himself. ¡°Now that would go viral, faster than this will.¡±


    ¡°Not even you would do something like that, even if it meant increasing the profits enough to win your bet.¡±


    Mike paused and thought it through.


    ¡°You¡¯re making me nervous, Mike. What¡¯s up with the hesitation?¡±


    ¡°About what? Whether I¡¯ve fallen in love with Lydia or whether I would fuck you on camera for the sake of becoming a billionaire?¡±


    ¡°It may surprise you to learn that both are deeply troubling.¡±


    The woman on the motorized scooter passed them, honked twice and said, ¡°Wusses!¡±


    At that, Mike took off at a dead sprint, the sound of Jeremy¡¯s voice fading in the distance. ¡°I¡¯m catching a cab, see you at home. Keep the beer cold for me.¡± Maybe this would be okay, Mike thought, as he ran the last couple miles home. Wishful thinking, though, would never get him anywhere.


    Matt¡¯s absence shouldn¡¯t have bothered her as much as it did and she knew that. Somehow, through sheer force, water, caffeine, Advil, and determination, she¡¯d managed to haul her sorry ass into work only to find he was out for the day.


    ¡°He was here,¡± Jerry the janitor explained. ¡°But I only saw him for a short time. He was talking to¡±¡ªhis face took on a guarded look¡ª¡°some guy. I don¡¯t know. But, umm¡­I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be back.¡±


    When she¡¯d logged into her computer, made her way through the Internet, and then checked her email she found a cryptic, two-sentence note from Matt to all the team members:


    Hi all, I¡¯m not feeling well today. See you tomorrow.


    Out sick his second week of work? That was some balls. Not many people would pull that one off, but then again, he always did act like he was president of the company or something. Like he had the run of the place.


    Her day¡ªwhat she¡¯d expected of it¡ªfaded suddenly. The prospect of sitting here for nine hours made her stomach roil and her head began to throb again. While she had plenty of work, including the new project, she had zero motivation to touch any of it.


    Around ten o¡¯clock Krysta peeked her head in. ¡°Hey, Lyd. You okay?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll get up and walk with you. I need to stretch my legs,¡± she said, and it was true. Two charlie horses had disabled her earlier. ¡°I need to go find a banana somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go down to the cafeteria and grab one.¡±


    ¡°No, let¡¯s go down to Starbucks and get one.¡± She looked around. ¡°The boss isn¡¯t in today so I can do it.¡± They both laughed.


    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± Krysta asked as they waited for the elevator.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­here.¡± They shared a smile and the elevator doors opened. No Matt. Some part of her was looking for him everywhere. If he was really sick she hoped he was okay.


    Her stomach lurched as the elevator did its pneumatic, pulleyed ride down to street level. And then the aroma of coffee hit her like a wall of love. A banana, a bottle of electrolyte-filled water, and an espresso shot later, Lydia felt about fifty percent back to normal.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t¡­you know¡­?¡± Krysta asked again.


    ¡°You¡¯ve asked me that already,¡± Lydia replied, her voice carrying a tone of exasperation.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°I would tell you if something had happened,¡± Lydia assured her.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m just¡­he¡¯s an interesting guy, Lyd. I hope you let this unfold the way it should.¡±


    ¡°Let this unfold the way it should? You make this sound like a marriage contract and not something more passionate.¡±


    ¡°We saw what happened when you let passion take over with Dave.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t passion,¡± she scoffed. ¡°That was stupidity. That was a twenty-two-year-old coming in here, not knowing a damn thing, and being led astray by a guy who perfected the art of negging.¡±


    ¡°He did find some of the strangest ways to put you down, didn¡¯t he Lyd?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he did. God, by the end of six weeks of dating him I thought I weighed four hundred pounds and had a mustache.¡±


    Krysta laughed. ¡°What a douchebag he was.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad somebody figured him out. Isn¡¯t it funny how so much has changed since Matt Jones came along?¡±


    Lydia thought about that one. ¡°A lot.¡±


    They made their way back to the lobby and Lydia gave Krysta a quick hug. ¡°Thank you for saving me.¡±


    ¡°Saving you? I didn¡¯t save you.¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard out here.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, for a pimp.¡±


    Argh! Lydia groaned. ¡°For a fresh-faced Maine girl.¡±


    ¡°All right, that too,¡± Krysta agreed.


    They separated out, taking different elevators, Krysta¡¯s floor on a totally different channel. And as the doors closed, Lydia found herself searching the crowd, hoping to have to hold it. Hold it open for Matt. But no dice.


    By the time she got back to her desk and settled in, more and more people had flocked to the cubicle farm. Her division could now use flex time, according to Matt, and people had taken advantage of it, even in the handful of days since Dave had left. She was still considered essential support staff and, therefore, had to be there her regular hours.


    She logged in. Checked her email yet again and found a new message. Something from human resources.


    And then she noticed the package. A FedEx overnight¡ªno, a special delivery. What was a special delivery, confidential from the office of human resources package doing on her desk, addressed to her? It was late July, so it wasn¡¯t open enrollment time. She knew she hadn¡¯t made any changes to her 401k. It wasn¡¯t time for performance reviews.


    What on earth was this?


    The envelope was large, thicker than anything she was accustomed to receiving, and as she slid the papers out there was one letter on company stationary and then a thick pamphlet called What You Need to Know About Living Outside the United States. Something about taxes.


    What? And so she read:


    Dear Ms. Lydia Charles, Bournham Industries is pleased to inform you that you have been selected for a promotion to Director of Communications for European Operations.


    Her eyebrows shot up and her teeth clenched. What? Reading on, she couldn¡¯t believe the words. Her salary would be six figures, they would provide her with an $8000 relocation allowance, the acceptance of the promotion needed to take place within twenty-four hours and the job start date was¡­what? Based on the dates that gave her less than a week.


    Reykjavik? She wasn¡¯t even sure how to pronounce it. Reykjavik, Iceland. She knew that sometime in the past year Bournham Industries had opened its first European office. It had been a big, fanfare-filled week with Bournham all over the television with a new babe on his arm, some underfed, tight woman who looked just enough like Lydia to be troubling. But, of course, thinner. That negative voice had to pop in there, didn¡¯t it? And give Lydia a little nudge about her weight.


    Weight schmate. If she could make six figures as director of communications¡­


    But, why? What was this about? The only person she could ask was Matt, because right now in the food chain it went: Matt, and then no one, and then some senior vice-president she had only seen once a year the annual Christmas party and who wouldn¡¯t know her from¡­well, from Krysta.


    Iceland. What was there in Iceland? A bunch of Vikings and rocks. But¡­oh my God. Her headache vanished, her body flushed, and she nearly shook with joy. Grabbing the paperwork, she started to rush off to Krysta¡¯s office and stopped herself, popping open the email that said Confidential: Human Resources. It was just a copy of what she was holding in her hands¡ªso this was real. Real. She had done it. She really had done it. She''d impressed someone enough to be valued, to be recognized, to be rewarded for the merits of her work.


    As she rushed to the elevators and pressed the button five times to go down to Krysta¡¯s floor, her heart rate tripled. Just like my salary, she thought. Oh my God! She could pay off her student loans in like¡­two years. She could! She would! The buttons started to swim in front of her, the little red ring around the down arrow turning into eight. And now the questions poured into her mind.


    How long had this been in the works? Dave had been gone for about a week, she had just given her presentation and it was only a half-assed one, with no opportunity to really delve into the depth of what she was planning. And besides, Iceland wasn¡¯t exactly romance central. If they were going to transfer her anywhere, why not New York City where the publishing world was? She needed specifics here. The letter¡ªtwenty-four hours to decide and she had to be there in less than a week?


    What?


    The elevator doors couldn¡¯t open fast enough and when they did, there stood Krysta.


    ¡°Lydia, what are you doing here?¡± Krysta was holding a thick packet of folders, almost bigger than she was.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m on my way down to archive management to take a bunch of these papers down there for scanning.¡± She grabbed Krysta¡¯s arm, nearly dumping the folders, and then quickly adjusted to help out.


    ¡°You have to talk to me,¡± she said through gritted teeth, her voice in a loud whisper.


    ¡°Why are you talking to me like this?¡± Krysta said in an imitation. Knowing the grid of the hallway and assuming it was an exact duplicate of hers a few floors up, Lydia dragged Krysta into what she presumed was a supply closet. Bingo. She was right. She pulled Krysta in, grabbed the folders out of her hands, dumped them on an empty spot on a shelf, and closed the door. And then she handed Krysta the letter.

 Page 8

    The dim light didn''t make it easy to read on the fine, high-quality paper that Bournham Industries was known for in its letterhead, but eventually Krysta¡¯s eyes widened. Lydia could tell the second that Krysta read the salary.


    ¡°Holy fucking shit!¡± she screamed. ¡°You¡¯re going to make that much money?¡±Advertisement


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°Do you guys need clerical support? Because I want to put in for a transfer if they pay that kind of money.¡± She looked at Lydia with a giant grin on her face. ¡°And besides, it looks like I know the director of communications for European operations, don¡¯t I?¡±


    Krysta¡¯s squee! would have given away their location to anyone who was searching for them, and they jumped up and down, embracing, as Lydia¡¯s eyes filled with tears. This was real. Now that she¡¯d talked to someone else about it, now that she¡¯d shared the letter with Krysta¡ªthis was real.


    ¡°You¡¯re going, right?¡± Krysta asked, pulling back suddenly as if realizing there was an option.


    ¡°Well¡­I¡­uh¡­¡± She said the words that would make it not just real, but true. ¡°Yes. Yes.¡± Before she could equivocate she spat out the words. ¡°Yes. I¡¯m going. Absolutely. I don¡¯t have anything holding me back.¡±


    Matt, she told herself. Matt. What about Matt?


    And then Krysta said the words aloud. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s not like Matt¡¯s, you know, anything serious or worth altering your career over.¡±


    ¡°No. No,¡± Lydia said, covering a swirl of emotions that she couldn¡¯t even imagine trying to name right now. ¡°He¡¯s definitely not someone who has that kind of impact on my life. He certainly shouldn¡¯t affect whether to take a mega-promotion like this.¡±


    Krysta¡¯s face softened, her hand on Lydia¡¯s elbow. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Lydia. It¡¯s okay to feel whatever you¡¯re feeling.¡± And then her eyes hardened and she leaned in, two inches from her face, their noses practically touching. ¡°But no matter what you feel for him, you¡¯re going.¡±


    Mike knew that by now, Lydia had read the letter that went in the package from Human Resources. Joanie and HR had made swift work of his middle-of-the-night decision. He just hoped Lydia had a valid passport. If not, he could get her in to the Boston office tomorrow before the end of business with the Passport Agency for an expedited one. The sooner the better. Tripling her salary would make her the highest-paid employee in the European operations office. But, then again, that wouldn¡¯t be too hard. There were only five employees there as of now.


    By the time she got on a plane, upended her life, and settled in there she¡¯d figure out, quickly, that there was some sort of sham element to all of this. He knew she was smart and sharp¡ªand to add insult to injury, once that tape went live, if she chose to go he would know that she went out of anger and that she went knowing it was a consolation prize, not something that she earned.


    He wished that he could be there right now to watch her face, her excitement, as she received the offer packet. In the end, while helping her to escape the scrutiny of the video really was the most compassionate move, in the long run, that stripping away of that moment of glory where Lydia triumphed on her own merits¡ªor thought she did¡ªcould be the single biggest mistake of his life. He knew it, but did it anyway.


    Jonah had given him a handful of hours but he knew that even Jonah couldn¡¯t control this. At a minimum, the video guys knew, someone in a controller room knew, there were interns and admins and all sorts people in the chain who, with whispers and texts and emails and Facebook pages and tweets, would make this go live sooner rather than later. It was like the nervous finger on the trigger of the weakest soldier, with guns pointed at a crowd, from tragedies like Kent State to fiction like Les Miserables. It wasn¡¯t that intent would lead to the unleashing of agony; it would be that simple collision of too many voices, too many eyes, too many torn allegiances and of one tiny fissure in the universe that would simply open.


    Even Michael Bournham couldn¡¯t control that. Jonah damn well couldn¡¯t. So, as Mike made a series of phone calls that involved everything from canceling meetings to getting his hair dyed back to its regular color to cashing out certain investments, to finally having a lovely conversation with his mother, he knew that he was racing against the clock, his preternatural calm driving him toward a fate he didn¡¯t know, but one that felt freer, less inhibited.


    With a near complete abandon that he imagined Jeremy felt on a regular basis creeping into him, he imagined that video was about to do to Lydia the exact opposite of what it had already done to Mike before it had even been released. Pregnant in possibility and dilating by the second, its birth would give him a new life¡ªbecause the same force that gave him decency, that made him do the right thing with Lydia, that made him protect her now to the extent that he could, and that stripped him of the killer instinct when he most needed it, that decency had finally reached a tipping point in him. Growing larger and larger, crowding out the adaptive sociopathy that he¡¯d cultivated over the past decade, and now he was just back to being Mike.


    ¡°Bespoke or be naked.¡± It was time to get naked.


    Chapter Three


    ¡°Mike, Mike. Hey, I swear to God, man, it wasn¡¯t me. It was some teenage intern.¡± Miraculously, Mike had been given an entire day¡ªor most of one. The video had been unleashed in the middle of the night, during one of the three hours his exhausted self had managed to sleep. The clock next to his bed said 7:52 a.m. The story must be breaking across all the morning news shows now. Matt Lauer would dissect his sex tape. Worse¡ªKathy Lee Gifford.


    Jonah¡¯s voice was panicked and overwrought, and he stumbled over his words in a way that made Mike grin. That stupid asshole. Did he really think that if he had something like this he could keep it under control?


    ¡°About that investment¨C ¡±


    Click. Good riddance to that cockroach.


    Mike had spent those glorious few hours with Lydia pretending that he hadn¡¯t realized the cameras were on, pretending that he really could have a life with her. And Jonah had pretended, too¡ªpretended that he had even one iota of power in a game that was so many levels above his head that he couldn¡¯t even see the game board, much less touch the pieces.


    This was how it all fell apart. Some nineteen-year-old college student got his hands on a Michael Bournham sex tape and uploaded it to YouTube, which had taken it down, but not before someone else had captured it and sent it on to TMZ and Gawker. The cat was out of the bag. Jonah wasn¡¯t the only one who hadn''t realized he was playing a game too many levels above him. Mike had forced himself to watch the video, frame by frame, sigh by sigh, movement by movement, reliving it not only with his eyes but with his heart¡ªand other body parts beneath that. It was tantalizing, he had to admit. They couldn''t have made a more appealing video if they had tried. It was like watching an amateur YouPorn tape, but without the raunchy vulgarity of it all. This was two people being intimate for the first time, and reveling in it.


    For that he was not ashamed. For nothing was he ashamed, because on the whole, he had done absolutely nothing wrong to anyone except Lydia, the woman he¡¯d opened himself up to with one minor caveat. He¡¯d lied completely and utterly about his identity. Trivial, right? A bitter laugh escaped through his nose, along with a sigh that said more in breath than he could ever hope to say in an apology to her.


    Jonah wasn¡¯t the only stupid asshole, either. She was ignoring all of his phone calls, texts, emails¡ªand he couldn¡¯t blame her. He would probably do the same if the roles were reversed. Mike had come to the very obvious and simple conclusion that he would hate her guts forever and a day if the roles had been reversed.


    Assuming she felt the same made this all the more crystal clear.


    A decent guy would back off and acknowledge that he¡¯d hurt her and she needed time. A decent guy would stop calling, would do everything he could in terms of damage control, wouldn¡¯t text her best friend, and certainly wouldn¡¯t drive by her apartment hoping to catch a glimpse of her. A decent guy would never have pretended to be someone else while making love to her. And so, while Matt Jones had been Mr. Decency all along, in the end, it was Mike Bournham who was the biggest asshole of them all.


    He grabbed his car keys, ready to head out and swing by her apartment one more time because, if he was going to be a major asshole, he may as well take it all the way, when Jeremy buzzed. He checked his texts:


    I¡¯m on my way up the elevator in your building.


    Hmm, this could be interesting, Mike thought.


    ¡°Lydia, are you on your computer?¡± Krysta''s voice had a strained, strangled tone to it, one of caution and suppressed horror. A chill shot up her spine and her throat closed up as she reached for her mug of coffee. Grandma walked in wearing a red bathrobe, hair standing straight up and tufted around her ears, bleary-eyed and mumbling something about the fucking loud garbage trucks and not respecting people who worked graveyard shift. Madge poured herself some java and disappeared into the living room.


    ¡°No. Why?¡± she choked out. ¡°Is something wrong? Did something happen?¡± What could be on the computer or television that would be so awful?


    ¡°Do me a favor,¡± Krysta said slowly. ¡°Don''t get on the internet or watch television until I get there. I am about five minutes away.¡± Click.


    Swallowing the rest of her coffee, she was in the middle of pouring another cup when Madge walked back in, eyes wide open, eyebrows lifted. ¡°You got something you want to share with me, Lydia?¡± she asked, leaning against the counter, her eyes intrigued and manner quite suspicious.


    Pouring in some half and half, Lydia gave back what her grandma dished out. ¡°No, Grandma. What do you think I want to share?¡±


    Madge grabbed Lydia¡¯s hand and pulled her into the living room. Pointed to the television. Smirked, then lost the look, her face shifting to a confused compassion.


    When her eyes focused on the television screen, Lydia saw the over-makeupped morning show hosts laughing about Michael Bournham''s latest sexcapade. Rolling her eyes, she took a sip and said to Madge, ¡°C¡¯mon, Grandma. He¡¯s the company owner. It¡¯s not like I know him.¡±


    The hosts panned to a video clip, a dark security-camera snippet that clearly showed two people making love. On a couch. In an office. Deftly, Madge reached for Lydia¡¯s coffee cup as her muscles went to jelly and it slipped out of her hand. Grandma saved her from scalding her thighs and shins.


    That was her. Her and Matt. Making love (fucking) last night in the office. Long brown hair poured down like chocolate against her back, swinging as she gyrated against him, on top and in command as he had¡ª


    ¡°Sit down, honey. Breathe,¡± Madge urged, her fingers wrapping around Lydia¡¯s wrist. Breathe? Oh. Yes. She¡¯d stopped. Was that why the world had begun to fade to nothing behind little grey pinpoints? Her light blue flannel pajama top felt harsh and cold against her skin as she bent over, chest tightening, every muscle between her ribs aching with the effort to force herself to let the air out of her.


    Somehow, her autonomous nervous system kicked in and she resumed basic respiration, her brain scrambling to make sense of the video clip the morning talk show was repeating over. And over.

 Page 9

    And over.


    Why would they have filmed her and Matt? No cameras were in the Bournham Industries offices. Stairwells, sure. Maybe elevators. But in Matt''s office?Advertisement


    ¡°Bournham contracted with producers for the reality television series, to spend six weeks pretending to be a middle-management office worker. According to producer Jonah Moore¡­¡±


    The television cut to a film clip of a pinched Hollywood type who flashed a tight grin and said, ¡°Mike told us he wanted to increase his exposure and, well¡ªAmerica got way more than it bargained for. Watch Meet the Hidden Boss for the extra-special footage.¡±


    ¡°Joan, do we know who this mystery woman is?¡± the Botoxed blonde host asked the Botoxed brunette host.


    Click. Grandma shut the box off, flinging the remote onto a recliner and grunting with disgust.


    Disgust.


    Now she knew why Krysta wanted her to avoid the computer.


    Oh, holy shit. He wasn¡¯t Matt Jones. Michael Bournham? He was Michael fucking Bournham?


    She had slept with one of the hottest men in¡ªwell, ever? Lydia hadn''t just slept with her boss.


    She¡¯d fucked her boss¡¯s boss¡¯s boss¡¯s boss¡¯s boss.


    The front door nearly crashed into the living room from the force of an alarmingly sudden, fierce pounding. ¡°Lydia! Lydia!¡± Krysta shouted.


    ¡°Nice try, kid,¡± Madge muttered, placing a sympathetic palm on Lydia''s shoulder for a second before going to the door to open it. Her friend came flying in, barely dressed in yoga pants, a t-shirt, flip-flops, and no bra, everything flapping and jiggling as she crossed the room¡ªand then stopped when she saw Lydia''s face.


    ¡°Fuck. I¡¯m too late,¡± she said flatly.


    ¡°Come on in, Krysta,¡± Madge croaked. ¡°You¡¯re welcome here as long as you don''t have a hidden camera.¡±


    It looked like something Diane would do. The thought struck Jeremy as he watched the video for the thousandth time, his eyes wandering over Lydia¡¯s body, cataloging the way her elbow curved, how one hip jutted up. The way her hair glided as she sighed, her body moving with such grace, even through a hitch. A gasp. A moan. It was like something Diane would do.


    Not Lydia¡¯s elegance or her passion, or even her lusty, incredible sensuality. But the video element. Diane was so maniacally ambitious about being known, about being seen, about surfaces and appearances and the shell of legitimacy in her socialite world. A sex tape would round out her resume in that niche of pseudo-celebrity life.


    After his run with Mike yesterday, Jeremy had mulled over the situation. Maybe he could help. Certainly, watching the video was crucial, right? As a service to his friend, of course. Of course. He was that kind of guy, always sacrificing for others.


    A few calls to some hacker friends who could easily be bribed with Bitcoin and he had the video at an hour when the rest of the east coast was sleeping. Mike didn''t know Jeremy had the video. Soon everyone in the world would have it, though, so why not beat them all to the punch?


    Narrowing his eyes, he watched carefully, finished the video, and watched it again. At no point during the video did Mike say Lydia¡¯s name. He watched it again. At no point did her face directly look into the camera. And he viewed it once more, confirming that there was no way to know¡ª specifically¡ªthat this was in fact Lydia Charles. And that¡¯s when a fully-fledged plan poured into Jeremy¡¯s mind, as if inserted by divine intervention. For all her faults, Diane¡¯s disgustingly shallow personality was about to become exceptionally helpful.


    It wouldn¡¯t be hard reaching her; the woman had her own glitzy, flash-enabled website as if she were among the elite. Plenty of people he knew had their own websites¡ªbut it was because they had accomplished something. Scientists. Engineers. Inventors. Authors. Musicians. Diane had one because she just¡­was. She had shellacked an assemblage of pictures and sightings and fashion statements into this conjured image of a famous self. It even had a ¡°Donate Now¡± button. Donate for what? Her next anal bleaching? Botox treatment? Hymenectomy?


    Sure enough, there was a Contact Us button on her site and he clicked it. Was this really the right way to go? Or should he text her? Oh¡ªnot even an issue. It turned out she gave her cell phone number online. Nodding, he closed his eyes and shook his head and then nodded again. Diane, you make it so easy.


    His phone at the ready, he typed one sentence, hit send, and waited. The video had just hit the news twenty minutes ago. If she were as cravenly, coldly, cynically ambitious as he¡ª


    Bzzz! Aha! He read her response. Indeed, she was. This was going to be even easier than he thought.


    Meet me at S&S in an hour, her text read.


    S&S? That breakfast place in Cambridge? he wondered. That wasn¡¯t a fancy place where she¡¯d be seen¡ªoh, that¡¯s right. He wasn¡¯t worth being seen with. Well, he could handle the implied insult. He wasn¡¯t exactly eager to be seen with her either. What he had in mind involved a careful calibration of motivations that, if it all worked¡ªand the right people kept their mouths shut, and the right people opened them wide¡ªwould save Lydia from global humiliation.


    An hour later, he sat in a quiet, dark corner shoveling down the best smoked salmon and Havarti omelet he''d ever had when Diane walked in. She had just come from a yoga class, her hair pulled back with a headband, her ass so tight that Jeremy probably could not only bounce a quarter off of it, he could bounce a human being off of it. He had to admit that Mike had reasonably decent taste in bodies¡ªif not personalities.


    Then there was her face.


    It was so tight, frozen into some kind of permasmile that created a cognitive dissonance when you looked into her eyes, which were shrewdly calculating, if not a bit angry.


    ¡°What does any of this have to do with me?¡± she asked. ¡°Mike¡¯s been ignoring my texts and calls and emails for¡±¡ªshe gestured with a wave of her hand¡ª¡°for I don¡¯t even know how long. So, why would you want me to do something with him that involves reality TV?¡±


    He waved to the server. Diane ordered some egg whites-only abomination and a fruit cup as he made attempts at idle chit-chat.


    She glared at him and finally she said, ¡°Are you just wasting my time, Jeremy?¡±


    ¡°How would you like to be famous?¡±


    Her eyes perked up to the extent that the frozen facial muscles were capable of perking. ¡°How so?¡±


    He laid out the plan. ¡°What if someone we know were recently caught in a sex-tape scandal?¡±


    She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her water. ¡°This is about what Mike¡¯s really been up to, huh?¡± she said cynically. Jesus, she was fast. He assumed she''d been doing downward-facing dog but she already knew about the tape?


    ¡°It is. Who is the woman in that video?¡± he asked, peering intently at her.


    She cocked an eyebrow¡ªor at least, he thought she did. The result made her look constipated. ¡°It¡¯s one hell of a scandal, isn¡¯t it?¡± he said.


    ¡°Yeah, lucky girl.¡± She smiled, the effect more a grimace than an expression of happiness or sarcasm or bitterness.


    ¡°That could be you, you know?¡± he said, taking a big gulp of his orange juice, buying time.


    She frowned and said nothing.


    ¡°Well, sort of.¡±


    ¡°Jeremy, just spit it out. I don''t have time for this. You''re playing some sort of a game and I don¡¯t play games.¡±


    His turn to frown. ¡°You are like the D&D dungeon master of games, Diane.¡±


    ¡°Oh, great. Nerdspeak. Just what I need.¡± She stood. ¡°We¡¯re done here.¡±


    She turned on her heel and started to march away when he said, softly, ¡°You could claim that¡¯s you and then you¡¯d be the one with your name in all the headlines, everywhere.¡±


    She froze in place, shoulders straight back, perfectly Pilates-ed into an absolutely gorgeous curve that made him want to bend her over a table and fuck her right here. And then, she ruined that brief blip of a fantasy by facing him and making him look into her Medusa face.


    ¡°I could what?¡±


    He waved her back. She sat down. The server delivered her breakfast. Diane grabbed a fork and began eating in delicate bites, like a contestant on The Biggest Loser trying to make a stick of gum last three days. After a few bites smaller than her conscience, she rested her elbows on the table, leaned in, and said, ¡°What are you planning?¡±


    ¡°I took a good, careful look at that video, Diane, and from behind, you could be the twin of that woman.¡±


    She put a hand over her heart as if offended and gasped, the sound so loud the server turned and looked. ¡°I am not that fat!¡± she declared.


    He held his hands, palms out, in a gesture of supplication, realizing that in her world it was more offensive to be considered fat than to have fucked someone on camera and have it viewed by a billion people within twenty-four hours. ¡°Oh, no. No, no, no. I¡¯m not implying that you are. You¡±¡ªand here his expression was genuine¡ª¡°are anything but fat.¡±


    ¡°Then why do you think I look like her?¡±


    ¡°Your hair style is similar from behind¡ªsimilar color hair. Your voice has just enough of the same smoky quality. She has curves, more cur¡ªmore, more curves than you,¡± he said as she began to protest. ¡°But the camera adds twenty pounds, right?¡±


    ¡°The camera would have to add fifty or sixty, Jeremy, for me to look like that.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. But, who is all over the headlines right now? ¡®Mystery woman¡¯ caught on tape with Michael Bournham,¡± he said, putting his hand out like a Hollywood announcer. ¡°Who''s that girl? says Perez Hilton. Caught on tape¡ªsex, lies, and video.¡±


    He was weaving a web that he hoped she would voluntarily jump into and get ensnared in. If this could take the heat off Lydia, then there was some hope¡ªhe wasn¡¯t sure what kind of hope, just¡­hope. Plus, he genuinely liked Lydia. And he really, really didn¡¯t like Diane. As weird as the situation was, this was one way that he could actually help both women while helping him and Mike.


    She swallowed hard and cracked her neck on both sides. Then, she reached for her water. ¡°Why would I do that?¡± she asked, taking a sip.


    He shrugged, trying to be as casual as possible. ¡°Because plenty of famous women, especially women with reality TV shows, have been caught on tape in compromising positions. Paris Hilton, for instance.¡±


    She pulled back. ¡°Paris Hilton?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Think of the sex tape nowadays as like¡­almost an audition tape when you try to get your own TV show,¡± he said, grasping at straws, hoping he didn¡¯t sound like the ass that he felt he sounded like.


    ¡°Ooh¡­I like that.¡± Not an ass in her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re right, lots of people¡ªbut how would I? But could I?¡± She interrupted herself repeatedly. He didn¡¯t have to do anything, just keep his mouth shut. She took a deep breath, her body flowing like a muscled wall of curves. Again, he found himself responding to her, everything, the whole package, except her actual soul. And that face. He just couldn¡¯t get past that face, which now turned to him as she licked lips the size of pork chops and said, ¡°So, how do I claim that¡¯s me? Mike will just deny it, right?¡±

 Page 10

    ¡°Mike¡¯s gone into hiding. He''s refusing all press interviews, is saying ¡®no comment¡¯ to everything and poor Joanie, his secretary, is dealing with all of it. He is absolutely on radio silence, Diane, so I think that you could pretty much say whatever you want about this and Mike won¡¯t care.¡± That was all a lie, but Diane didn''t have to know it. Besides, it was probably pretty close to the truth of what Mike was about to experience as the next twenty-four hours rolled out.


    She snorted. ¡°Yeah, Mike doesn¡¯t care. Mike cares about Mike.¡± She sized Jeremy up, her eyes raking over him. ¡°Why?¡± she asked.Advertisement


    ¡°Why what?¡±


    ¡°Why are you coming to me with this idea?¡± Her eyes were half-lidded, the idea of fame obviously loosening her up. ¡°What¡¯s in it for you, Jeremy?¡±


    ¡°Me? I just had an idea.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your idea going to cost me?¡± she asked, leaning forward, trailing her index finger along the skin of his forearm. His pants tightened involuntarily and he barely suppressed a cringe, reminding himself that it was an involuntary reflex and not an indictment. This he had not expected. He and Mike may very well share women here and there, but it was always at the same time. Not like this. And not this one.


    ¡°Consider it a freebie,¡± he said, pulling back. ¡°I just saw an opportunity to help a number of friends out.¡±


    ¡°Nobody does things just because or to be nice,¡± she said, a condescending look on her face. ¡°That¡¯s so 1950s.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a throwback.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re up to something.¡± She sat back and crossed her arms over those gorgeous, cosmetically enhanced breasts. ¡°What¡¯s this going to cost me?¡±


    ¡°Your time,¡± he said, smiling. ¡°Because once you claim that that¡¯s you, you¡¯re going to be hounded for months, if not years. You¡¯re going to gets requests from The Today Show, from CNN¡ªhell, you might get an exclusive with Barbara Walters. And even if Mike decides to be a monk and hide in the hills forever, you won¡¯t be able to do that. Instant celebrity. You will be able to name your price.¡±


    Diane frowned, rolling her eyes. ¡°No, not name my price. I don¡¯t need money; my family has more than enough of it.¡±


    ¡°Then name your time slot and your channel,¡± he said, finishing off his meal, starting in on his coffee.


    ¡°So, Mike fills my slot and I get a new one.¡± She laughed.


    Now he had her. The hook was in and he was slowly cranking the reel. ¡°Diane, you¡¯re going to be the woman all over every website, every newspaper, every magazine. But you better hurry, because time is fading.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she said, grabbed her phone. ¡°Where do I start?¡±


    He knew the answer to that and then in unison they both said, ¡°TMZ!¡± She began texting furiously and Jeremy called for the check. Best thirty bucks he ever spent in his life.


    She wasn''t answering any of his phone calls, texts, or emails. Mike brooded, staring at the television, while Jeremy mocked him mercilessly as he skittered through a hundred different cable channels, catching each as it had a segment on the video.


    ¡°She¡¯s hot, man. Oooh, I like how the hands there go toward here¡ª¡±


    ¡°I''ll kill you if you say one more word.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Dead. You¡¯re dead.¡± Mike threw the first thing he could find¡ªJeremy''s abandoned phone¡ªat him, hitting right on at the temple.


    ¡°Ouch!¡± Rubbing his head, Jeremy laughed. ¡°Bad sport.¡±


    ¡°This isn''t a game.¡±


    Tap tap tap. Using the phone, Jeremy pulled up something on his screen. The sound of voices, muted. ¡°It''s playing on YouTube¡ªnine different uploads. The most popular hit 900,000 views already.¡±


    ¡°Fuck me.¡±


    ¡°Someone already did.¡± Jeremy''s palms flew up in a gesture of supplication as Mike damn near charged him. Rage raced through his bulging veins, arms itching to hurt something. Someone.


    Jonah.


    The asshole had done it. Intern his ass. Honor among weasels; he wondered how much Jonah''d been paid for that clip.


    ¡°Sources say the dark-haired beauty riding Michael Bournham''s pole remains a mystery¡ª¡± Click. Jeremy moved on to some Oprah channel, paused three seconds, and moved on. The rotation made Mike sick. Too many channels were running one particular ten-second snippet of the video of him and Lydia, a moment when he thrust up into her and she tipped her head to the right, the gesture so sexual and intimate it made him hard just thinking about it.


    ¡°Thank God you didn''t say her name,¡± Jeremy commented. ¡°Or that her face is never on camera.¡± He seemed to think something over, then added, with a low whistle, ¡°That is one hell of a nice ass, Mike.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. I''ve been doing lunges and thought no one noticed,¡± Mike said sourly.


    Pointing to the television, Jeremy said, ¡°No, I meant¡ª¡±


    One glare was all it took. Jeremy slumped down and shut up. Good.


    ¡°What a mess,¡± Mike hissed, disgusted with himself for letting this happen. ¡°Could this get any worse?¡± His stomach growled. When had he eaten last? The aroma of oregano and something cheesy filled his nostrils. ¡°Are you cooking something?¡± he asked Jeremy, agog at the thought. Jeremy''s idea of a kitchen utensil was his phone.


    ¡°I ordered pizza an hour ago, Mike. It¡¯s in the oven on warm,¡± was the answer, Jeremy''s eyes glued to the television. Mike grabbed a few slices of pepperoni pizza from the oven, snagged a Samuel Smith¡¯s Oatmeal Stout from the fridge, and plopped down on the couch, munching away.


    ¡°Can we watch anything but this?¡±


    Jeremy flipped to QVC.


    ¡°Okay, anything but this and Lydia''s ass?¡±


    Tossing the remote after turning the box off, Jeremy stole a slice off Mike¡¯s plate and wolfed it down in three folded bites.


    ¡°Jesus, do you ever use your teeth to chew?¡±


    ¡°It all digests the same.¡±


    Bzzzzz. Smart phone in hand, Jeremy tapped a few times. When his jaw dropped, Mike groaned. ¡°What now?¡±


    Volleying his head back and forth between Mike and the television, Jeremy finally just shoved his phone at Mike, wincing as he stretched his arm out. ¡°Don¡¯t kill the messenger.¡±


    It was Diane. Rather, a video of Diane on national cable news. ¡°What the hell is she¡ª¡±


    ¡°And so Mike asked me to be part of his reality television series, so I came to talk about the script in his office, and one thing led to another¡­¡± Hair flip. Attempt at a sensual smile. Fail as her over-plump lips made her look like a corpse with a pork chop trying to escape her mouth.


    ¡°There you have it, folks,¡± said the anchor. ¡°Michael Bournham''s viral sex-tape partner has been exposed. Meet the Hidden Boss? Not anymore. They should call the show ¡®Meet the Hidden Sexpot.¡¯¡±


    A spray of beer and half-chewed pizza flew across the room, narrowly missing his arm. ¡°Sexpot? Sexpot? Diane? More like cesspool!¡± Jeremy shouted.


    A sense of relief flooded Mike¡¯s body, extending out to his limbs. Deep breaths helped to restore a little more of his core, that unwavering sense of self that he''d become so detached from these past few years. Lydia was off the hook. Diane¡ªin her weird, self-centered, hyper-affected way¡ª was grabbing the perfect fifteen minutes of fame.


    Which saved Lydia from humiliation and the nightmare of a very hungry, very determined press.


    He still had the Matt Jones rental, with the GPS within, containing Lydia''s address from last night. Not that he needed it¡ªdriving past her apartment ten or so times since the media shitstorm hit had branded it in his brain. Tracking her down and trying to explain this mess wouldn¡¯t be hard. Surprising Jeremy, he ran out the door, keys in hand, and was barreling down the stairs before his friend could shout his name.


    So much of this was out of his control.


    Trying, though, wasn¡¯t.


    Some cranky old lady, who looked like the last time she wore lipstick was during the Eisenhower administration, answered the door. ¡°Funny,¡± she said, ¡°you look very different in the video.¡± Madge. He''d forgotten, in the frenzy surrounding the video, that she was Lydia''s grandmother.


    She may as well have spat the words in his face, the wave of revulsion and self-incrimination that hit him worse than any saliva that she could have hocked. Leaving the door open, she turned away and stomped down a hallway. He assumed that meant that he could enter. The apartment was quite nice, simple, but nice, with a homey decor that spoke to a longer history of the family living in the Midwest. Maybe the old woman had moved here for reasons unknown. Hell, maybe she was part of the original settlers from the Mayflower, given her appearance.


    The sun shone through gauzy curtains and he felt raw and intrusive, as if he had absolutely no right to be here. The feeling made him waver inside, because Michael Bournham never felt that way these days; he always had a right to be wherever he damn well pleased, within the bounds of the legal system, of course. The ground beneath his feet was shaking like tectonic plates, moving hard against each other, fighting for dominance. Everything felt like that, though¡ªand not just since the damn video had gone viral. Ever since he¡¯d encountered Lydia in the parking lot. Had that really just been a few weeks ago? It felt like years. If only he had given in to his attraction to her when he had met her years ago, who knows where they would be right now. They sure as hell wouldn¡¯t be in this position, with Mike coming to beg her forgiveness.


    Beg. Michael Bournham didn¡¯t beg anyone for anything, and yet he would get down on his knees and kiss her feet and make a thousand promises, all of which he would spend the rest of his life keeping, if she would forgive him his foolish, foolish, forgetfulness. In some ways it was her fault¡ªshe¡¯d driven him there, so captivating, so alluring, so lovely in his lap, his hands filled with her ass, her hips, her curves, all gyrating on top of him, moving in ways that he didn¡¯t know flesh could connect. She¡¯d driven him out of his own mind, something that no mere mortal woman could possibly do, and yet she had.


    He couldn¡¯t blame her; that would be the easy way out, something that a weaker man would claim. Mike might be many things right now, but weak was not one of them¡ªand never would be. He was facing this like a man, standing here in her apartment, uncertain but composed at the same time. Morals, driven into him from childhood through adolescence, made his center guide him. You look people in the eye when you make a mistake. You apologize. You try your damnedest to make it better, and even if they don¡¯t forgive you, you still take whatever they throw at you because you wronged them. That was why he was here. That, and of course the hope she would forgive him, that she would go into his arms again and let him kiss her. Let him love her.


    Love. That¡¯s what drove all of this underneath. She had bewitched him. No, he¡¯d let her bewitch him, falling under his own spell, the spell of allowing someone in. No blame could take away what had happened. That damn video was everywhere right now. Everywhere, proving what he¡¯d always said, that the world was getting smaller and smaller at about the same rate that cell phones shrank.

 Page 11

    Murmured voices in a back room told him that Lydia was here, and his heart began to pound against his pecs, against his bones, the ribs desperate to expand enough to accommodate the swell of his need. This need was different, not driven by the blood that rushed to his southern parts, but rather blood that pumped through his veins, coursing through, transporting a deep, soulful desire to spend his remaining decades with her. Building a life with Lydia was all that mattered right now. Matt Jones had forged a wonderful beginning with her. Could Michael Bournham take over and make a lifetime happen?


    Her form appeared suddenly at the end of a long hallway, and her shoulders told him exactly how she felt, squared and lifted high, her breasts resting beautifully above the swell of her waist and hips. She wore a soft, blue flannel set of pajamas, casual and relaxed. He wanted mornings with her, coffee at the breakfast table, lounging in bed reading the paper. Bed. A day in bed with her could get him through decades of life if that were all he had. A nagging memory of being in this apartment just last night, of being in her bed, of the invitation to enter her world as much as he had entered her body, all snapped shut the second she opened her mouth.Advertisement


    ¡°No camera crew?¡± she said. ¡°Mike, you¡¯re slipping.¡±


    Mike. The way she said his name with such acid tones forced a hot ball of lead into his belly, choking his throat. Only she could have this effect on him. No woman ever had¡ªthen again, he¡¯d never made love to a woman on video and had it go viral. After a billion people watch you make love, where do you hide? Lydia was trying her damnedest here in this apartment in Cambridge.


    Silver hair followed by China-blue eyes filled the room, sucking the air out of her lungs and making all the blood in her body rush to her V. There stood Michael Bournham, his body encased in some sort of shimmery gray t-shirt, made from an impossibly fine fabric, and jeans that looked painted on by Michelangelo himself. Sunglasses hung from a strap around his neck, and his look was of such intensity that the rest of the world melted away, breaking apart molecule by molecule as everything converged into one, simple atom.


    Them.


    ¡°Lydia,¡± he said, and his voice seemed different. Smokier. More commanding. In her heart she knew this was Matt. Matt Jones. The same man she''d hated, then grudgingly liked, then pined for, and finally submitted to¡ªeagerly. No different today than two days ago, aside from eye and hair color. He wasn''t worth the strange reaction her body and brain elicited, electric thrumming creating a frequency that pounded away at her pulse, her thoughts, her heart.


    Being Michael Bournham should have meant absolutely nothing. Her hands had stroked this man. Her mouth had kissed this man. Her body had accepted this man into her, thrusting and urgent and fevered and hot, pushing and bucking for more of him.


    His skin was the same, sandy hair sprinkled in all the right places. In the closet, in the elevator, in his office, in her own damn bed, those hands had touched her flesh, alternating between tender and coarse with powerful caresses, the ability to shift from one state to the other an exquisite, almost divine, gift.


    Metamorphosis went both ways then, no? If he could change touch so easily, why not identity?


    Who had she really fucked, after all? Ah. That was the $64,000 question.


    Aim higher, Lydia.


    The billion-dollar question. Everyone knew about Michael Bournham''s quest for his billion-dollar empire. Everyone. From mail room guys to senior vice-presidents, the austerity measures at Bournham Industries over the past eighteen months had been all about him. A contract signed in his blood, practically, with the board of directors had made headlines for weeks, garnering stories in The Economist, Wall Street Journal¡ªeven Rolling Stone had done a feature on him and his ballsy move.


    What part did she play in this race to drive profits high enough to win his bet? A viral sex tape might smear his reputation, but in the end he''d just be labeled a bad boy, another renegade playboy rolling in more money than God. Publicity, though¡ªthat was gold. Getting the Bournham name in the news, on YouTube (hell, YouPorn), increasing branding by a social media factor of hundreds¡ªthe value of fucking her on camera was, well¡­


    Priceless.


    Priceless precisely because she had no price tag. What he had done happened with her full consent¡ªthe physical act, that is.


    The taping?


    That violated her to the bone.


    ¡°I am so, so sorry,¡± he rasped, voice shaking with emotion. Not nervous; guys like Michael Bournham were never nervous. They were in complete control every fucking second of their lives, right? Letting them get ¡°caught¡± on tape was all about micromanaging every second of his time with her. Fake, fake, fake¡ªit had all been a giant ruse, Matt Jones¡¯ attraction to her, his intensity in the elevator, those warm arms around her in the supply closet, hot mouth on her clit, his rod driving her open and pounding her to ecstasy. What else was on tape? In some editing room in LA was an assistant splicing together more film of their intimate encounters, ready to run on the E! channel? Would she be the subject of a Tosh monologue? Or was she going to be The Daily Show¡¯s Moment of Zen?


    Sorry? He was sorry? If Michael Bournham had used her to ride a social media wave so great she would be ¡°sex-tape girl¡± well into her golden years, the subject of ridicule on Fark, SomethingAwful, Reddit and beyond, then she really only had one choice, as he watched her, eyes hawk like and predatory, clearly here with one purpose: to win her over.


    Her choice, though, was to stay the course. What she needed to do was to follow his final order as her boss.


    To maliciously obey.


    ¡°Did you get what you wanted?¡± she asked, struck by how different he was from Matt Jones¡ªand yet, this was the same man.


    ¡°Get what I wanted?¡± he asked, pretending to be confused. As if Michael Bournham would ever be confused.


    ¡°Quit playing games. You know exactly what I¡¯m talking about,¡± she said.


    ¡°What I want is you.¡±


    ¡°No. What you want is money.¡± He flinched. She continued. ¡°Everyone knows that. Everyone, Mr. Bournham. From the guy who cleans the shit off the toilets to your executive assistant and everyone in between, and I¡¯m one of the in-betweens.¡± She felt her face stretch in an angry, bitter smile. ¡°Your deal with the board; your deadline is coming up, so everyone¡¯s known that all these stupid cost-cutting measures for the past eighteen months¡ªall of the ¡®we can¡¯t afford to give you raises,¡¯ ¡®we can¡¯t afford to give you bonuses,¡¯ ¡®we can¡¯t afford to give you regular toilet paper that¡¯s not made in Poland¡¯¡ªall of it so you could make your goal with the board, your bet. So apparently, I¡¯m part of the wager?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re part of nothing.¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± she said. Now she was pissed. ¡°I¡¯m part of nothing.¡± She nodded and smiled, a cynical grin. ¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯m nothing to you. I¡¯m actually less than nothing, aren¡¯t I?¡±


    He tried to interrupt her, but she held out a palm. ¡°I¡¯m less than nothing because you used me. You knew those cameras were rolling. You let me make love to Matt Jones in the office. You teased, you taunted, you seduced, you led me on and I broke. I broke,¡± she said, shrugging, sighing deeply and shaking her head.


    And then she looked him straight in the eye. ¡°I broke. I fell for someone you created, I fell for a guy I thought was smart and funny and intelligent and caring, and who actually might give a damn about me and treat me like an equal with respect and with mutual attraction.¡±


    She looked him over, top to bottom. ¡°Same guy, same body, but it turns out you spun that out of thin air so you could gain your notoriety and get the name of Bournham Industries all over every web platform, every media outlet, and boost your profits, huh?¡±


    His eyes widened. ¡°You think that?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m right, aren¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°God, no,¡± he gasped, the sound unnerving her. Michael Bournham didn''t show this kind of authenticity, this vulnerability. Who in the hell was standing before her? That was what made this all so terrifying, the betrayal so cruel.


    Because she had no idea who she had fallen in love with.


    ¡°Of course I am. You did it,¡± she scoffed, trying to bury the tears that threatened to come forth in a righteous anger that was in all-too-abundant supply. ¡°You seduced me. I let you. I''m no victim here, though,¡± she said, cutting off his attempt to speak. Pacing in the living room, very aware of her frumpy blue jammies, she decided to go for it. Just say it all. Why not? Matt Jones was dead.


    The man before her wasn''t Matt Jones, right?


    Right?


    ¡°Congratufuckinglations, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Do your friends call you Mike?¡± Her laugh was sharp and bitter. ¡°You got fucked on video and now a billion people get to watch me go as bare and raw and real as I''ve ever been with a man. Call it a deflowering of sorts. You popped my sex-tape cherry.¡±


    Wild and furious, in love and hating it, she let him have the full wrath of all her emotions. Grandma and Krysta might be in the next room but she didn''t give a shit anymore. Let the world hear it all.


    Might as well, right? They''d seen it already.


    ¡°I started to fall for you, Matt¡ªMike. Fuck!¡± she screamed. ¡°I don''t even know what to call you.¡±


    ¡°Asshole would be a good start, it would appear,¡± he said dryly.


    A laugh bubbled up to the surface, unwelcome and involuntary. God damn it. It made it harder to be angry. How could she remain pissed when he had chased her down, tried to catch her, and now he really was here, taking it all like a man, and¡­what?


    Why was he here?


    ¡°Why¡¯re you really here?¡± she asked.


    Michael Bournham paused. She couldn¡¯t call him Mike in her head and she certainly couldn¡¯t think of him as Matt any longer. Rolling his tongue between his cheek and his gums, his jaw tensed and he was so accessible in that moment, yet so distant. Her apartment felt like a dungeon, knowing that her grandma and Krysta were in the back room whispering furiously with each other, though giving them the privacy that they needed, she felt self-conscious.


    Just over a day. He''d left her apartment in the middle of the night and just over a day later her life had exploded. She¡¯d rested in his arms, cuddled up to him after the most exquisite lovemaking of her life. The video poisoned everything. She¡¯d never sleep in that bed without thinking about his touch, his arms. How had he changed so quickly? Her eyes raked over him. The green eyes were gone, now blue. Brown hair¡ªgone. Now it was a strange silver color, not quite the shade the famous Michael Bournham wore, but rather a strange, odd combination of his real hair and his identity as Matt. The man had physically changed himself to deceive. How could she know that he wouldn¡¯t emotionally change himself to commit a far greater betrayal?


    Finally, he rallied and seemed to think of something to say. Taking two shockingly tentative steps toward her, his hands seem to tremble and finally he planted them on his hips, one leg bent, the gesture uncertain. ¡°I¡¯m here first of all to say that I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°You said that already,¡± she snapped.

 Page 12

    ¡°I can¡¯t say it enough,¡± he said quietly.


    Silence hung between them like a condemned man, suspended from a hangman¡¯s noose. There was a kind of death in the air, a ragged, jutted feeling that this rift between them could never be mended. Yet he was here, she had to give him credit for that.Advertisement


    ¡°The second reason I¡¯m here,¡± he stated bluntly, ¡°is because I never expected to feel what I feel for you, Lydia.¡±


    She opened her mouth to speak and he took one step closer and gently laid his fingertips against her lips. She pulled back as if he had shocked her with an electric bolt.


    ¡°Let me speak.¡± That was more the Michael Bournham she had seen from afar, and on rare occasion, up close. ¡°I¡¯ll give you plenty of time, I assure you,¡± he explained. ¡°I most certainly did not join this reality TV show so that I could intentionally make love with the most stunning woman I have ever met in my entire life and then have it caught on video tape, so that it would go viral and ruin the one true thing that I most want.¡±


    Although he hadn¡¯t touched her again, it was as if someone had snapped a circuit breaker and jolted her with thousands and thousands of volts, burning deep into her brain. She stared at him, completely transfixed, his words pouring over and around her, and yet somehow also sinking in.


    He ran a frantic hand through his hair and began to pace. ¡°Lydia, here was the deal¡ªyou were never part of the deal.¡± A wry grin in his eyes floated up to the ceiling as he stopped and massaged the center of his forehead, as if in physical agony. ¡°The producers of Meet the Hidden Boss came to me and explained that sales spike when CEOs do this sort of thing. I have, as you know, a deal with the board. Had, I suppose I should start to speak of that in the past tense, too, shouldn¡¯t I?¡± he said bitterly. ¡°I had a bargain, and I thought that this would be part of my strategy, that I would¡­¡± he said with a cadence that made it clear that he needed to speak his entire story. It made her less interested in interrupting and more attentive. He said that she would get her say, right? For now then, she would at least get the full story, even if she would never get that happily ever after that she had so carefully studied in her marketing proposal.


    ¡°When Jonah, Jonah Moore, the producer, proposed the idea, I was to become a middle manager.¡±


    ¡°Hence, Matt Jones,¡± she said flatly.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Director of social media.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°So, you took the job in order to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he cut her off, ¡°I think you get the picture.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do,¡± she said with extraordinary derision.


    ¡°It sounds so ridiculous now, but it is what it is and I have to make peace with it. I¡¯ve never been one to flinch from reality.¡±


    ¡°Or reality TV shows,¡± she shot back.


    ¡°Touch¨¦,¡± he said, those sapphire eyes boring into hers. The skin underneath his eyes tucked up as he cocked his head and proceeded to explain. ¡°I played the part, but you were there on day one. Day one,¡± he laughed, ¡°in the parking lot, reading that damn book, in that tiny little red car of yours, all curves, and divine, and lush, and everything that I remembered you were two years ago.¡±


    ¡°Two years ago?¡± she rasped. Her hand went to the base of her collarbone, her fingers fluttering there in surprise. She cleared her throat. ¡°Two years ago, what are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Employee orientation,¡± he confessed.


    ¡°You remember me?¡± she gasped.


    ¡°You remember me?¡± he inquired. At a standoff, they just stared. ¡°My God, what a fool I¡¯ve been,¡± he said, closing his eyes, tipping his face up to the ceiling, and making her want him even more. God damn it.


    Staying silent, she let her arms down, her hands loose at her sides, brushing against her hips. Listening to him was her only option at this point, short of storming out of the room. What good would that accomplish? At least now she got to understand more about why he did what he did.


    ¡°I have no justification for what happened.¡± He made a dismissive noise with his lips. ¡°Has it really been just over twenty-four hours?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He nodded, pursing his lips. ¡°It has, hasn¡¯t it? So much has happened.¡±


    ¡°To you and me, both,¡± she said.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± he objected, though his tone was pensive.


    ¡°What do you mean, not yet?¡± Now the anger bubbled up to the surface. ¡°Millions of people have already seen that by now. For God¡¯s sake, my grandmother has seen it.¡± She gestured toward the back of the apartment.


    He held a palm up to her in deference. ¡°Whoa, whoa, whoa,¡± he said, ¡°hold on. All I mean is that you haven¡¯t been identified yet.¡±


    ¡°As if that isn¡¯t going to happen within the next few minutes,¡± she sputtered. ¡°It¡¯s already happening. People are going to figure out pretty damn quickly who I am, and when they do¡­¡± Oh, god, she hadn¡¯t really thought through the implications of this. ¡°And when they do, I¡¯m ruined.¡±


    That simple statement seemed to make him collapse. She had imploded the great Michael Bournham. Now it was her turn to get the information that she wanted. This wasn¡¯t about him coming in here and giving her his narrative, it was about her taking back what little self-respect and integrity she could claw away. ¡°You said two years ago¡±¡ªshe stared him down¡ª¡°you met me at that orientation and you were attracted to me and you said nothing.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said simply.


    ¡°Because I was just an administrative assistant?¡± Acerbic and pissed off, she decided that she didn¡¯t care that he was the great Michael Bournham. She didn¡¯t care in this angry moment that he wasn¡¯t Matt Jones. What she cared about was that he was going to cough up whatever she needed to know so that somehow, in the great mel¨¦e of this chaotic clusterfuck, she would have some piece of him that he gave to her willingly. Or not.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he admitted, ¡°there¡¯s nothing to stop this, it¡¯s a juggernaut that¡¯s completely out of my control.¡±


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s out of your control.¡±


    ¡°This one is, Lydia, just like I was completely out of control when I made love to you.¡±


    ¡°Which time?¡±


    The question shocked him, and he tipped his head, an expression of emotion she couldn¡¯t name, so raw and so real that it almost broke her resolve and made her fling herself at him, wanting the comfort of his arms one more time, his lips on her neck, his body pressed against hers.


    ¡°Both,¡± was all he said.


    Whatever Mike had thought this moment would be like, what he was experiencing was ten times more grueling. He had expected her to refuse to see him, or to be angry, or to storm off or scream at him, but instead she was doing exactly what he would have done in her place. Hold his feet to the fire, not let him get away with trying to shunt off responsibility, and carefully extracting whatever information would help. He¡¯d give it to her, no problem, but she was asking questions that he hadn¡¯t even considered, probing him in ways that were uncomfortable. Could he say ¡°I love you¡±? That he¡¯d loved her since the day he met her? No, that wouldn¡¯t be true and it wouldn¡¯t be fair, because she would know it wasn¡¯t true. Could he say that he was swept up by lust and not a small amount of love? Yes, and if he could say that he should say that.


    ¡°I did not follow up with you after we met two years ago because I believed that you thought that I was an ass.¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m not in the habit of spending time chasing down women who have a predisposed desire to dislike me.¡±


    ¡°I had no such thing,¡± she argued.


    ¡°You surely did.¡±


    ¡°You acted as if I were some lowly administrative assistant and questioned why on earth I would be in such a position.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± It was his turn to answer with monosyllabic responses.


    ¡°And you don¡¯t see why I would find that offensive?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Was I wrong?¡±


    That seemed to take the wind out of her sails. She sighed deeply and looked down at the floor, thinking about the statement. Her eyes flashed with a righteous response. ¡°You were the one man who could have changed that.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± he said, shrugging.


    ¡°So, why didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have an answer for that, Lydia.¡±


    ¡°You captivated me but life went on.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, life went on.¡±


    ¡°So, did life go on in the office the other night? You forgot about the cameras because life went on in your pants?¡±


    ¡°Life went on in a hell of a lot more than just my pants, Lydia.¡±


    She blushed, and it pleased him. It wouldn¡¯t solve anything, and he certainly would leave here with empty arms, but it made him happy, at least as happy as he was capable of being in the middle of what was about to be a tsunami of indescribable proportions that wiped out his career, his life, and possibly his heart.


    ¡°You really didn¡¯t plan this.¡± Her tone of voice was between a question and a statement. She seemed fearful of replying, as if choosing one or the other would commit her to hating him or believing him.


    How could she understand the truth? He had gone to a place inside himself with her, enraptured by her, and had forgotten who he was, and what he was doing. This was his one chance to tell her. ¡°I really forgot. I¡­live a life of such total control, Lydia, and then I met you.¡±


    Lydia made the first move, stepping close to him again. He needed her to have as much control as possible, and when she pressed the flat of her palm against his beating heart he knew he had no right to the hope that coursed through his veins. Her eyes were tortured; he imagined that his were even worse, more twisted.


    ¡°Matt, oh¡­¡± She stopped herself, flinching.


    ¡°Mike is fine,¡± he said, steadying his breath, hoping that she would give him a chance. He didn¡¯t know what was coming next, but if all he could have was a kiss, an embrace, a chance that there might be a future, then he could weather the storm.


    ¡°Mike,¡± she said, with a hint of a smile on her face, ¡°I have to know that you didn¡¯t plan this.¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not,¡± he said hoarsely, flat and firm. ¡°You were never, ever any part of any marketing policy¡­¡± He fumbled for words. ¡°Or stunt, or a way to increase profits. I swear to you, Lydia.¡± Taking a chance, he covered her hand with his own. She didn¡¯t pull away. ¡°You have my word on that.¡± Something went veiled and hooded in her eyes, and he realized how little credibility he really had. Vulnerable and stripped naked, Michael Bournham now stood here in this little apartment in a part of Cambridge that a couple of months ago he¡¯d never have even driven through, standing in front of a woman he had noticed two years ago and had never had the guts to pursue. Why had it taken the facade of Matt Jones to break through?


    She stood on tiptoes and put both hands on either side of his face. ¡°It¡¯s the eyes,¡± she said. ¡°I always knew they were fake. They were too green to be real.¡±

 Page 13

    ¡°Some people say that about my blue eyes.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she protested, ¡°they¡¯re exquisite and very real.¡± And then, she leaned forward for the kiss that he had craved, for what had felt like a lifetime of waiting. Her lips were no surrender and his response was no claim, it was simply two people trying to find common ground, and to see if the desire that each had could fit into the equation of the ruins that both faced.Advertisement


    ¡°Lydia!¡± Her grandmother¡¯s voice snapped them apart. ¡°You need to come see this.¡±


    ¡°Grandma, no, I¡¯m talk¡ª¡±


    ¡°Now.¡±


    The old woman¡¯s demeanor and the way that she looked at Mike as if she wished her eyes were lasers and could burn him into a tiny, little pile of soot made him realize that something was wrong¡ªsomething more was wrong, if that were possible. The sound of the television screen voice came through from the bedroom; it cut in mid-statement: ¡°¡­Producer Jonah Moore says that the viral sex tape of Michael Bournham and the undisclosed young woman from the office was part of the reality TV show¡¯s production all along.¡±


    Lydia practically ran away from him, down to the bedroom, where Krysta and Lydia¡¯s grandmother stood. He walked on faltering feet, hearing, suddenly, Jonah¡¯s voice. ¡°Oh, yeah,¡± he said, in rapid-fire speech, ¡°this was all part of Meet the Hidden Boss¡¯s plan. Michael Bournham came to us and he wanted to play a middle manager in his own corporation so he could understand how everything worked, and then he added, ¡®And by the way, I have this great idea for how we can really make this go viral.¡¯¡± Lydia¡¯s grandmother pointed the remote at the TV and shut it off. Suddenly six daggers posing as eyes were pointed at him.


    ¡°Get out,¡± Lydia spat.


    ¡°No, no, Lydia¡­¡± He closed his eyes, turning away from her. There was absolutely nothing he could do. Stripped powerless, he simply walked, one foot in front of the other, further and further away from the love of his life, the woman who had taken him to places so far from the constructed life of Michael Bournham the CEO, that he¡¯d forgotten their simple humanity, and for that she was right¡ªhe needed to get out.


    Chapter Four


    A phone call would have been a waste, so Lydia had invited Krysta to just hop in the car and drive the four hours north, both of them calling in sick¡ªcough, cough¡ªfor the next day. Her decision made, Lydia had emailed, called, faxed and scanned, signed and agreed to the promotion in every manifestation possible short of smoke signals. She did this for two reasons; one, time was of the essences and the very nervous HR woman who had a special number she didn¡¯t recognize had asked her, before any other question, ¡°Do you have a passport?¡±


    Lydia had laughed. ¡°You know, I couldn¡¯t have said yes to that even six months ago but I do, because I needed to go Canada for a big camping convention and my mom made me get one. Otherwise, I wouldn¡¯t have.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­oh, I see,¡± said the woman, whose name was Joanie. ¡°I see.¡± She sounded like she was about sixteen and her voice was shaky as she asked, ¡°And have you spoken uh with¡ªuh¡­with umm¡­your boss, Matt Jones, about the transfer?¡±


    ¡°No, he was out sick today.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­oh yes, that¡¯s right, uh¡­he informed me of that.¡±


    If Lydia had been a little less happy, a little less excited and a little less gobsmacked by how her life was careening toward a stratospheric trajectory to awesomeness, she might have wondered why this fellow admin was so odd. Finally, she had gotten off the phone, had cleared her schedule, filled the gas tank, and she and Krysta, each with a small overnight bag, were about to surprise Sandy.


    Lydia needed the element of surprise on her side because the joy that her mother would feel at the last-minute unannounced visit would have to carry through to the morning that she would go through when she dropped this bombshell on her. You thought moving to Boston was bad, Mom, she thought, try Iceland.


    ¡°Your mom is going to kill you,¡± Krysta said.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°She hates to fly.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°But she¡¯ll do it for you.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Well, and it¡¯s not like you¡¯re moving a continent¡ªwell okay you are¡ªoh no¡­shit¡­well¡­¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Krysta.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    The drive to Maine took them up I-95, over the bridge into Portsmouth, and then across the state line, leaving them with three more hours to go. Portland became a blur and then they hit the much, much wider open road, more moose than cars, at one point. Lydia decided to pop off of 95 and take Route 1 up, knowing that it would take longer but loving the drive regardless.


    The little towns in Maine looked like something from sixty years ago, with the occasional sign ¡°free wifi here¡± telling you that there were no places that were true throwbacks to the ¡¯50s. Maine¡¯s rocky coast never disappointed her. From a distance, the shoreline here and there, in small towns they crept through at 35 to 40 mph, had a grayish tint to it, with large, jagged rocks jabbing through marshy ocean sections and, of course, ports in nearly every town with small lobster boats and other well-worn dinghies.


    This was not a fancy Cape Cod ocean, the well combed beaches of Wellfleet or Eastham. This was Maine. If you wanted to go swimming you put on water shoes and you prepared to get scraped up, and the water was a good, solid sixty-three degrees at the end of July. If you wanted to swim in Maine, you needed to be prepared to tough it out. If you wanted to swim somewhere else, go to Truro.


    She could smell the salt in the air as she took her little red Honda Fit along the well-worn curves, along a road that she knew all too well, and had known all her life. She took the final, familiar turn, the right into Escape Shores Campground. She and her brothers had painted the giant billboard in front of the entrance. It had been, what¡­five or six years? Her second year of college. It was an enormous starfish, a giant¡­well, no one had quite figured out whether it was a narwhal or a dolphin, their art skills inhibited by absolutely no talent, and lettering that made a fourth-grader¡¯s handwriting look professional. But what they¡¯d lacked in style, they made up for in enthusiasm, and their father had dutifully put up the floodlights and added a couple of proper professional signs just for clarity, and so the gaudy billboard had stuck.


    All of the roads at Escape Shores Campground were dirt and gravel. Gravel if you were lucky. And during mud season the golf carts frequently got stuck, requiring someone, normally whichever child was lowest in the totem pole¡ªand that meant Lydia and Caleb¡ªto get behind the golf cart and push. But in late July the roads were dry, if rutted, and Lydia¡¯s car bounced as she drove at city speeds and then hit her brakes hard to realign herself¡ªbecause now she was on Maine time. And that meant 5 mph through the campground at all times. You never knew when there might be a child riding a bike or a dog frolicking.


    The front entrance was deceptive. A single long road that stretched on for a good quarter-mile with the occasional branch road off to the left and then after a slight clearing, off to the right, another one. The shrubbery that lined the main road was deceptive too. It wasn¡¯t simple overgrowth or woodsy brush, for if you peered at the height of raspberry season, as it was now, you¡¯d see little red dots here, there and everywhere. If you concentrated hard enough, suddenly you¡¯d realize that what your eyes saw were thousands and thousands of succulent berries¡ªat least the ones the birds hadn¡¯t gotten to yet.


    Her parents had, over the past three decades, painstakingly filled Escape Shores Campground with edible landscaping. From apple trees that yielded bountiful harvests in September and October to the summer berries to the careful protection of wild blueberries, a hallmark in Maine along the miles and miles of trails, over a hundred in all, that dotted the 140 acres of privately owned land. There were community gardens, and if you were a seasonal camper, you could get your own little eight-by-eight plot of land that would be good for growing your salads, your beans, and your tomatoes.


    The gardening group were pretty hardcore, and a few years ago had lobbied to have their own section of the park, about fifteen of them all clustered together in RV slots that led to a stretch of land that Pete had cleared just for them so that they had their own extra space, away from the more lightweight hobby gardeners. These folks grew most of their food using a variety of techniques, from square-foot gardening to no-till methods and experimenting. The venture had even gotten Escape Shores Campground an article in a national gardening magazine and a national RV magazine, which had pleased Pete and Sandy to no end. Her parents were nothing if not innovators.


    As she continued on down the dirt road, signs of life started to pick up. The roads were set up much like a tree with a thick, deep, tall trunk that fed into a bunch of branches that split off and off and off, all leading into the sea. The paths for children to ride bikes were far off the main road, the plan that her father had laid out so many decades ago still intact.


    A careful preservation of a sense of community in camping was her parents¡¯ ultimate goal, but in order to accomplish that, they¡¯d had to adopt newer techniques. Escape Shores was noted nationwide as a telecommuter''s dream. For RVers with businesses on the road, this had become something of a mecca, and for Bostonians looking to get away from the city but who could barely grab those two precious weeks of vacation that corporate life meted out to them, this was a dream come true. A little piece of beach, the ability to work from a remote location, and loads of fun. Sandy and Pete had worked so hard to create an idyllic life for their family and that had spread out into creating an idyllic vacation spot.


    So much so that Sandy had instituted a rule. All wireless routers were turned off in the campground from the hours of 6 to 9 p.m. She called it ¡°unplugged time,¡± and it was meant for families. If you were desperate and still needed to be plugged into the Matrix, you could do it with an ethernet cord. But the roaming about, heads down, fingers texting that drove her nuts was something that she absolutely banned during prime campground time, those hours when the grills came out and the campfires were fired up, the bags of marshmallows sold like crazy in the camp store and the final frolics as the sun set over the water turned people into shadows.


    This is what Lydia looked forward to every year, six o¡¯clock, just before the mosquitoes came out and just as the air turned cool enough to make it worth slipping your shoes off and wading in the water, but a little too nippy to wear your suit. And then to climb out, towel off your feet, throw on a warm sweatshirt and head over to someone¡¯s campfire to chat, to catch up, to make a new friend, or to just sit in silence and enjoy the sounds of a little slice of utopia on the water.


    This was Thursday. She knew that tomorrow Mom and Dad would be so busy they practically wouldn¡¯t recognize her if she walked in off the street. Timing was perfect. That meant she could escape tomorrow¡ªescape from Escape Shores, she and her brothers joked. She could come in, do her damage, and run away, leaving Mom and Dad with a busy night to keep their minds occupied, because Sandy was about to need the distraction. In her world, the idea that Lydia really wasn¡¯t coming back and that she was actually going further, further than any of her children had ever gone except for Luke¡­well, that made Lydia glad that she would be escaping soon.

 Page 14

    The tech cottage was filled with people sitting at laptops and, unless her eyes were deceiving her, it looked like her parents had added an espresso machine in there. She could see it through the window. Krysta was craning her neck, looking at the wildflower beds, at some kids playing croquet in one of the overgrown fields, at the giant pirate ship that her parents had added and turned into an herb garden rather than a child¡¯s playground.


    She pulled up in front of her parents¡¯ house and they climbed out. She knew it would take fewer than fifteen steps before someone recognized her. Sure enough, it was Caleb who shouted her name. Caleb¡¯s hands and shirt were full of greenery, what Lydia suspected were herbs from the herb ship. Of all her brothers, Caleb was the oddball, the one who had managed to get some combination of genes from a couple of generations past that involved bright blue eyes and sandy brown hair. They jokingly called him the milkman¡¯s boy, except that if you looked at old Mr. Michaelson there was no way that any boy was coming out of him, and besides, Mr. Michaelson was as black Irish as the Charles¡¯.Advertisement


    Caleb had the body of a marathon runner and the smile of a used car salesman. But it was his hands that were so distinct, long surgeon¡¯s fingers that he used with great skill, not to cut people open, but to cut great chunks of meat, to julienne varying vegetables, to twist and turn an icing bag into a cake that was a work of art. Caleb had gone to culinary school and had come back home, which pleased Sandy and Pete to no end, to become the resident chef.


    Although Escape Shores didn¡¯t have an official restaurant, Lydia knew they soon would. Sandy lived in fear that Grandma would lure Caleb into the city, to work at Grandma''s diner. At twenty-four, Caleb was the closest in age to her and as youngsters had palled around, people called them Irish twins, for they were only fourteen months apart. She was proud of him, and his tarragon butter draw for dipping lobster really was worth the drive.


    ¡°Hey, sis!¡± he called out. The bottom of his t-shirt was curled up, making a cloth bowl of sorts, and it was stuffed silly with different shades of green, stretches of herbs that he¡¯d clearly just picked. She spotted rosemary¡ªwas that some kind of mint?¡ªand maybe a cilantro in there.


    ¡°That better not be cilantro!¡± she shouted back.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because it tastes like soap.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the only one in the family with that freak gene,¡± he called out, smiling.


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk about genes, Mr. Michaelson.¡± He rolled his eyes but the mirth was still there. Krysta watched them, her eyes lit up. It was no secret that Krysta had a thing for Caleb. Caleb, though, didn¡¯t seem to notice that Krysta was there. He was polite enough and friendly, and they talked and joked just like Caleb talked and joked with everyone else. But she knew his eyes were on, funnily enough, the Stillman''s daughter, Julie. He¡¯d had a crush on her since third grade and she wanted to tell Krysta that it was hopeless but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to crush anyone¡¯s spirit when it came to love, least of all her own.


    She couldn¡¯t get Matt out of her head. But worse, she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about Michael, and the fact that they were the same person just made her wonder why, if she had two men in her life, it had to be under these circumstances. From the look on Caleb¡¯s face he hadn¡¯t heard about the video, or seen it. There was no covert, sidelong glance, no non-verbal questioning, and so she breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone in her family took a really good, long look or put two and two together, they would know¡ªand the shame that she felt, not at what she had done in that office, but at being so exposed, was something that ran so counter to how she normally felt when she set foot back home.


    Home was a safe place. Home was comforting. Home was steady and stable and would always be there. Having it tainted by her life in the city was one thing, but having the biggest risk she had ever taken in her life exposed on camera and gone viral for late-night talk show fodder and gossip blogs and for jokes about her body, her sexual technique, the sounds she made in the throes of passion, that¡­that made nowhere safe. Home, absolutely, had to remain sacrosanct. She had seven people here to worry about. Seven people who might know the truth, and so far it was one down, six to go.


    It is mint, she thought as Caleb embraced her, crushing the herbs between them, the scent of broken leaves and of released aromas tickling her nose and making her mouth water with anticipation of the culinary delights that would come tonight. Krysta, she knew, drooled for other reasons.


    As Caleb released her and turned to Krysta to give her a polite hug, she watched her friend close her eyes and breathe in not the scent of the herbs but the scent of Caleb. It skeeved her out a little¡ªshe just didn¡¯t like to think of Caleb that way¡ªbut if she pulled back and looked at him not as her brother, but objectively as a man, she could see that he was attractive, and she would love for Krysta to find that for herself.


    She knew before she even got in the car to come up here that her mom couldn¡¯t possibly know about the video because she would have had fourteen phone calls, nineteen text messages, and a smoke signal had Sandy been remotely aware of what happened. Grandma would keep her mouth shut. Hell, Madge knew where all the bodies were buried, and now Lydia owed her yet another favor.


    ¡°So, where are the rest of the gang?¡± she asked.


    Caleb grinned. ¡°Beats me. Adam and Dan are at some conference thing. I don¡¯t know? Something business blah-blah-blah¡­increase your profits blah-blah-blah. And that¡¯s down in Boston.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in Boston and they didn¡¯t tell me?¡±


    ¡°You know them, they¡¯re all business. Besides, maybe they were planning to surprise you. It¡¯s not like you just hop in the car and drive four hours north every Thursday, Lydia.¡± He looked at her with suspicion. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, just thought I¡¯d come up and say hi.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he said, clearly unconvinced. Krysta tried desperately to keep a straight face and Lydia, if she¡¯d been close enough, would have kicked her in the ankle to convince her to do so, but right now she was just mooning over Caleb, so luckily Lydia didn¡¯t have to worry about having her secret spilled.


    She did some quick family math. If Adam and Dan were gone, then it was Miles she had to worry about¡ªand Mom and Dad. She had already crossed Sandy off the list so, worst case, Miles or Pete might have figured it out. She wasn¡¯t worried about her dad. Dad was about as technologically savvy as an Amish guy in an Apple Store.


    ¡°Mom¡¯s going to fall over. She had no idea you were coming.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know. It¡¯s a surprise visit. It¡¯s all good.¡±


    He narrowed his eyes and now she wondered. ¡°You okay, Lyd?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m okay.¡±


    She put on her best fake smile and hoped he believed it, and it looked like he did. Distracted by whatever he was cooking, he suddenly took off at a sprint and shouted, ¡°My sauce! Gotta go, bye!¡± And then she heard him in the distance shouting, ¡°Hey, Mom! Go out to the store!¡±


    ¡°What a view,¡± Krysta said. Lydia turned and looked at the ocean, the water gleaming as the mid-afternoon sun shone down on it.


    ¡°Yeah, it is.¡± She looked back at Krysta and realized Krysta was watching Caleb¡¯s ass. ¡°The water¡¯s nice too, Krysta.¡±


    Krysta just shrugged. ¡°Can¡¯t blame a girl for¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lydia!¡± her mother screamed. Never one to leave guests feeling unloved, she followed it up with a shout of, ¡°Krysta! Both of you! This is fabulous!¡± She then embraced both of them in a giant group hug, listing to and fro, arms eating up as much of them as she could, planting kisses on Lydia¡¯s face. ¡°What brought you all the way up here?¡±


    Krysta looked at Lydia, and Lydia carefully chose not to look back. She didn¡¯t want to tip her mother off. ¡°Just thought we would come up for a surprise visit, Mom. It¡¯s all good.¡±


    ¡°On a Thursday?¡± She cocked her head. ¡°What¡¯s going on, Lydia?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk. It¡¯s good, Mom. It¡¯s fine.¡±


    ¡°Pete! Pete!¡± her mother screamed. ¡°Oh, hang on a second. I keep forgetting I can¡¯t holler anymore for him.¡± She reached into her pocket and fumbled for a smart phone and pressed until she saw her mom calling Pete.


    ¡°You got¡­you got smart phones?¡±


    Sandy grinned. ¡°Yeah, we finally broke down and did it. I mean, we bought twenty more acres over there from the Parsons and this place is just getting too big to holler and to even use walkie talkies. So, we gave in and now we have these fancy contraptions. But you know¡±¡ªshe perked up, smiling at the two women¡ª¡°that YouTube is pretty neat. You can see all kinds of things on there.¡±


    ¡°You would be amazed,¡± said Krysta, fighting for composure and trying not to laugh. This time Lydia did reach over and kick her in the ankle. ¡°Hey! What was that for?¡± she said.


    Sandy just looked at them, mystified.


    ¡°Oh, nothing. You had a scorpion on your ankle,¡± said Lydia.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have scorpions in Maine.¡±


    ¡°It looked like one. So, where¡¯s Miles?¡± she asked as innocently as possible.


    ¡°Oh, he¡¯s around here. Look for his red golf cart. I¡¯m sure he is doing something in terms of water flow or ditches or helping somebody to put their RV up on blocks.¡±


    Miles was fourth out of the six kids, and two years older than Lydia. He was the stable, steady one who had planned his entire life around taking over or sharing the responsibility for Escape Shores Campground. He took the physical caretaking of the 140¡ªnow apparently 160¡ªacres quite seriously, making rounds like a policeman on watch. He was kind and considerate, always helpful to those customers who matched his sentiment, and quick to act with determination and firmness for those customers who went over the edge, who couldn¡¯t respect the property or their fellow campers. He was like the bouncer of the campground, but benevolent.


    He resembled Pete the most, the big bear with black curly hair and green eyes, and an unassuming, self effacing, hunched over physical look¡ªbecause at six-five he had worked very hard through his puberty growth spurt to be as small as possible. Which was pretty damn hard and made him easy to spot, especially since he had painted his golf cart red years ago in an effort to stop his other brothers from stealing it.


    The problem Lydia had with Miles was that, as unassuming as he could seem, behind those green eyes, which now that she thought about it were nothing like Matt¡¯s, was a brain that ticked constantly, that made connections, that put two and two together to get a calculus that Lydia feared was not going to be in her favor today. He was exactly the type to catch a whiff, a couple seconds of some news show, go on the computer and find the dreaded video.


    The upshot to having Miles be the one to discover it was that he, of all the Charles clan, could actually keep a secret. And so, if she had to pick a brother to discover it, she¡¯d have picked Miles. But if she could pick no one discovering it, she¡¯d pick that in a heartbeat.

 Page 15

    Strong arms wrapped around her from behind and picked her up off her feet, with little kisses on her cheek. ¡°My Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!¡± her dad shouted, happy to see her. She turned around and gave him a real hug, and then he reached over and pulled Krysta into a fatherly embrace. ¡°What brings you two up here?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re slumming, Dad.¡±Advertisement


    He nudged her with an elbow. ¡°No, really, it¡¯s a Thursday. You never come up on a Thursday. That job of yours keeps you in Boston for far too long and far too much. You know, we have a job up here for you, Lydia.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Dad, I know,¡± she said, the well-worn trope something that used to fray at her nerves, but right now¡­right now it felt comfortable to be wanted for who she really was.


    Dusk was settling in and she watched a group of kids, no older than eight or nine, run past with sparklers in their hands, the orange sparks catching her eye and turning into a thin orange line of light as they trailed down to the ocean, which had been shimmering when she and Krysta had pulled in but started to fade to the grayish orange-pink shade as the sun went down. She knew that there was at least another hour of tolerable light but this was when the mosquitoes would come out and start to feast. Pete put one arm around her shoulders, one arm around Krysta¡¯s, and Sandy tucked her arm around Lydia¡¯s waist, the four of them a wall of happiness, though Lydia carried a tremendous secret. Paradoxically, a very public secret. She was about to find out whether her parents¡¯ unconditional love really was as unconditional as she''d always believed.


    ¡°Adam and Dan will be sad that they missed you. They¡¯re down in Bos¡ª¡± A look of confusion and an odd sort of regret crossed Sandy¡¯s face as she said that, and Lydia became very aware of a change between her and Dad.


    ¡°Well¡­what¡¯s going on? Where are Adam and Dan?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in Boston.¡±


    ¡°Are they going to visit Grandma?¡±


    That made everyone laugh. Madge would put them in their place no matter what. She thought that it was time for them to be settled down and married now that they were in their thirties, and Adam and Dan were enjoying the bachelor life, probably a little too much right now, in the city. ¡°I guess we should let the cat out of the bag, shouldn¡¯t we?¡±


    Pete looked at Sandy, his eyes raking over her face trying to read what he was supposed to say. Meanwhile, Sandy seemed to be calculating something, her eyes and face warring with each other, one happy and one confused. Finally, she looked at Lydia and said, ¡°Honey, they¡¯re at a business conference on social media.¡±


    ¡°What? Why didn¡¯t they include me? I was right there, I could have taken the day off¡­work¡­¡± Her words faded out as both her parents planted their hands on their hips and stared at her, the accusation lingering in the air like a cloud of mosquitoes ready to strike and suck out her blood.


    ¡°You said you don¡¯t want to use your skills to help the family business,¡± Sandy said slowly.


    Pete just cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. ¡°You said,¡± he added, ¡°that there was no need for you to be involved at all because you had your own life in the city and you wanted to work for a giant corporation, like Bournham, and that you were going to pave your own way.¡± He smiled and couldn¡¯t help himself, adding, ¡°Honey.¡±


    The sting of knowing that she wasn¡¯t included in the business conference with Adam and Dan was, for the first time, greater than her self-righteous sense of wanting to have her own life. It didn¡¯t escape her that in large part that was probably because of what had happened with Matt Jones¡ªscratch that. Michael Bournham. She had to stop thinking of him as Matt, and yet, she couldn¡¯t think of him as Michael Bournham, the man whose face was splashed across the front of Time, People, TMZ¡ªand now, unfortunately, his face and her ass, her bare naked, sensual, very engaged ass, were splashed all over the internet too.


    She could tell that her parents had no idea what was going on underneath the surface, and as she and Krysta exchanged a glance she caught that Krysta thought the same. They were completely unaware. Adam and Dan may figure it out while they were in Boston; in fact, she would be shocked if they didn¡¯t, the news stations probably rolling the footage every five seconds, at least the parts that were safe for prime time television. So, it all came down to Miles.


    That was neither here nor there, because she had to answer her parents. Finally, with a weak smile, knowing the news she was about to deliver, knowing that it would break their hearts to have her move out of the country, and yet knowing that she had to do it to escape the potential tsunami, the after-effects of what had just happened in her life, she simply said, ¡°You¡¯re right. My choice. I hope they¡¯re having a good time and learning a lot.¡±


    That seemed to perplex Sandy even more, who now furrowed her brow, peered deeply into Lydia¡¯s eyes and said, ¡°Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?¡±


    Caleb saved the day, jumping in and asking, ¡°Does anyone know whether we have fennel seeds?¡±


    Krysta¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°I¡¯ll come and help you find some.¡±


    ¡°But you don¡¯t live here, Krysta. I was asking Mom and Dad.¡± He gave her a funny look and then his eyes cut away. Suddenly, it was weird and everyone knew it was weird. Krysta deflated on the spot.


    Pete evened out the weirdness by saying, ¡°Krysta has a good point. You seem to have refrigerator blindness. Maybe it has turned into pantry blindness, Caleb.¡± Sandy and Lydia laughed. He nudged Krysta. ¡°Go help him. The pantry is big enough. We feed two hundred people, three nights a week here. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a can or a jar or a packet or a whatever of fennel seeds somewhere in there.¡±


    Krysta looked at Caleb. ¡°You want help?¡±


    He nodded slightly. ¡°Sure. Come on in. Do you know how to chop vegetables?¡±


    As they talked food, wandering off to the kitchen, Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this wouldn¡¯t be so bad after all. Just then, Miles made an appearance, the red golf cart zipping around a corner and by her eyes coming around at about 7 mph. Which, if Dad was as predictable as she knew he was, meant that he would shout ¡°Slow down!¡± in 5-4-3-2-


    And he did.


    Miles obligingly pressed down on the brake, slowing down to what she viewed as a 4 mph pace. Pete nodded, Miles waved and then slammed on the brake when he saw Lydia. His eyebrows shot up. He looked at her, he looked at Pete, he looked at Sandy, and then back to Lydia. He turned the golf cart off, walked over, and put his hands on her shoulders and smiled a weirdly loose, slightly off-kilter grin that made Lydia¡¯s insides go cold.


    ¡°Lydia! Imagine seeing you here. What a nice surprise!¡± Then he leaned in to hug her and whispered, ¡°Did you bring the camera crew with you?¡±


    Gut punch. Holding back an impulse to cover her face with her hands, she steeled herself instead and made eye contact. With a fake smile, she said through gritted teeth, ¡°If you say one word I''ll drive your golf cart into the ocean and leave it there.¡±


    ¡°You''re not in a position to threaten anyone, Lydia. Not when my online buddies have deconstructed the moles on your ass and started a movement to name a constellation after them.¡±


    Fuck! ¡°Don''t say a word.¡±


    He seemed offended. ¡°Of course, I won''t. But I''m guessing the video is why you''re here.¡±


    Motioning him to move closer, she whispered, ¡°I got a promotion.¡±


    ¡°So it worked?¡±


    ¡°What worked?¡±


    ¡°Fucking the CEO.¡±


    Her turn to deliver the gut punch. Literally. Sinking her fist into Miles¡¯ washboard abs, she caught him so thoroughly off guard that she made full impact, pushing the air out of him.


    ¡°Oof!¡± he gasped, bent over.


    ¡°Quit fighting, you two!¡± Sandy called out.


    ¡°Jesus Christ!¡± he followed up, rubbing his belly.


    ¡°He¡¯s the only one who hasn''t seen me on tape,¡± Lydia muttered, storming off to join her mother. Rage and humiliation and fire and ice poured into and out of her in one big flow of energy. As she reached Sandy, she just blurted it out. ¡°I got a promotion and I''m moving to Iceland!¡±


    ¡°Promotion! Congratu¡­¡± Sandy''s words wound down, like a hand-cranked music box running out of steam. ¡°Iceland?¡± she squeaked.


    Miles limped over. Why he was limping was a mystery, for she¡¯d decked him in the gut, not the balls. ¡°Iceland?¡± he added, in an octave all too close to her mother''s.


    Krysta walked toward the group, reaching Lydia as Miles and Sandy stared at her in stunned silence. ¡°Subtle, Lydia,¡± Krysta muttered.


    ¡°That''s why you''re here on a Thursday?¡± Pete''s voice cut through the air, laden with hurt and pain. ¡°To tell us you''re moving an ocean away?¡±


    ¡°At least it¡¯s the same ocean,¡± Lydia said softly. Talk about blowing it. Nothing was going as planned. Miles rubbed his stomach and glared at her. Sandy just glared, period. Krysta made eye contact with a small stick shoved into the dirt, and Pete glowered at her like a king whose subject had just committed treason.


    ¡°Might as well be Mars, Lydia,¡± her dad said quietly, sliding one arm around Sandy''s shoulders.


    ¡°Iceland?¡± he mom asked again, eyes wide and full of tears.


    Lydia just nodded silently.


    ¡°When?¡± Sandy gasped.


    ¡°Monday.¡±


    ¡°MONDAY? As in this Monday?¡±


    Nod.


    ¡°Motormouth is suddenly mute?¡± Miles was clearly enjoying watching Lydia go through this torture. As long as he kept his mouth shut, she didn''t care.


    ¡°Shut up, Miles,¡± their parents said in unison.


    ¡°Okay, okay,¡± he said, hands in the air. ¡°I¡¯m just the grunt. Off to drive my non-submerged golf cart to go help someone with their sewage issue. It can''t be worse than this,¡± he added, smirking at Lydia, who now had four eyes lasering in on her.


    Pete sighed deeply. ¡°Iceland?¡±


    ¡°Would everyone stop saying ¡®Iceland¡¯?¡± she pleaded.


    ¡°I always expected New York,¡± Sandy wailed. ¡°Not Iceland. People live there?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re being melodramatic, Mom.¡± Guilt was rapidly draining out of Lydia, replaced by a familiar, comfortable rebellion.


    ¡°If not now, when?¡± Sandy barked back.


    Lydia just snorted. Sandy burst into tears.


    Ugh.


    Wrapping her arms around her mother, she conceded. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn''t know how to tell you. I just got the promotion and the transfer. My salary is nearly tripling, and I get to be a director.¡±


    Pete''s eyebrows shot up and his voice boomed. ¡°From administrative assistant to director? That¡¯s my girl!¡±


    Sandy pulled back in shock. ¡°That¡¯s amazing!¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Lydia said shyly.


    ¡°I suppose we should celebrate,¡± Sandy said reluctantly. ¡°But a continent away!¡± she wailed.


    ¡°A five-hour plane ride. Direct,¡± Lydia countered.


    ¡°Five hours?¡± Sandy perked up. The group headed for the main house.


    ¡°Yep. Icelandair. You can do it. Come see the geothermal pools, the beautiful nature¡­¡±

 Page 16

    ¡°We have beautiful nature here!¡± Sandy argued as they walked along the trail. Krysta exchanged a relieved look with her. Lydia let out a deep breath. Whew. The worst was over.


    ¡°How do you go from administrative assistant to director?¡± her dad muttered.Advertisement


    ¡°Back in my day, you had to sleep with someone powerful,¡± Sandy joked.


    Krysta started to choke.


    ¡°Mom!¡± Lydia shouted. ¡°That¡¯s sexist!¡± Her face burned and her skin crawled. It wasn''t from the mosquitoes.


    ¡°Too much Mad Men, honey,¡± Pete explained, chuckling softly as the group made their way home.


    Chapter Five


    It wasn¡¯t until Lydia was buckled into her seat on the plane and the Icelandair attendant began reciting all of the FAA regulation statements that they were required by law to make, that the butterflies in her stomach began to flap in earnest and that it dawned on her what she had done. Then again, she figured, she¡¯d have moments like this over the next few weeks and months as she adjusted to the fact that she had just been promoted, taken a salary three times her normal one, had broken it to her parents that she was leaving and had uprooted her entire life all for the sake of¡­of what?


    That was the problem. She wasn¡¯t sure why she was doing this.


    Tears filled her eyes suddenly as she thought of Matt¡ªno, Michael. Mike. Of the intensity of their last conversation, how drained and filled she felt all at once, the darkness of betrayal overshadowed for tiny, brief shining moments of hope¡ªwhich were dashed almost instantly when she realized what he had done to her. She hadn¡¯t had time to mourn the death of expectation, to really grieve for losing the imagined future, the imagined self that she had seen with Matt, who it turned out was Michael Bournham of all people. It made her feel stupid. It made her feel small and insignificant and shamed to have been duped so badly.


    She and Krysta had been so suspicious in the beginning that Matt Jones looked just a little too much like Michael Bournham for it to have been a coincidence. When she¡¯d asked him or insinuated that he might be related, he had brushed it off. And now she wanted to smack herself, bang her head against a desk, do something¡ªbut she knew that if she smashed her forehead against the serving tray over and over again she would just get reprimanded by the flight attendant because the trays needed to be in their upright position for takeoff. So, instead, she beat herself up inside.


    The whirlwind of the last week came crashing down on her, her body filled with concrete, her heart an abyss with a hole in the bottom of it that everything just drained out of. Miles had seen the video. She didn¡¯t know about Adam and Dan, but by the time she landed in Iceland, in Reykjavik¡ªshe still struggled to pronounce it properly and probably mangled it anyhow¡ªthey would know. They were tech savvy and tuned in to the matrix of social media, of hours spent combing the internet for insight and amusement and entertainment, and it wouldn¡¯t take much to put two and two together, in spite of that harpy¡¯s claim that it was her. Diane had given her an excuse¡ªthough Miles hadn''t bought it for one second.


    And Mike¡¯s explanation for that one? That of all people Diane Powell would go public and claim it was her? She could guess why. The woman was all over the socialite papers in the Globe and online and looked like a very, very tight version of a woman, overly primped like a human poodle, a little too perfect and a little too puffed to be quite right. Claiming that she¡¯d been the one in that sex tape¡ªthe words ¡°sex tape¡± made Lydia¡¯s stomach drop even further, and it wasn¡¯t from the physics of takeoff as the plane entered the sky¡ªthat that woman would claim to be on that sex tape was mind-boggling.


    Krysta had been her filter these past couple days, going online, reading the gossip sites, checking out Facebook. Lydia had popped into her own Facebook account once, and only once, and every single person, it seemed, in her hundreds of friends from high school and college and grad school kept sharing that damn video over and over and laughing and laughing.


    A few had commented on her page, ¡°Hey Lydia, isn¡¯t that where you work, ha ha ha?¡± And then, when one of the major gossip sites had somehow thrown her name out as a possible contender, all of the sharing had come to a great big halt, her page filled now only with LOLCats and outraged political posts. She knew that people were setting up their own filters and the fact that they didn¡¯t include her was judge, jury, and verdict enough¡ªuntil Diane had come along. Miraculously, the shares had started up again, people believing what they wanted to believe. The heat had been taken off of Lydia. What had replaced the heat was a stone-cold sadness, an introspection she had never asked for and a scandal that had spun off from what she had thought was passion.


    She grabbed her little cocktail napkin and began wiping her eyes, dabbing at them, trying to stop the tears before they pooled over her lower lids. It wasn¡¯t going to work, so she fruitlessly turned her head toward the window and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She was leaving everything¡ªeverything¡ªthat she knew. Not just Maine; she had left that behind when she had moved to Boston, but she had come into the arms of Grandma, had met Krysta, developed friendships and networks. They weren¡¯t big¡ªshe wasn¡¯t the type to go out and party and have hundreds of friends¡ªbut she had her core group, her core life, and if she were being pulled to this new opportunity it would have been different.


    For a few hours that day that the promotion was offered to her, she had that choice, she had the choice to take this. It all came crashing down when that video was released, when she learned the truth. When she discovered that this man who was so wildly attractive, who made her do things that she couldn¡¯t fathom herself doing, who made her feel like becoming a better part of herself¡ªthat he¡¯d been a lie? It suddenly became a push to go to Iceland. Pushed out of her sense of dignity. Pushed out of her life in Boston. Pushed out of anonymity, out of privacy, out of respect.


    If Michael Bournham had taken his hand and placed it splayed and rough on the center of her back and shoved her until she spun around the Earth twice, he couldn¡¯t have pushed any harder than he had with the creation of Matt Jones, with the stolen kisses in the supply closet, with the stolen panties in the elevator¡ªand with a very much given desire and culmination of that desire in one hot, torrid, intense moment in his office that night.


    He had told her that he¡¯d forgotten about the cameras, but really? How does the CEO of a major company forget about the fact that he is on a reality TV show? And when she¡¯d asked him that, when she¡¯d screamed it at him, he¡¯d had no answer. He¡¯d turned into some kind of robot, his eyes growing cold, his body rigid, and that¡¯s when she lost. Lost him, lost her heart, lost herself¡ªbecause at that exact moment she decided she would obey his final order. And his final order had been her promotion.


    And so, just as systems fall apart when the workers aren¡¯t able to be creative and make their own decisions based on analysis, gut feelings, instinct, and experience, in this case Lydia simply maliciously obeyed.


    What she hadn¡¯t expected when the plane landed was that Iceland wouldn¡¯t be covered in ice. She knew from doing some quick research before making a gigantic, intercontinental overseas move that it wasn¡¯t really covered in ice, but the desert-like quality of the ground was what threw her off. It was as if someone had thrown her in tundra-covered desert with occasional jutting, black volcanic rocks poking out here and there. It was a bit like riding a bus on the moon at times, and she found herself surprised by how desert-like a country could be that had water. It wasn¡¯t a dry desert, it was hard to describe, and she found herself wishing she had a travel companion to talk it through with.


    But instead, she settled in and just decided to observe. A gentleman next to her, who appeared to be in his sixties, somewhere around her dad¡¯s age, was traveling alone as well. She gathered it was on business, he was wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase and constantly tapping something out onto a BlackBerry.


    ¡°You going to the Blue Lagoon?¡± he asked her when he noticed her watching him.


    ¡°The Blue Lagoon? Oh, yeah¡­yeah, I forgot about that,¡± she said, smiling. He suddenly took more interest in her and she had to turn on those sensors that she had developed over the past few years. The ones that detected whether he was being friendly and father-like or a lecher. His eyes combed down her body, taking in the swell of her breasts, her nipped waist, her wide hips, and even in yoga pants and a nice knit top, she knew where to categorize him.


    Lech.


    ¡°You know,¡± he added, ¡°you can rent bathing suits there. They¡¯re quite¡±¡ªhe paused, his voice going low, his head leaning in conspiratorially¡ª¡°nice.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said, tightening her body, pulling away, knowing the drill on this one. It wasn¡¯t that she considered herself particularly attractive or that she had men drooling all over her constantly, but she was a woman in her twenties, reasonably attractive, and apparently to this guy, some piece of meat that he thought he could taste at his leisure.


    ¡°Thank you, I have my own bathing suit.¡± She turned away, wishing that she had taken her iPod so she could put the earbuds in and turn him off and turn something far better to listen to on.


    He nudged her, either not getting the message or choosing to bulldoze through it. ¡°What¡¯s your bathing suit look like, honey?¡±


    Oh, not this. Anything but this.


    She turned and gave him her most withering look and said, ¡°My bathing suit looks like a knee to the balls.¡±


    And then she narrowed her eyes and willed herself to stare him down. The whites of his eyes had that rheumy look of a liver slowly going downhill, that yellowish, watery appearance that she¡¯d seen in homeless guys on the streets of Cambridge, especially in Central Square. His irises were such a pale blue it reminded her of washed-out sheets, of clamshells gone and faded from deep purple to a pale, grayish blue etched over and over by the tides. His skin had a distribution of burst blood vessels, the nose big and pored, and as he leaned away his mouth went into a pursed, pinched look.


    She just shook her head, and as she stood and gave him a complete and lovely view of her ass in all its yoga-panted glory as she twisted and contorted to pull her bag out from under the seat, he stopped her. Not with his touch, because that would have got him a knee to the balls or under his chin or worse. She was so lit up with outrage, really, that on top of everything else in her life she was being hit on by a man old enough to be her father on a plane ride to a future she wasn¡¯t even sure she wanted anymore.


    ¡°Miss, I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said.


    She tensed, her shoulders pulling up, the headache starting in the back of her skull.


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry,¡± he said, his voice changing. She turned and looked at him to assess whether it was genuine, and it seemed to be. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, and if anyone should move, it¡¯s me.¡± His voice had gone from something animal to something contrite, and she found herself drawn to it even as she was repulsed by the way he had just treated her.

 Page 17

    Standing up for herself was an acquired skill. She knew how to do it with her brothers; that was no problem. But going out into the world, dealing with slights and stares and glances and touches, sometimes grabs, and the occasional outright overt come-on like this¡­there weren¡¯t any classes for it. At least, none she¡¯d found yet. And she and her friends might gripe and groan and swap stories about being eyed, the wolf whistles, the ass-grabs on the subway, the occasional frottage, being rubbed up against on a very crowded subway or bus car¡­they narrated their truths but no one had a concrete answer for what to do.


    Her masters degree had helped. She knew to confront it face on, but that was easy to write about in an academic treatise and much harder to do on a plane, heading, nervously, for a promotion and a job that she got because she slept with the boss. Ouch.Advertisement


    Piecing it all together like that hit her like being struck between the eyes by a stone, and as the man stood to move she didn¡¯t feel a sense of victory. Not even a sense of righteous indignation. What she felt was her own humanity connecting with his. As he stood next to her, both of them slumped uncomfortably under the overhead compartments and the flight attendant looking at them curiously, she didn¡¯t touch him, she wasn¡¯t ready to connect with him on that level, but she simply said, ¡°Then let¡¯s declare a truce.¡±


    He swallowed hard, his face relaxing, and he nodded slowly. ¡°Thank you, miss. And I really am sorry. I¡­well, I could give you a thousand explanations and excuses, but none of them really boil down to anything other than I¡¯ve had a few too many and a little too little of something else in my life.¡±


    Still on guard, she settled back in place and so did he. The flight attendant came over, a woman about her own age with reverse coloring, bright blue eyes and pale creamy skin and hair so fine and white it was almost the color of snow.


    ¡°Cards,¡± she said, handing out official forms. Lydia and the man took theirs; completing the immigration and customs paperwork seemed like a relief. The flight attendant went off to help someone else and the man next to her went quiet, lost in his own thoughts. Her victory felt hollow, but nowadays she¡¯d take what she could get.


    Regret seeped in as they drove past the Blue Lagoon and she realized that, perhaps, she should have signed up for the tour that was part of the package deal when she took Icelandair. She hadn¡¯t dared do it, considering she was billing everything to her company. The relocation allowance of $8000 was more than enough. Grandma had accepted the fact that she was losing her roommate, for now at least, and Madge had told her, ¡°Go find yourself a hot Viking.¡±


    That was the last thing Lydia was thinking about as the bus rumbled past this amazing resort that seemed to have grown, organically, out of the ground into a steaming pool of beauty and luxury. And in many respects, that was exactly what had happened. The Blue Lagoon was a hot spring filled with minerals that supposedly helped to alleviate pain, and maybe not cure your illnesses but certainly make you feel better from them for a while.


    From where she sat on the bus she got a good, long look of the spa, the pools, the parking lot filled with buses just like hers as tourists climbed off, eager to go and soak. She figured she was going to be living here, so she¡¯d have plenty of time for that. Right now, what she needed most was to recover from the flight and figure out the terrain of her new life. A direct flight, five hours out of Boston, who would have thought it? And suddenly she was in Europe. Not quite, but part of the European Union at least.


    As the bus brought them closer to the edge of the city, it was as if she had been dropped in a Scandinavian country, or at least the way she imagined it. Sandy and Pete loved to watch travel shows, so over the years she had her fill of one-hour specials on Finland, on Sweden, and Norway and Denmark. Yet, when she thought about it, it was funny they had never watched anything on Iceland or Greenland. She knew from the lines of the houses that the architecture was designed not only to be aesthetically pleasing, but to be quite practical in heavy snow climates, and cold in particular. The long, sloping roofs, the sharp lines, the muted pastels, and then here and there brighter colors, deeper, richer reds and intense turquoise blues made the entire landscape and the planned city so appealing, so smart and rational and well thought out that it was as if she had been dropped into another world. Some sort of utopia out of an Ursula Le Guin novel, one that on the surface looked damn close to perfect, but as you lived it longer and longer it started to unravel.


    They pulled into the main bus station and she realized how little she actually had: one big suitcase, one carry-on, her laptop, and that was it. Her entire life crammed into this. She¡¯d been fortunate, she didn¡¯t have an apartment to get rid of, her grandma kept her car in place. She just¡­was able to uproot, just like that. And change perspective, change countries, change everything, and yet she felt miserably immutable inside. Because what didn¡¯t change, what didn¡¯t go away, was the fact that she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about him.


    Hailing a cab was easy, paying for it was not a problem with a simple card reader, and though the price tag made her choke, she was deposited quite simply at the guest house that she had found online through the same travel social media site that had led her to Matt¡¯s¡ªno, Michael¡¯s¡ªDetroit adventure. She smiled at the memory of what she had plotted out for him, and the fact that it had unwound with even more delicious, malicious consequences for him.


    In some strange way, was he doing the same thing to her? Was he following all the rules to give her an end that she didn¡¯t see coming? Had he given her the promotion and the transfer just to get rid of her, to make her go away? That didn¡¯t make sense. She didn¡¯t think that that was really why. In her heart she knew he did it to protect her, or to try to protect her. But, the world was so small and the Internet made it so much smaller. Who here had seen the video?


    She fit in physically better than she thought, although she was definitely one of the heaviest women on the street as she dragged her suitcase down a block. The cabbie had gotten it wrong just by a smidge. People walked with purpose here, and she realized she was quite close to the Hallgr¨ªmskirkja, the tallest structure in Reykjavik. A giant church, it rose up like the Washington Monument, only made of stone with rough edges like something handmade, unpolished, abiding by nature.


    Now she faced the check-in clerk and had to scrub her mind of all these insecurities and questions, because finally she was going to have time to sit alone in the room that she had rented for the next two weeks, ready to jump into work. She¡¯d given herself no time to think, no time to pause. Neither had Bournham Industries¡ªthe transfer was so quick she barely had time to change her underwear.


    The guest house was clean. That was about the best she could say of it. There was no lounge, but there was a small breakfast nook with an enormous wooden table that took up the fifteen by twenty room. She was told when breakfast would be, that there was hot coffee available on demand, that the room closed at 9 p.m. and would open at 6:30, and then she was shown the shower. She had never seen a bathroom that was tiled from top to bottom like this¡ªevery square inch, except for the ceiling. They showed her a squeegee and a shower attachment and explained that after she showered she would need to spray everything down and then squeegee it into the drain in the floor. It made so much sense to have a bathroom with a drain in the center of the floor so that you could clean it. The smell of bleach assured her that this was sanitary, that this was neat and orderly, and was designed to protect everyone who used it as long as everyone followed the rules.


    Her room was extraordinarily simple: white curtains with blackout lining, two twin beds shoved at an L in one corner, a wardrobe, a small dresser with two drawers, and a little mini kitchen with a sink, a refrigerator, and two burners. It was all she needed, really. And it was all being covered by Bournham Industries, so she could just settle in and relax, not worry about owning things, managing things, but instead worry about herself settling in to a new country, a new job, new responsibilities.


    Shedding her old skin would take some time. Her mother¡¯s frantic worry she could handle through electronics with frequent Facebook messages, lots of YouTube videos (of a wholesome kind) and good, old-fashioned telephone calls. She¡¯d changed her cell phone plan so that she had nearly unlimited roaming, and planned to do lots of texting, lots of emails, to hopefully keep Sandy from going crazy that the one stray lamb had now wandered across an ocean to live among the Vikings.


    They¡¯d all been teasing her in the spare day before she¡¯d gone back to Boston, and Miles had said that maybe she would come home with a husband taller even than he was, but he¡¯d said it with a look that said he knew that it was obvious that what she felt for Matt. Mike! Mike¡ªshe had to keep thinking of him as who he was and not as the person she thought he had been. But Miles had seen deeper into her than she thought he was capable of, and it meant something to her. This gave her pause, because these shells that we look at walking around, moving, breathing, eating, making love, fixing things, breaking things¡ªthese shells cover layers and layers of us that only get revealed under some sort of duress.


    The silence of the little room felt like a giant cloud of cotton covering her head. It took her half an hour to unpack her things, and the room seemed to determine her actions as if she were shaped by the environment. It was neat and tidy, so she was neat and tidy, tucking her suitcases away carefully, nesting them and sliding them under one of the beds. There was no real sign that she had even moved in, a handful of personal items attesting to her presence. She felt erased. She felt alone, but not lonely.


    Feeling lonely was something that Lydia didn¡¯t understand. Her life of the mind was so active and her curiosity was so great that she couldn¡¯t fathom being lonely. Maybe it came from living in a family with so many brothers and with parents who were so social and inclusive and welcoming. But alone? Alone was fairly new to her, and right now, as tired as she was, when her stomach rumbled she was grateful, for it gave her an excuse to go out into the streets of Reykjavik and explore this new aloneness.


    She was glad that she had listened to her mother¡¯s gentle admonishment that she make sure she wear comfortable shoes when she went to Iceland and not American sneakers. ¡°You¡¯ll out yourself,¡± she said. And Mom was right. Her comfortable Merrells fit in far better with the fashion aesthetics in Iceland. Her weight crept up on her slowly as she started to compare herself, feeling like an alien on a new planet. The streets were narrow and the cars were tiny, but what struck her as she walked toward the city center, her map in hand, was how many people there were. And that they walked with purpose, but there was no rushed, frantic energy the way there was in Boston. The lack of impatience hit her hard and fast, and she was so stunned that she paused and just took a good look around. These were people that were going places, but doing so without feeling anxious or overwhelmed.


    And then she noticed the fathers. So many children in strollers or being carried in slings or Baby Bjorn-type carriers¡ªand the men were doing it. It caught her so off guard that she began to walk slowly and really looked around. At least every other person pushing a stroller or carrying a baby was a man. How odd. It was in stark contrast to Boston, though a bit more common in Cambridge. In fact, in most cases, she¡¯d say at least three quarters, if you saw a woman pushing a stroller in downtown Boston chances were it was the nanny. She marveled at all these fathers.

 Page 18

    Her stomach made her stop, and she realized that she had no idea what Icelandic food was. Herring? Aiming for the familiar, she looked and saw a vegetarian restaurant. That had to have something good, right? When she walked up to the counter the woman was speaking to a person before her, handing them her change, her voice fluid, Icelandic pouring out, and then she turned to Lydia and said in perfect, just barely accented English, ¡°Hello. How may I help you?¡±


    Lydia grinned. The girl was probably high school age, with braided blonde hair and a wide smile. ¡°A grilled chicken salad, please.¡± She paused, amused and a bit dumbstruck, then asked, ¡°How do you know I speak English?¡±Advertisement


    The girl smiled back and said, ¡°It was a good guess.¡± Then she leaned in and whispered, ¡°Actually, it was your shoes.¡±


    ¡°My shoes?¡±


    ¡°You wear Merrells. Most of the Americans who come here trying to fit in wear Merrells.¡±


    Lydia laughed. ¡°What do most Americans come in here and order?¡±


    The young girl looked at her, tilted her head, smiled, and said, ¡°The women all get the grilled chicken salad.¡±


    And then she stopped and said, ¡°Wait a minute, I thought you were a vegetarian restaurant?¡±


    ¡°We do have a vegetarian menu, but we serve chicken and fish.¡±


    ¡°Ah, okay.¡±


    ¡°As for the Icelanders, most of them, the women, get the grilled chicken salad, too.¡± The two of them laughed together. Lydia could feel a palpable sense of relief seeping in. She ordered an Orangina to go with her salad, and it was all ready in minutes. She sat at a simple, Formica-topped table, with cheap red plastic chairs that you could have found in any college town in the United States.


    As she munched her way through the salad, her body allowed her to finally feel how tired she was and how overwhelming this really was going to be. Here she sat, eating a nourishing meal, watching people live their lives but doing it with different words, different architecture, different cultural norms. And the Lydia who had the guts to maliciously obey Mike¡¯s final order finally felt like it was going to be okay.


    Human resources hadn¡¯t given her any sense of what to expect in the office other than handing her the address and saying good luck. So when she walked up to the modern, nondescript, aluminum and glass building that faced the bay, she walked into the unknown. Dressing that morning had been an exercise in futility. After five different clothing changes she just gave up and figured if she made a mistake, she made a mistake. People here seemed to be more casual, more practically minded in their sartorial choices. She went in wearing nice business shoes, business casual slacks, a blouse, a sweater in case it was cold, and hoped like hell she wasn¡¯t expected to wear a suit.


    The stairs led to a beige cubicle farm. She could have been in downtown Boston. She could have been in Charlotte, North Carolina. She could have been in Portland, Oregon. It was a beige cubicle farm and the European offices for Bournham Industries were no bigger than twelve desks.


    ¡°Is this Bournham Industries?¡± she asked the first person she saw, a pleasant-looking young woman who marched passed her with her arms filled with files.


    ¡°Ah, yes it is,¡± the woman said with a light accent. ¡°Are you Lydia?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes, I am Lydia Charles. Is this¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the new director of communications,¡± the woman said. She was older than Lydia by about ten years, and sleek and slim like someone who did triathlons. The weathered face attested to time spent outside, with a tall, live, thin body that had an abdomen that was almost concave, making Lydia suck in her own gut. Not that it made a difference (because it wasn¡¯t going anywhere).


    The woman shifted her folders into one arm and then reached out to shake Lydia¡¯s hand. ¡°I¡¯m Elsa. It¡¯s nice to meet you. Let me show you to your desk.¡±


    Desk? She only had a desk? She thought she¡¯d have an office. Elsa had long brown hair much like Lydia¡¯s; her eyes, though, were the bright blue that she¡¯d come to notice on more and more people here. Elsa marched with a deliberateness, an efficiency that Lydia appreciated instantly. And then she found herself at her office. Indeed. A piece of paper tacked to the outside cubicle that said Lydia Charles, Director of Communications for European Operations. There was a Dell desktop on the desk, a can full of pens, a printer, a ream of paper¡ªand that was it.


    Lydia dropped her laptop bag slowly onto the spare chair in the cubicle and said, ¡°So¡­¡± The word lingered in the air as Lydia thought second by second through what she was about to say. If she asked, ¡°So what do I do now?¡±¡ª her impulse¡ªshe would look like she couldn¡¯t lead. If she asked for more direction, she worried that Elsa would think she was an idiot and yet, here she stood in front of this desk that looked not at all unlike her desk at home, and what was she supposed to do?


    Elsa seemed impatient and pulled on the sleeve of her red sweater, peering at Lydia and finally saying, ¡°Let me go get Siggi. I think he can help.¡±


    A creeping dread filled her stomach, spreading like a warm germ up into her lungs, down her arms, and down all the way into her toes. Siggi. Elsa. She heard the murmuring of two or three other people talking in a cubicle, speaking, she assumed, in Icelandic. She didn¡¯t understand a single word. It was a quiet, creepy space. Not so much because of anything anyone was doing or not doing but because Lydia was beginning to feel that she had made a terrible, terrible mistake and one that she wanted to undo right this second.


    ¡°Hello,¡± said a booming voice right behind her and she jumped, caught in her thoughts. She turned to find her face filled with a sweater and then looked up, and up, and up. At five foot six she wasn¡¯t a particularly short woman, but the face she finally craned back to look up to had to come on a guy who stood at about six foot eight. He made Miles look short¡ªand she¡¯d never met anyone who made Miles look short. This guy really looked like a Viking. It was a joking stereotype, but the long, flowing, wavy brown hair, the broad cheekbones, the slightly narrowed eyes, the big mouth, incredibly broad shoulders that literally blocked out the sun from where she stood, and legs, legs like tree trunks embedded in the beige forest, all added up to a human being who could play Rurik or Leif Eriksson on a History Channel miniseries.


    ¡°I¡¯m Siggi,¡± he said, reaching down to shake her hand. It was like shaking hands with a warm baseball mitt, and he took her hand in both of his and pumped it, smiling broadly, teeth big like Chiclets. She could just stare up dumbly and realized quite quickly, shaking her head, that she had to get out of this trance.


    ¡°Hello. I¡¯m Lydia.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the new boss,¡± he said, his voice friendly with an accent that was slightly different from everyone else¡¯s. She couldn¡¯t put her finger on it.


    ¡°I¡¯m Siggi. Sigureur Gunnarsson,¡± he said. ¡°But everyone calls me Siggi.¡±


    ¡°Siggi.¡± She smiled back. ¡°Nice to meet you. And what do you do here?¡±


    ¡°A good question. What do I do here?¡± He looked around, standing tall and towering over the edge of all of the cubicle walls, able to see everything, she imagined, like looking at the top of a labyrinth.


    Elsa happened to walk by and said, ¡°The better question is, what doesn¡¯t Siggi do here?¡± They both shared a laugh, Lydia a bit puzzled.


    He turned back and said, ¡°I am sort of, oh, what do you say? A jack of all trades. I do everything here that involves anything technical, computers mostly. But if you need me to rewire something, I can do that. If you need me to network something, I can do that.¡± His face softened as he seemed to really take her in. ¡°And for you, Ms. Charles, our new boss, if you need anything else, I can do that.¡±


    She inhaled slowly, whistling at the possible inappropriateness of that comment. Not wanting to make too much of it¡ªwas this a cultural issue?¡ªbecause if it were an innocent statement then she would look like a fool. Instead, she turned away from him, her face now able to feel sunlight again as she stepped backwards and pointed to her desk. ¡°Is this my work station?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes, it is. We don¡¯t have individual offices here at the Bournham Industries European operations,¡± he said grandly, his arm outstretched like a game show girl displaying the prizes. His hearty laugh gave her a sense of his intent and she let her guard down. ¡°But we¡¯re doing just fine,¡± he stressed. ¡°Michael Bournham is invested in us and now, he is clearly invested in you.¡±


    Those eyes, chocolate brown, landed on hers. And now, the prickling skin came back. Either he was coming on to her or, like Miles, he knew. If the staff here knew why she¡¯d been transferred, then her time in Iceland was going to be extremely brief. ¡°I suppose I should talk to human resources about getting some issues settled, like health insurance and my computer access and¡ª¡±


    He cut her off with a palm, almost in her face. ¡°There is no human resources here.¡±


    ¡°Who do I talk to about all those issues?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°I guess Elsa. I can help you with the tech stuff, but she¡¯s more the one that handles all of that.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°But she just went out for a pump break, so you¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    ¡°A pump break?¡±


    ¡°You know¡±¡ªhe pointed to her breasts¡ª¡°pumping.¡±


    Pumping? Was he coming on to her? What was this?


    ¡°Elsa has a fifteen-month-old at home and so she still needs to take breaks.¡± He peered at her intently, as if he were struggling not to have to go into more detail, as if she should understand what he was implying.


    Breastfeeding. She felt herself blush. ¡°Oh¡­pumping,¡± she whispered under her breath. ¡°I see.¡±


    Maternity and postpartum issues were a whole layer to the corporate world that she knew existed but, because it didn¡¯t touch her yet¡ªbecause she hadn¡¯t even considered children yet and planned never to have them before thirty-five and her career was established at director or vice-president level¡ªshe had been oblivious to the context of his meaning.


    ¡°Yes, so Elsa will be back in half an hour, but in the meantime, why don¡¯t I set you up with your tech access?¡±


    He made himself comfortable, taking her chair, leaving her with none. She went to one of the other cubicles and stole a wheeled chair and sat next to him, watching him do his magic. Within five minutes those bear paws had managed to give her an email account and access to the various software packages and internal communications programs that she needed, and then he turned to her with a flourish and said, ¡°Done. Anything more, Ms. Charles?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I know how to access the browser, I know how to access email, I know how to get into Bournham Industries internal communications.¡±


    He said, ¡°Yes, indeed. You have everything you need now.¡±


    The speedy departure of Michael Bournham hit the news about twenty-four hours after he last saw Lydia. It had all started with a phone call from Joanie. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you been answering texts, or emails, or phone calls, or voicemails?¡± she said testily, her voice angry and completely out of character.

 Page 19

    It made Mike laugh out loud, because she sounded like an angry eight-year-old. ¡°Joanie, I¡¯m kind of busy and haven¡¯t really¡ª¡±


    ¡°The board needs to meet with you. Immediately.¡±Advertisement


    He¡¯d been expecting this. ¡°I see,¡± he said. ¡°And when and where?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in your office right now.¡±


    ¡°The board?¡±


    ¡°Yes, every single member. They¡¯re sitting here. I¡¯ve given them coffee, I¡¯ve given them doughnuts, I¡¯ve given them pretty much everything I can but they want you, not me. Not fried dough. Not more lattes. Get in here now.¡±


    ¡°You¡­I don¡¯t appreciate¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t appreciate, Mr. Bournham,¡± she sighed, ¡°being lied to.¡±


    The click took him completely off guard and he sat in his apartment, sweatpants and an old ratty t-shirt on. He¡¯d just played a basketball marathon to drive himself into the ground. Jeremy had obliged. And now he dragged himself into the shower, knowing already what he was about to face. If they¡¯d been waiting this long, they could at least let him get clean. Could at least let him come clean in order to get whatever answers they wanted.


    As the hot water hit him, it wasn¡¯t the balm that he had been expecting. Instead, it felt like porcupine pinpricks all over his neck and shoulders, bunching with tension. The past two days had been close to the worst of his life. The hardest part was not the exposure, not the endless mocking, not even having Diane claim responsibility after, unfortunately, Lydia¡¯s name began to seep out. But instead, the hardest part had been twofold. Having Lydia leave, and realizing just how much he had lost himself. That was worse.


    In preparation for what he assumed he would walk into in a few hours, the past couple of days had been a flurry of activity for him. It was refreshing. As he soaped up he thought about everything he had done in the past two days. He had cashed out a bunch of stocks in other companies, careful not to trigger an FCC violation. There were no subsidiaries of Bournham Industries that were public. He had some privately owned vestments that he was able to sell off, and some publicly owned stock that had nothing to do with what was about to happen with his own company.


    He knew that the scandal meant that the IPO would be tabled, and that would slow down the amount of money that various investors¡ªhim most of all¡ªwould make going public with Bournham. He put his Cape Cod house on the market, sold his second car¡ªon Craigslist of all places; who knew how easy that would be?¡ªand found himself tying up loose ends. Putting all his bills on auto-pay, calling his accountant to talk about financial realities, and giving his mom a heads-up that she could expect a visit soon. It felt good, it felt grounded, and it felt more like being Mike and not Michael Bournham.


    The press had had an absolute field day with that viral video. It made The Daily Show, unfortunately hitting the news cycle just in time, and Jon Stewart had taken Mike¡¯s signature phrase ¡°Bespoke or be naked¡± and turned it into ¡°Be at the office and be naked,¡± among other vagaries. He had portions of that video appear on Jimmy Fallon, on Jimmy Kimmel, on pretty much any comic show with a host named Jimmy. In many ways, the widespread appearance inoculated him. He became dead to it¡ªthe horror of seeing her beautiful, luscious, naked ass displayed for billions to watch at the push of a button dissipated slowly as it seeped in that one very private, very passionate moment had become an object of ridicule and scorn and voyeurism for all the world to see because he had put his ambition ahead of everything else.


    When Diane had stepped forward to take the heat, it had been the best laugh he¡¯d had in days. She¡¯d emailed him right after he saw her on some talk show, going on about how they¡¯d had this torrid affair and he¡¯d called her at the office and needed her desperately that moment. Her email simply said This is getting me a show on the same network as the Kardashians ;).


    More power to her, man, if that¡¯s what she wanted. He was grateful, in fact, for her slimy need for her fifteen minutes of overstretched fame, because it took the heat off Lydia. Their coloring was just similar enough¡ªalthough, as Diane mentioned in her email, My ass isn¡¯t that big. Is there any way you can get someone to Photoshop that? And he had just lost it. No reply, no need to. She was so self-absorbed she wouldn¡¯t notice his absence. He was glad to be of service, though. At least he¡¯d met the needs of one woman in his life, no matter how convoluted the mess had become.


    Shower over, he threw on what he suspected would be the last business suit he¡¯d wear in quite a long time, and caught his face in the mirror. He had shaved his head, his hair so damaged from the dye jobs that he¡¯d been told the best approach would be to just get rid of all of it and let it grow in naturally. What stared back at him was an angular, very intense face. His blue eyes cold and alive all at once, the sharp, angular cheekbones so Nordic he could almost see Asgard. His face looked gaunt, hollow, angry, and the mouth that tried to smile as he worked to prop himself up just couldn¡¯t.


    He was not defeated, but rather more sanguine. Ready to accept whatever was coming. Already manipulating his future in his own way, by his own accord, tapping into whatever authenticity remained buried deep within, untouched by blind ambition or naked greed. ¡°Bespoke or be naked¡± had come to take on a completely different meaning lately. What he¡¯d meant when he coined that stupid term was just that he would wear hand-tailored clothes or nothing at all. And yet, the idea resonated on other levels now. Handcraft your life, make your own choices, go where you want to go¡ªor do nothing. Accept no less.


    On yet another level, it was more ¡®bespoke and be naked.¡± Do both. Reveal who you really are instead of living the shell that everyone wants you to be. Pretty and perfect on the outside, conforming and obeying whatever you¡¯re told. As Mike rode the elevator down to his car, Dom somehow magically present and ready to take him, he climbed in, said ¡°hello,¡± and as the limo pulled away, he suddenly knew exactly what to do next.


    Entering the room, Mike decided that he would take control before they did. It was simple. Two words. ¡°I resign.¡± The looks of shock were strangely appealing; it was what he needed to be in control. Not in control of a company, not in control of a billion dollars, which he was walking away from. The minute that video hit the public, his billion-dollar dream was gone.


    What was laughable was how much it just didn¡¯t matter anymore.


    As these old, largely white men, judged him, he could see the anger on their faces. It had morphed from fury that the IPO had been possibly jeopardized by his animal instincts into fury that he had taken their trump card away. They thought they could manipulate him, could turn him into a puppet, could make him do this and that and the other.


    Michael Bournham wasn¡¯t going to let them make him do anything.


    Thomas Stoughton, the chair of the board of directors, stood. He¡¯d known Mike his entire life. This was a guy that his father, Joe, hadn¡¯t enjoyed doing business with, but a well connected, thoroughly enmeshed, and very powerful businessman in New England. ¡°Is that your decision, Mike?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to say it twice, Tom.¡±


    Tom nodded, glasses slipping down his nose. He pushed them back up, took a deep breath, looked around the large oval table at the other members, and said, ¡°Then it¡¯s done and we have no more business here. Mike, you¡¯ll leave with whatever the terms of your contract state. I¡¯m assuming you¡¯re not going to put up a fight.¡±


    Mike smiled a close-mouthed grin. He hadn¡¯t even thought about that. The old Mike would have. The authentic Mike just didn¡¯t care. ¡°Whatever the terms are, whatever makes this happen as fast as possible.¡±


    Tom nodded. Everyone else was mute, completely taken off guard by this. Mike wanted to wrap it up in thirty seconds so whatever Tom had to say he better say it fast. ¡°And your PR statement?¡±


    ¡°I will simply state that I¡¯ve resigned, that I have the best interests of Bournham Industries at heart¡ªand that¡¯s it. No more comments.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± One of the board members muttered into the ear of another, but Mike didn¡¯t care what they were saying. He was so close to freedom. He was so close to walking away from every single thing that he had thought was important over the past ten years, and it felt fabulous. His hands clenched into fists as he watched people try to decide what to do, what to say, how to handle this.


    Mike decided that he¡¯d help them by taking care of it himself. ¡°Gentleman. Ladies.¡± There were two on the board of directors. ¡°Good day. Thank you and I hope the IPO goes smoothly. When it does, I will remain an investor in the company¡ªobviously, not a majority investor, not even a majority minority investor¡ªbut I will remain an avid, involved stockholder.¡± He made eye contact with every single person in the room, holding the look steady until it became uncomfortable. Until, for them, it became unbearable. For him it was as if he derived power, recharged his batteries ¨C took control again. Whatever that reality TV series had sucked out of him, this¡­this moment gave it back. Letting go of control in order to gain it. This is what he had needed for far too long and had denied himself.


    He turned on his heel, marched out into the hallway, and by the time he reached the elevator his tie was off, his jacket over his forearm, and he was ready to call Jeremy and play more basketball.


    ¡°I have a huge favor to ask.¡± Mike was wavering inside until the words were spoken. He could keep this to himself, could try to maintain as much control as possible over an impossible situation. There was absolutely nothing he could do right now about what had happened with Lydia. She had ignored every email, text message, and voicemail. All he knew was that she accepted the job in Iceland. That was it. Mike had to resort to using Jeremy as a conduit. It was a last-ditch effort and it would probably blow up in his face¡ªlike everything else he tried in his life lately. But it was an effort he couldn¡¯t skip. This was the only way he could think to make sure that in the end that Lydia would be okay.


    His apartment seemed smaller somehow, even though he had gotten rid of so much. An uncluttered space to begin with, it now had almost an echo, with knick-knacks, photos, books and other small pieces of his life either packed away or given to charity. Why the room seemed small mystified him. It should seem cavernous and empty, echoing and done. Perhaps Jeremy¡¯s presence, his tall, looming figure, a great big giant of a man, made it seem tiny. But the semi-claustrophobic feeling may have just been self-generated, his mind playing tricks on him as he struggled with losing the love of his life.


    ¡°You want me to what?¡± Jeremy¡¯s face looked back at him with a pensive, startled expression. Then he raised his eyebrows, cocked his head, and said, ¡°You want me to go after Lydia?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Mike shook his head. ¡°I want you to follow her.¡± He frowned. ¡°Even that sounds creepy. That¡¯s not what I mean.¡±


    ¡°You want me to protect her? Wouldn¡¯t Dom be better at that? He, you know, looks like something out of The Sopranos and probably has a few hits under his belt, so he could take on anybody that tried to hurt her.¡±

 Page 20

    ¡°That¡¯s not the kind of protection I¡¯m talking about.¡± Mike sighed. He walked over to the window and flattened his palm against it, staring out over the city. It was a beautiful view, and he¡¯d picked the apartment because of it. Now, though, what he¡¯d once thought he would dominate, own, control had all slipped away and it just looked like a child¡¯s toy, a city of figurines and blocks, nothing more than a play space for others.


    ¡°What kind of protection, then?¡± Jeremy walked over and joined him, staring out over the city. ¡°Damn. This is one hell of a view.¡±Advertisement


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Mike nodded, sliding his hand down the unblemished glass. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    He could think of other views that were better, though. Peering up into Lydia¡¯s face as a strand of hair tickled his nose. Or watching her ass walk away as she angrily stormed out of his office in those first few days of working together. This? The crystal-blue sky was dotted here and there with puffs of cotton clouds and the city rumbled and bustled along, an organism that was self-perpetuating. Not the view he craved.


    He turned to Jeremy and again found himself looking up, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable position. Hands planted on his hips, he squared his shoulders. ¡°I want you to go to Iceland and make sure that she¡¯s okay. I don¡¯t know if the media is going to go crazy there. Diane is unstable enough that this could all fall apart, although¡­God, what great timing. Who would have known that her blood-hungry ambition to be the next Bachelorette could actually help me?¡±


    ¡°Who knew?¡± Jeremy said, shrugging, hands up, palms facing the ceiling. Mike eyed him warily. It was an odd reaction. Shifty-eyed and suddenly nervous, Jeremy pressed his face against the glass, leaving an oily nose, cheek, and forehead print.


    ¡°Now the view''s not so great,¡± he said.


    ¡°Ah, a little piece of me to remember.¡± He looked at Mike. ¡°You really want me to follow her?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How do¡­why would she?¡± Jeremy asked.


    ¡°I want you to try to salvage whatever you can of a normal life for her.¡±


    ¡°How the hell can I do that? My idea of normalcy is three hookers in Bangkok.¡±


    Mike screwed up his face and glared. ¡°Nice try. Don''t use your schtick on me.¡± Jeremy had spent a year or so fucking anything that offered, but these days it was more a ruse he used to have something to talk about. He was still dealing with the lingering effects of their breakup with Dana, their third in an unconventional relationship that had ended a year ago.


    ¡°Where are the boundaries here?¡±


    Mike felt sized up, and he was right. Jeremy was trying to figure him out, to tease out the core of Mike¡¯s request. And Mike was grateful¡ªdeeply grateful¡ªhis friend knew him well and was trying to gauge what all of this meant for Mike. Being emotionally in tune with someone else was a rare gift, and for more than ten years he and Jeremy had shared that, even as they¡¯d shared women¡ªperhaps because they¡¯d shared women. It was a bit of a chicken and egg situation. Normally, Mike could put a wall up around it, the simple acceptance that the relationship was there, his to touch when he needed and his to push away when he didn¡¯t, enough to allow him to follow his ambitions in the world. Always having a home to come back to. But home meant something different now. Home was Lydia, too.


    She was on her way to Iceland right now to a job that he had created to help her escape a mess that he, too, had created. He needed his home, his Jeremy, to go and put together the shattered pieces of a life Mike had almost lived.


    Jeremy found himself in a precarious situation here, navigating a complicated series of short, stilted phrases coming out of Mike¡¯s mouth. Knowing his friend, what he meant when he said ¡°protect Lydia¡± was something quite different from what Jeremy thought it meant. And yet, ultimately, what he thought Mike was saying was ¡°make sure she¡¯s well, make sure she¡¯s happy, and see if she¡¯s the one.¡±


    This idea of ¡°the one¡± was Jeremy¡¯s, not Mike¡¯s. For years he¡¯d wanted someone to complete them. Dana had been close but she¡¯d wanted something more conventional, ultimately choosing Mike. And when Mike had rejected that, she had left them both. A year-long traveling binge that ended in jail had helped take away some of Jeremy''s pain, for a time, until Dom had bailed him out in some Asian country that Jeremy still couldn¡¯t recall. The sadness of being incomplete had never quite left him.


    What he¡¯d learned over the past year, though, was that being complete wasn¡¯t something that you acquired by loving the right person. It was something you had to put together within yourself so that when you did meet the right person you could detect their completeness. And that was when you knew you were home.


    ¡°So, you want me to make sure that she¡¯s happy,¡± he said, trying to understand and clarify.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mike answered, staring out the window.


    Jeremy had to admit to himself it was a gorgeous view, but he¡¯d never understood why Mike spent so much of his money on these things: the right apartment, the right car, the right jet¡ªrented, but still¡ªthe right charity balls, the right everything. As if by choosing and manipulating and selecting and being seen in the company of high-status people that he, himself, through osmosis would acquire that status as well, and as if Mike could translate that status into some sort of power. Jeremy didn¡¯t even understand the math behind any of that, and certainly didn¡¯t care.


    But this kind of calculation? Of hope and love? That he understood.


    ¡°Does making her happy include sleeping with her?¡± There. He said it. He had to. It was the elephant in the room that they were both trying not to acknowledge, had been trying not to acknowledge for some time. Jeremy had become quite taken with her at the autism charity ball where they''d first met, and he would never step on Mike¡¯s toes but¡­being sent to protect her? Being sent to make her happy? That was a completely different game-changer.


    Mike¡¯s jaw flexed and Jeremy could see him doing the calculations behind his eyes, formulas that he couldn¡¯t fathom but that would end with a sum, a result that would add up to their future. He turned, brow furrowed, eyes opened and vulnerable, and locked on Jeremy.


    ¡°I want you to go to Iceland. I want you to find out how she¡¯s doing. And I want you to discover why I don¡¯t think I can live without her.¡±


    Jeremy¡¯s heart felt as if someone had pierced it with an arrow, the pain emanating through and through, into his fingertips and down between his toes, across his hips and into his mouth, his tongue, making him go numb. ¡°This is your ¡®one,¡¯ isn¡¯t it?¡± he asked, the blue sky so bright it matched Mike¡¯s eyes, the room so starkly real it was as if he were wearing 3D glasses and seeing everything in an extra dimension.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mike choked out.


    Could she be our ''one''? Jeremy wanted to ask.


    ¡°If she won¡¯t have me¡­¡± Mike added, his throat tight on the words, more emotion in that sentence than Jeremy had probably heard from him in his entire friendship with the man. ¡°If she won¡¯t have me,¡± Mike repeated, his voice stronger, ¡°then I at least need to know that I haven¡¯t caused her some sort of irrevocable damage. That what I did in losing my mind over her and forgetting those fucking cameras doesn¡¯t turn her bitter, doesn¡¯t harden the very qualities in her that softened me.¡±


    He clapped a hand on Jeremy¡¯s shoulder, then reached farther than you would expect. Fighting the instinct to crouch down like he did for everyone, Jeremy stood and just listened, letting his friend open up, liking what he saw. ¡°Of all the people I know, Jeremy, you¡¯re the one that I think can bring her back. Not¡­¡± He held up a palm. ¡°Not back to me. But back. Back to her true self. She won¡¯t show that to Michael Bournham. She doesn¡¯t believe that he is anything but a snake¡­and maybe she¡¯s right,¡± he said.


    Chapter Six


    The giggling tipped her off. Day two at the office and, so far, four hours into her day she had had four cups of coffee, one overpriced lunch because hot dogs were $10 in Iceland, had sharpened all of her pencils, checked her email, answered two, written about fifteen to various members of Bournham Industries asking exactly what her job was, and had cleaned and re-cleaned her empty cubicle.


    Elsa was of absolutely no help, after all, when it came to administrative issues, aside from helping her to understand how health insurance law worked in Iceland. There was no employee manual, there was no chain of command, there was no directive for creating her own employee manual, there was¡­nothing. She didn¡¯t know who she reported to. She didn¡¯t know who reported to her. And by one o¡¯clock on this second work day the reality that there was no ¡°director of communications for European operations¡± position hit her with full force.


    Michael Bournham had turned her into a bird in a cage. She had to hand it to him, it was crafty¡ªand, given enough time, she¡¯d have her student loans cleared out. She would be able to legitimately say that she had European experience with this great, fake title. Human resources could give her a reference and confirm her employment. Working here, even for a few months, would make her r¨¦sum¨¦ shine if she could play this just right.


    But Siggi kept giving her sideways glances and then plugging earbuds into his computer and watching something. Elsa was polite but tight-lipped. No one went out to lunch with her, no one sat down in the coffee room with her, and the handful of other employees there seemed to have jobs. What they did was a mystery. A sales force of about four or five people were on the phone constantly. When Lydia would ask them about their campaigns they answered happily, but at no point did anyone ask her for help or advice.


    In desperation she¡¯d reached out to the senior vice-president for communications in the Boston office, who had promptly ignored her. To be fair, it was day two on the job, but Lydia assumed a tight ship run by Michael Bournham would¡­oh. Scratch that. The company was no longer run by Michael Bournham, according to the terse email sent yesterday, a two-paragraph ditty that said more in what it didn¡¯t say than in the corporatespeak it used. Still, a few days after his absence she couldn¡¯t imagine that the systems would change that quickly.


    Bournham Industries had turned into a very lean, mean, efficient machine over the past year as Bournham had some kind of bet with the board of directors¡ªat least, that was what the rumor said¡ªto increase profits. The idea that she would get a job that paid this much and have absolutely nothing to do¡ªand not get a single response back from the SVP for communications when asked what she was supposed to do¡ªfed her growing discontent and assumptions that she was here out of favoritism and not merit.


    How long would this ruse go on? She could ride it; she had no problem taking Bournham Industries¡¯ money. Lydia also knew that deep inside it would rot her soul. She could do this for a month or two, but the need to achieve, to do well, to do work that was productive and beneficial and that helped her own mind to grow was what fed her. That was one reason why being an admin had been driving her nuts. She could make travel arrangements, order supplies, process incoming email requests, handle filing, information management, storage, update web files, and do all of the administrative work that helped keep departments running. But it had gotten boring. It had gotten tedious. It had started to make her a little bit insane, at least on a professional level. The inefficiencies and absurdities in the system showed. Receiving an email from a boss telling her to send the email to other people in their email system was one such example. Or being told that as the company shifted over to a cheaper office supply company she would need to print the attached PDF, fill it out, send it back so that they could enter her information into a computer system, and give her a new computer account made her logical mind spin in horror and burst into flames.

 Page 21

    All of that she could tolerate at home, in Boston, hanging with Grandma, spending time with Krysta, working to put in her time before she got the promotion. But here? She had dumped everything for this. She had been dumped. She had been suckered. And even so, she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about him, her mind replaying every tortured moment that he had touched her, every second that she had reveled in it. Every touch that had made her alive, every exploring kiss, each hot, fevered grope.


    The sense of his breath on the back of her neck in the elevator, how his arms had felt around her ribs, hand brushing against the edge of her breast¡ªit tortured her. The moments in her office and then his, late at night, stripped to nothing, gone bare in a soulless, colorless corporate environment, spiced and vibrant only by the sound of her screams through gritted teeth and of his groans as they took something that wasn¡¯t supposed to be and made it into so much more.Advertisement


    That Matt Jones had turned out to be Michael Bournham boggled her mind and made her heart race, her pulse thready. That knowledge made her smile a secret, sly look that she couldn¡¯t wipe off her face even now. She had been sleeping with one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston and didn¡¯t even know it. What did he look like now? Had he dyed his hair back? Were those blue eyes piercing? And those fake green eyes were now so ludicrously unreal that she understood why he had been almost a caricature of a superhero.


    He¡¯d been fired. She heard the news reports that said he¡¯d resigned, but she knew the truth. He¡¯d been fired, and the board of directors had taken control of his company. That had to hurt. He wasn¡¯t exactly the kind to roll over and go submissive. Certainly not in bed. Thinking about him in the most intimate of manners made her heart feel as if it had been pierced.


    Sitting at her desk, collecting an overpriced paycheck in a country she had never even had on a top twenty list of places she wanted to visit, with everyone speaking a language she didn¡¯t understand, left Lydia feeling lonely for the first time in her life.


    Coffee. She needed coffee. Without a word of explanation she got up and walked outside into the impossibly bright sunshine. The streets were quite empty, the mid-morning hour a time for napping babies and the pre-lunch hush. Sidewalks were hers, for the most part, and she took her time, savoring the quiet. Disconnected from work, she found herself unraveling a plan, like a ribbon being pulled from a large roll. If she could undo her life in Boston so quickly, she could reverse this one even faster¡­


    And then she spotted the most unlikely Viking in Iceland. Jeremy.


    He certainly fit in with many of the men here is Reykjavik. They were tall¡ªimpossibly so, sometimes¡ªand at six-six he had a handful of men taller than him walking along the cobblestone sidewalks, but he looked about as different as could be. First of all, few people in Iceland wore Chuck Taylors, his shoes standing out from the crowds. Second, he wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. While early August in Iceland was warm, it wasn¡¯t that warm, and she wondered how he could walk along and not shiver.


    ¡°Lydia?¡± he said, his voice curious, more disingenuous than anything. ¡°Is that you?¡±


    She stopped and gave him a withering look. Standing eight feet apart, she wondered what they looked like to outsiders. Two Americans, running into each other on the streets of Reykjavik. That probably wasn¡¯t a common tourist event.


    ¡°Jeremy. Funny meeting you here,¡± she said.


    ¡°That¡¯s my line,¡± he replied.


    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit,¡± she answered. ¡°Michael Bournham sent you, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    Jeremy placed a hand over his heart and widened his eyes. ¡°Whatever would make you think that?¡± he said, eyelashes dancing. ¡°I¡¯m here because I had a hankering for¡±¡ªhe looked around, puzzled¡ª¡°whatever it is people have a hankering for here in Iceland.¡±


    ¡°A yarn shop?¡± she asked drily. ¡°There are about three on every block.¡± Seriously? This was the best Michael Bournham could do? Get his best friend to come and stalk her? Amateur. At least send an ex-Navy SEAL or a Russian mob dude. What about that chauffeur he used¡ªthe guy who looked like an extra from The Sopranos?


    ¡°Yes,¡± he answered, nodding vigorously. ¡°A yarn shop. I was in the mood to learn how to knit and thought I would come to Iceland where the¡±¡ªhe stumbled over his words¡ª¡°sheep make such wonderful wool for crocheting¡ª¡±


    ¡°Knitting.¡±


    ¡°Knitting,¡± he repeated.


    If it weren¡¯t so absurd tears would fill her eyes by now. But it was absurd, and Jeremy could pull it off just well enough that she wasn¡¯t pissed so much as bemused and conflicted.


    ¡°Before I go and find a yarn shop and a knitting instructor or¡­whatever you do when you learn how to knit,¡± he said, his eyes kind and hopeful, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, feet almost doing a strange aw, shucks shuffle, almost as if they were eighth-graders and not fully grown adults, ¡°would you mind taking me to the best coffee shop in the city?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know the best coffee shop in the city.¡±


    ¡°Well, then,¡± he said, threading his arm through hers, linking elbows, ¡°let¡¯s go find it together.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t going to work,¡± she said flatly. His skin against hers was the first human touch she¡¯d had since she flew out of Logan and hugged her mother. Involuntary reactions ranging from enjoyment to a touch of flushed passion invaded her. She pulled away, blessedly relieved and infuriatingly deprived. What the hell was happening to her?


    ¡°What isn¡¯t going to work?¡± he answered, looking down. His hair was clean but mussed; he obviously hadn¡¯t run a comb through it or done much of anything other than hopped in a shower today. Rumpled. He looked rumpled. She wondered how he could care so little for his appearance and yet still manage to be so appealing.


    ¡°Having Michael Bournham send you here¡ªthat¡¯s not going to work. I don¡¯t need a babysitter.¡±


    ¡°Michael Bournham. Michael Bournham,¡± Jeremy said, lowering his voice into a deep, fake baritone, like an announcer before a disaster movie in the previews. ¡°Why do you keep calling him Michael Bournham? That¡¯s so formal. He¡¯s just Mike.¡±


    ¡°No, Jeremy, he¡¯s Matt.¡±


    A distressed look crossed his face. He peered down and stopped, forcing her to jerk to a halt, too. They were in front of the Reykjavik equivalent of a dollar store, cheap passport holders in the window along with plastic cutlery and Hello Kitty purses. ¡°He¡¯s both, you know,¡± Jeremy said seriously. ¡°None of what happened was planned.¡±


    ¡°Pfft,¡± she said, her tone dismissive, tongue rolling in her cheek, practically taking inventory of each molar in the back. ¡°You¡¯re telling me that this up-and-coming playboy billionaire¡ª¡±


    ¡°Millionaire!¡± Jeremy retorted.


    ¡°¡ªNear-billionaire CEO, Michael Bournham, just accidentally stumbled into a hidden-camera situation where a viral sex tape made its way all the way to my mother¡¯s smart phone app for cable news? ¡®Oops!¡¯¡± she said. ¡°¡®Sorry, Lydia. I didn¡¯t mean to fuck you on camera!¡¯¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re very photogenic,¡± he answered, craning around to look at her ass. She smacked him in the chest, hard enough to make him stumble backwards and cry out in pain.


    Good, she thought. ¡°If you¡¯re trying to be here to make peace or to cleanse his reputation or to get me to go back to being his fuck toy, Jeremy, then just go home.¡± And with that Lydia stormed off, headed directly toward¡ªin fact¡ªthe best coffee shop in Reykjavik.


    ¡°Hey! Hey!¡± he boomed, running after her. Onlookers turned and stared at them, assuming it was some sort of a lovers¡¯ spat and she wanted to cry out something, anything that would make the attention go away.


    Just when people began to resume their own business, Jeremy shouted, ¡°I meant to compliment your ass. It looked great on camera. Not many women can pull that off.¡±


    Out of the corner of her eye she saw Siggi, from the office, emerge from a convenience store with a yogurt in hand. The cocked eyebrow told her he''d heard Jeremy¡¯s words. Fuck. Pointedly ignoring him, she hoped he¡¯d keep going. To her undying relief she soon watched his back recede around a corner, headed toward the office.


    Lydia stopped, mid-pace, closed her eyes, and sighed. Some things she couldn¡¯t escape, even half an ocean away. Apparently, neither could Michael Bournham. Resuming her pace, the click-clack click-clack of her heels on the cobblestones filled her mind. Acting as if Jeremy didn''t exist, she slipped on sunglasses and pretended not to know him.


    Which was damn near impossible when he ran in front of her, blocked her path, and said loudly, ¡°You know, none of this would have happened if Mike had just come to Bangkok with me and we¡¯d had another threesome.¡±


    He¡¯d chosen the very moment that a kindly old knitting store clerk had stepped out into the threshold of her store to people-watch. She looked like Lydia''s archetype of a grandmother¡ªportly and large-chested, wearing a long gray skirt, a white turtleneck, and a gorgeous, intricate hand-knit cardigan made of muted, heathered pinks and purples. Gray hair, deep wrinkles, and those ice-blue eyes she found to be fairly common among Icelanders.


    ¡°What? You''ve never heard people argue about threesomes?¡± Jeremy asked the woman, who now openly gawked.


    ¡°I¡­you''re American, aren¡¯t you?¡± she asked, her English perfect, her accent like an additional layer of judgment.


    ¡°What made you guess?¡± Jeremy strode into the shop, bending at the doorway, the threshold built into a half-basement-level entrance.


    ¡°I am Frida. And you are...?¡± The old woman looked over her unrimmed glasses at them both.


    ¡°I''m Jeremy and this is Lydia,¡± Jeremy replied, as if this were the most commonplace thing in the world.


    ¡°Pleased to meet you. Now, please sit,¡± she said, gesturing to a semi-circle of rocking chairs on the back of the store.


    ¡°Wait, you¡¯re serious? You¡¯re going to sit here and take knitting lessons right now?¡± Still stunned by the sight of Jeremy¡ªof all people¡ªhere in Iceland, Lydia curled her lip up in an expression of incredulity. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we go to a coffee shop and sit and talk about this?¡±


    ¡°Talk about what? Knitting?¡± Jeremy found a rocking chair and the old woman handed him a set of needles and a ball of yarn.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need a coffee shop for that,¡± the old woman said.


    ¡°No.¡± She looked at Jeremy and narrowed her eyes. ¡°You know¡­about Matt, er¡­Michael Bournham. I mean¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, the threesome,¡± Jeremy said.


    The woman tittered. ¡°I was born too late. You children have all the fun.¡±


    Jeremy turned, eyes popped out, his face as shocked as she¡¯d ever seen it, the normal calm, suave, mellow affect completely gone in the face of having a woman the age of his grandmother tell him something so daring.


    The woman nudged Lydia, handing her a pair of needles and a ball of yarn as well. ¡°Cast on. I want to watch how you do it,¡± her English clipped, a slight lilt and a tangy guttural sound somehow living within the language simultaneously, the effect a bit mesmerizing.

 Page 22

    Madge had taught her the basics of knitting years ago, so Lydia began casting on, looping the first stitches onto the knitting needle. The woman shook her head, tsking. ¡°Waste. Of. Energy,¡± she said. She looked at Jeremy and nodded with approval. ¡°You¡¯ve been taught properly.¡±


    ¡°My grandmother was Swedish,¡± he answered, finally composing himself. Lydia watched his nimble fingers weave the strand of yarn into a set of perfect loops, faster and more fluid than her own attempt.Advertisement


    ¡°Oh.¡± The woman perked up and began speaking in what Lydia presumed was Swedish. Jeremy held one hand up, fumbling to manage the first row of purl stitching that he had started.


    ¡°I don¡¯t speak Swedish.¡±


    She frowned. ¡°You Americans, with your one language only.¡± She rolled her eyes and then examined Lydia¡¯s set of stitches. ¡°Good. Now start with purls.¡±


    Jeremy leaned back, crossed his legs at the ankles, and continued the rest of his row, his hands efficient and quick, the needles clicking in an almost melodious pattern that Lydia admired.


    ¡°I may not know many languages, but I do know how to say ¡®I¡¯m so sorry, I thought you were a woman¡¯ in Thai.¡±


    In spite of herself, Lydia began laughing. The woman didn¡¯t seem to quite get it. Was she really sitting here in a knitting shop in the middle of Reykjavik, with Jeremy besting her at stitching? Playing hooky from the office to boot?


    Who cared. She was the boss now, right? The sham of it all made her loosen up and laugh.


    ¡°Mike¡ªuh sorry, Matt¡ªer Michael Bournham¡­¡± Lydia couldn¡¯t bring herself to just refer to him as Mike, the casualness of it too much, chipping away at her outrage. ¡°Mike¡± made it seem possible that there was an opportunity with Mike that she¡¯d thought had been there with Matt, and that was now gone forever, destroyed by the CEO of her company, destroyed by her own unwillingness to listen to him that day he¡¯d come to her. Sending an emissary wasn¡¯t going to make anything change and so whatever role Mike¡­Matt¡­asshole¡ªwhatever you wanted to call him¡ªthought Jeremy could serve, it just wasn¡¯t going to happen.


    The comfort, though, of seeing a friendly face, of having a fingerhold on a part of her life back home, was something that stuck in her throat, a cautious, appreciative feeling that made the foreignness of this monumental change in her life just a little easier to bear. Even if it came with some sort of price. What was Michael Bournham going to try to extract from her now? He¡¯d taken, and given, so much. Nothing in her life came without an exchange and so, here came a third party, Jeremy, the click clack click of his knitting needles a steady, thrumming sound, like a bizarre heartbeat that lulled her as she made her way through the purl stitches and then switched over for a knit stitch.


    The calmness, the peace, of wool on metal, of breaths and of movements, singularly focused on this little piece of fiber being turned into a work of wearable art, whatever it may end up being¡ªa sock, a scarf, a sweater, a blanket. Energy and focus poured into these motions that took her out of her panic, took her out of her alienation, took her out of her surprise and indignation and so many negative emotions that had filled her life lately. Sitting here with Jeremy, with this knitting instructor, surrounded by balls of color, she felt more aware and more at rest than she¡¯d felt in weeks.


    ¡°Your gauge is off,¡± Jeremy announced. She looked up, taken out of her own little world, and turned to find him leaning forward, peering around the arm of the rocking chair she sat in. She held up the four rows she¡¯d managed to knit and asked, ¡°What¡¯s gauge?¡±


    The old woman pursed her lips and shook her head.


    If you had told him, even a week ago, that he would be sitting in Reykjavik, Iceland, in a little wooden rocking chair, his knees practically up to his nose, knitting away while some old Icelandic woman clucked her tongue and explained the popcorn stitch for the thousandth time while Lydia stared at him with a look of incredulity that would make anyone cringe, he wouldn¡¯t have believed it.


    If, on the other hand, you had told him that right now he¡¯d be sitting on a beach in Bali or Thailand or Vietnam hung over, coming down off some godforsaken local drug that no one had heard of in the United States and that he¡¯d be sticky and covered in goo of undetermined origin on parts of his body best left unmentionable¡­that?


    That he¡¯d believe.


    What in the hell had he agreed to when Mike had asked him to come here and take care of Lydia? The directive had been ambiguous. He knew what Mike didn¡¯t want: for Lydia to get hurt. Too late. That ship had sailed long ago, christened by and started up with a viral media blitz that had destroyed lives and careers, Mike¡¯s most of all.


    Protecting Lydia meant something entirely different, depending on how you chose to interpret it. Was he supposed to make sure that no one knew she was the girl from the video? Should he monitor her at work to make sure that she was being respected? Was his job to follow her everywhere and essentially stalk her to make sure that no other guy got his hands on her? Or (and this is the interpretation that he chose, Mike be damned) did protecting Lydia mean softening the hard shell that she¡¯d slammed around her heart the second the video had gone public? Did it mean showing her that she had value? That she was as amazing as some part of her knew she was? Could it mean letting her get to know him and seeing if what he thought had a spark of mutuality might be able to grow?


    Most of all, did protecting Lydia mean protecting himself and Mike and the power that the potential for something greater than all three of them held?


    It was a hell of a reach, taking Mike¡¯s words and pulling them into that dimension. Jeremy considered himself up to the challenge. Whether he really was or not depended entirely on his own motivations. The more time he spent with Lydia the more he understood why his old buddy had finally allowed himself to feel, to fall, to fulfill, and to falter, as he knew Mike was likely shocked by the intensity of what real love felt like. A part of Jeremy was jealous and wanted to touch that, not just to touch the woman who ignited that within Mike, but to touch the essence of what it felt like to be that far gone in something with another person, so big that it enveloped you.


    And made you forget the cameras.


    Jeremy had joked with Mike and with himself about the sex tape, how Lydia must have been one hell of a ride, to make him forget that he was being taped, that they were being catalogued by a Hollywood team of cameras, all recording for a reality TV show that was anything but. The dose of raw emotion, of real sensuality, of two people stripped bare, literally and figuratively, was too much reality for most people. It made shells go up, it made souls crawl behind walls, it forced reckonings that too many people simply couldn¡¯t bear. And so, instead of taking it at face value and examining that tape for what it was, the media had to turn it into a joke, a never-ending loop of fucking that made its way around the world. Played for titters and gasps and chuckles¡ªand stripped of real meaning.


    Jeremy hadn¡¯t watched that tape over and over and over just to come up with his idea about Diane and having her take responsibility for it. He¡¯d watched it, too, with an eye for the authenticity in the way her fingers lingered on Mike¡¯s skin. How Mike¡¯s eyes rested on her shoulder just a little longer than you would think you¡¯d need to, how the interplay between the two was like its own language, something he wished he could learn to speak and eventually become fluent in.


    So as he sat here, needles clicking, tongues clucking, and Lydia staring him down, he knew that just being¡ªhis butt resting against a hard wooden chair that could barely contain his long form, his eyes focused on a piece of dyed wool and his breath even and steady as he knitted and purled, and knitted and purled¡ªthat this was how he would protect Lydia.


    Just by being here.


    Thirteen Euros, three hours and one ragged scarf later, Lydia and Jeremy left the knitting shop, her head pounding from caffeine deprivation but her heart warm and calm, filled with wonder and questions at what his presence meant. He certainly hadn¡¯t come to Iceland to learn how to create a scraggly piece of knitting. She knew Michael Bournham had sent him, but beyond that she didn¡¯t know the significance.


    It was time to take the reins here and become the leader. Jeremy didn¡¯t seem to want that role, forcing Lydia to accept it. She didn¡¯t really want it either, preferring instead to be led, not so much to be controlled but to be told why. Why Matt¡ªno, Mike¡ªhad done this. To be told why she was walking down a stone sidewalk toward her favorite Reykjavik cafe. To be told why she¡¯d been skyrocketed up the corporate ladder and at the same time shunted aside.


    To be told the truth.


    From the look on his face, though, Jeremy wasn¡¯t going to give her any satisfaction. Cagey, like a big yellow lab with a ninja standing behind it, he was one thing on the surface and all stealth underneath. What she needed to understand was what the stealth meant, because decoding Jeremy was going to be about as easy as reading a hieroglyph. He seemed to have cultivated this affable, lazy, world traveler image, and the knitting episode raised her hackles. It was a bit too¡­something. The word escaped her. Too cute. Too kitschy. Too campy to be real.


    A tiny sliver of her wished that it were, that he had come to Iceland for her and not on Mike¡¯s behalf. She was starting to think of Matt as Mike, after hearing Jeremy refer to him so many times that way, and it felt wrong. It felt co-opted. He wasn¡¯t Mike to her. He was Matt. And if he wasn¡¯t Matt¡ªand make no mistake, he wasn¡¯t Matt¡ªthen he was Michael Bournham. That she had fallen in love with Mr. Playboy CEO in disguise was enough to make her decide that it was time to be the bitch in charge.


    Seated across a small table in the sun on that favored rooftop garden, a triple latte in front of her, helping the headache to recede, she let her face go completely slack, leaned over and took both of Jeremy¡¯s hands in hers, his fingers so long and strong she wanted to close her eyes and just feel them. Licking her lips, she held herself at bay. This wasn¡¯t about Jeremy. This wasn¡¯t about the feel of a man for the first time since she¡¯d touched Mike. This wasn¡¯t about her, even.


    This was about finally getting some answers.


    Jeremy maintained a look of expectation, mild bemusement reflected in those warm eyes. ¡°Yes?¡± he asked, a tiny smile pinching his lips. He looked down at their hands and looked back up at her, wiggling his eyebrows. She squeezed, her fingers closing over his, and as she squeezed harder and harder, his face began to melt from bemusement to abject confusion and then to a mild shock.


    Her fingernails dug in, not hard, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make a point as she opened her mouth and said, ¡°Tell me the truth Jeremy, because I am about to let go, and if you haven¡¯t started by then, I am standing up and walking out of here.¡± She glanced at her coffee. ¡°And I am completely done with you and Michael Bournham¡¯s world.¡±


    Oh, fuck, he thought, her hands an amusing pressure against his, squeezing tighter and tighter, but only to transmit some sort of message that her eyes kept hidden. ¡°Then why are you sitting here across from me¡±¡ªhe leaned back in the chair and spread his arms out wide¡ª¡°on this beautiful rooftop in the middle of Iceland?¡±

 Page 23

    ¡°We¡¯re not in the middle of Iceland, we¡¯re on the western coast.¡±


    He gave her a flat look. ¡°Don¡¯t deflect.¡±Advertisement


    She pulled back in surprise. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she admitted, then took a sip of her drink. ¡°I am deflecting. Good catch.¡±


    ¡°You pick up a few things traveling around the world for ten years.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d imagine you¡¯ve picked up a few diseases traveling around the world these past few years.¡± She pointedly looked at his groin.


    He didn¡¯t know what to do with that, and just cleared his throat. He could see why Mike was attracted to her. She wasn¡¯t just funny; there was a sharp edge under it all. Of course, the outer package certainly was alluring. Damn, if he couldn¡¯t get the images from that video out of his mind, the way her breath had hitched, how her legs had shifted in just the right way to make it obvious that Mike¡­


    He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. ¡°No, not those kinds of diseases, and no, not that kind of thing you pick up,¡± he said.


    Struggling to find the right words, he interrupted himself and took a few sips of his coffee. The sky was so blue it could have been the sea, and for a moment his equilibrium shifted, the right side of his brain taking over. Everything he did felt perfect, the movement of his elbow bringing the glass of coffee to his mouth, the flip of her head as she pushed her long, deep brown hair back off her shoulder. How the wind swept it away for her like a servant attending her every need. The acuteness of the moment left him dumbstruck, for not only could he see what Mike saw in her, a rising wave of his own desire began to push back his obedient quest to watch over her. No longer was it for his friend, no longer was he there in lieu of his friend. As subtle as a shift in the wind by a few degrees, his course changed.


    Now, Jeremy was here for himself.


    Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. ¡°You realize there¡¯s no way I would ever entertain the thought of being with Mike¡±¡ªshe spat the word out¡ª¡°again, knowing that he set me up.¡±


    He frowned. ¡°Set you up how?¡±


    ¡°Oh, please,¡± she said. ¡°It was all over the television¡ªthat producer said that this was part of the deal, that Michael Bournham¡ª¡± she mocked the name¡ª¡°had come to him with this great idea of luring some woman to have sex with him on camera and create a viral video tape that would shoot Bournham Industries¡¯ name through the roof.¡±


    ¡°And you believed that?¡±


    ¡°It was on television.¡±


    ¡°You believe everything you see on television?¡±


    That seemed to stop her cold. ¡°Oh, no¡­I¡­¡± She faltered.


    ¡°For someone who¡¯s trying to break into the media and marketing business, you certainly are about as savvy as a nine-year-old getting on the Internet tubes for the first time.¡±


    A flush of rage filled her face. Good. He got an actual emotion out of her other than some derisive sneer.


    ¡°I was not!¡±


    ¡°You were. You were snowed, Lydia, by that guy, that stupid jackass producer who set all of this up. So was Mike. Those cameras weren¡¯t supposed to be on.¡±


    ¡°Mike said that?¡±


    Jeremy shrugged. He didn¡¯t know quite how far to take this. He knew, though, that he had to set the record straight for his friend¡¯s sake. ¡°As far as Mike knew, the cameras were supposed to roll during work hours, how you define that is up to you, and he had a talk with that guy after Mike realized that the cameras had been rolling, and the guy tried to blackmail him.¡±


    ¡°Blackmail him?¡±


    Jeremy really wasn¡¯t sure what he was supposed to say. He gulped down the rest of his tepid coffee and set the pint glass down, looking around as the jolt of caffeine got his veins pumping and his eyes flitted about from place to place, settling anywhere but on her now-inquisitive face. How much could he say? How much could he reveal? And really, how much should he reveal? Would it help Mike, or would it hurt Jeremy?


    ¡°I don¡¯t know a lot about the details, Lydia,¡± he confessed. That much really was true, even if it was a bit evasive. ¡°But I can tell you this¡ªthere is no way in hell the Michael Bournham I know and have known now for well over a decade would set some woman up to be caught on video, and then violated, viewing after viewing after viewing, by millions, if not hundreds of millions.¡±


    ¡°A billion is the projection CNN has.¡±


    ¡°Whoa,¡± he said, making a low whistle. ¡°A billion people.¡± Jeremy shook his head. ¡°He would never do that.¡±


    ¡°So why did Diane pipe up and say that he had?¡±


    Now Jeremy really had to keep his cards close to his vest. ¡°Diane was an outlier and camera-hungry. Nobody could have ever guessed that she was that kind of social climber, so desperate for the camera that she would lie and claim to be Mike¡¯s fuck buddy on film.¡±


    ¡°Is that what I am?¡± she snapped.


    He closed his eyes and cringed. Ah fuck, he thought, better to stay silent than to say anything more.


    Her wry grin cut a little inside him. ¡°Aha,¡± she said simply, ¡°that is what I am.¡± Lydia finished off her coffee and stretched back in her chair, not really paying attention to anyone or anything, eyes staring out into the horizon, where, just over the building tops, you could see a touch of ocean at the harbor.


    The tension was killing him. He was affable world-traveler Jeremy, not one to play games like this.


    Instead of playing games, he reached for her hand. To his surprise, she let him. The touch made his heart slow down¡ªcalmed him, in fact, though he could tell that to her it was nothing but a compassionate gesture. It was¡ªand it was something more.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure if Mike were here he would say that he was sorry.¡±


    ¡°He already did,¡± she admitted. ¡°Twice. But why didn¡¯t he say something?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t he say something at my apartment in Cambridge when we realized that that producer claimed it was all set up by Mike?¡± Her eyes searched his. ¡°Why?¡±


    Jeremy shook his head, his stomach curling into a ball. ¡°I know the answer to that.¡±


    ¡°Then tell me, because I really need to know, Jeremy. That question has haunted me, leading me to assume it was right, and now here you are, a long flight away from home, sent by the great Michael Bournham to watch over me¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why he didn¡¯t say anything, but I can make a really good, educated guess.¡±


    ¡°Then, by all means, make that guess,¡± she said.


    He stared out into the same horizon where her eyes had just rested, trying to line up the jumbled thoughts into some sort of linear explanation that would make a modicum of sense. ¡°Mike is very bottom line, and in the moment that you learned that, I¡¯m assuming you were watching it on television¡­¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°He probably already had made his case¡­¡±


    She closed her eyes and nodded again.


    He squeezed her hand in sympathy. ¡°Given the evidence, and the fact that you didn¡¯t trust him or believe him, I¡¯m sure he didn¡¯t even try to protest¡ªbecause in Mike¡¯s world, if you don¡¯t believe him after he¡¯s given you his word, then it¡¯s sheer folly to keep trying.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying that after the way he hurt me, he just gave up on trying? What kind of man does that?¡±


    ¡°The kind of man who respects you enough to say his piece and then let you go when it¡¯s obvious that you don¡¯t want him anymore.¡±


    Jeremy¡¯s words came out like pieces of glass out of his throat, some of the most authentic and rawest words he¡¯d spoken in a decade. Psychoanalyzing and deconstructing his best friend at a time when he could be off frolicking in the beaches of Thailand, Jeremy wished that those coffees had been spiked with a shot or ten so he could finish this conversation, go back to his apartment, and have lascivious dreams about the woman his best friend loved.


    You call this a vacation? he thought.


    Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over the lower lids. Oh God, no, he thought, not crying, anything but crying. Jeremy could handle fury in a woman, he could handle proclamations of love, indifference, or even infidelity. What he couldn¡¯t handle was crying. It meant that he had triggered the tears, and the idea that he had harmed another person deeply and emotionally enough to trigger an autonomous physical response sent him running scared. He stood, needing to move, and pretending not to notice.


    ¡±So, I¡¯m gonna go for a walk. Thought I¡¯d go over to that giant hamburger¡­kitchen thing.¡±


    ¡°Hamburger kitchen?¡± she said, trying to wipe the tears out of her eyes without his noticing.


    ¡°Ham-bur-keer-ken. Hem-er¡­heh.¡±


    ¡°Hallgrimskirkja,¡± she said slowly, as though she had memorized the syllables out of a travel guide.


    ¡°Halls-grim-kick-er,¡± he said, fumbling again.


    ¡°The giant stone church,¡± she said, flatly.


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s it. Wanna go?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already been.¡±


    ¡°Well, I haven¡¯t.¡± He reached out, palm open to the sun, arm extended to her, a peace offering. ¡°Come with me to the giant church. Tell you what,¡± he said as she hesitated, ¡°you can climb to the top and I¡¯ll stand at the bottom, and you can spit out of one of those long, thin, tall windows in the stone structure, and we¡¯ll see if you can hit the top of my head.¡±


    Her face shifted to a mask of abject horror. ¡°Why would you want to do that?¡±


    ¡°Pretend I¡¯m Mike.¡±


    She paused, her face clearly considering it. ¡°Nah,¡± she said, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t even do that to Mike.¡±


    ¡°Then maybe you don¡¯t hate him as much as you think.¡±


    She took his hand and stood, fingers interlacing. Face to face, she was a good foot shorter than him, like most women, and so he bent down just enough for the conversation to make sense in the wind.


    ¡°I don¡¯t hate him.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the problem,¡± she said wistfully. ¡°How on earth can I still be wrapped up in a guy who I slept with in the office and who didn¡¯t tell me that there were cameras running the entire time? And oh, yeah, by the way,¡± she said sarcastically, ¡°who happened not to be the guy I thought I was sleeping with, and who ended up being so famous that the video has now penetrated even the farthest Inuit villages, where cell phones are a feature.¡±


    ¡°You know that?¡± he asked, impressed.


    ¡°No, but I¡¯m guessing. Why isn¡¯t Mike here?¡±


    The question made ice water run through him. He hadn¡¯t even asked himself that question. ¡°I¡­uh, I¡­uh¡­uh¡­I¡­¡± he stammered.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, either,¡± she said, her face tipping to the right, breaking eye contact. ¡°He sent you, but he himself didn¡¯t come here. Was it that he assumed I wouldn¡¯t welcome him?¡±


    ¡°I think there¡¯s a lot more going on beneath the surface than any of us can understand, but I don¡¯t know the answer, Lydia, and I¡¯m sorry.¡±

 Page 24

    She smiled. ¡°That¡¯s the first time you¡¯ve said that.¡±


    He blinked. ¡°Yeah, it is.¡± Why hadn''t he said it before?Advertisement


    Her phone rang just as Jeremy was convincing her to go to Hallgrimskirkja. It was Krysta.


    ¡°Hi,¡± she said, a little too chipper.


    ¡°What''s going on?¡± Krysta said in the same silly, singsongy voice.


    ¡°Oh, nothing,¡± Lydia gave back. Why not play this game? It was so much better than admitting what was really going on.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what''s wrong with you,¡± Krysta said, ¡°but I hope everything is okay.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m fine.¡± Lydia changed her tone of voice. ¡°It¡¯s just that I''m kind of busy right now.¡±


    ¡°Busy in a good way or busy in an oh thank God you called me Krysta because you''re saving my ass kind of way?¡±


    Both, she thought. ¡°Not really¡­either of those,¡± she lied in response.


    ¡°But something is going on,¡± Krysta finished for her.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Okay, well, whatever is going on if you need an excuse just tell them that your best friend is having a horrific problem with a guy and desperately needs hours of conversation to talk her down.¡±


    ¡°You do?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Krysta sighed. ¡°I wish I did but I''m just trying to give you a good excuse.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Lydia tempered her reaction. It would have been thrilling if Krysta had met such a guy and let go of her crush on Caleb. Then again, Lydia had enough excitement in her love life for the two of them. ¡°So, why did you call?¡±


    Jeremy¡¯s presence quickly faded as Lydia walked toward the edge of the rooftop garden and stared out, her face against the wind.


    ¡°Just checking to see how it¡¯s going there.¡±


    ¡°Well, I was thinking about going to Hallgrimskirkja.¡±


    ¡°Hallswhat?¡±


    ¡°The giant church here in Reykjavik¡ªit¡¯s sort of a touristy thing.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ didn''t you tell me you went there last week?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I did,¡± Lydia said, nodding. She realized that Krysta couldn''t see her.


    ¡°Lydia, what''s really going on?¡± Krysta said furiously.


    ¡°I''m here with a guy right now.¡±


    ¡°Oooooh,¡± Krysta said. ¡°A guy?¡±


    ¡°Not a guy.¡± Why wouldn''t she tell her the truth about Jeremy? What was it that she was holding back? This was Krysta, for God¡¯s sake¡ªit was her best friend. There was no reason to hide the fact that she was here enjoying a cup of coffee with Jeremy, who had just asked her to go sightseeing. It didn''t make sense and yet, deep in her gut, she knew it wasn¡¯t time to say anything. Her gut had been just about the only thing she could trust other than Krysta, and so as the two fought each other, she wasn''t quite sure which one should win.


    If something in her couldn¡¯t trust telling Krysta about Jeremy''s presence, then what did that say about the fact that he was here at all? The past few weeks were a jumble and she felt like a live wire, just beginning to settle down until he appeared. Yet, she was grateful for his presence and so the mishmash of emotions left her unmoored.


    ¡°It sounds like I''m catching you at a bad time,¡± Krysta said, ¡°so, let me just finish off with this¡ªyour mom is super disappointed that you''re not around more and so she¡¯s decided to apparently adopt me as her surrogate daughter.¡±


    Lydia felt like clapping. ¡°Oh, thank God, her attention could finally be split between me and someone else.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Krysta said. ¡°It¡¯s a little claustrophobic but she¡¯s really sweet.¡±


    A pang of homesickness struck Lydia in the heart. ¡°I know.¡± She had to agree.


    ¡°So, while you''re there whooping it up with your new guy, whatever-his-name-is¡±¡ªJeremy, Lydia thought¡ª¡°just remember the people you left behind, okay?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Krysta,¡± Lydia groaned, her voice filled with regret and sympathy. ¡°I¡¯m not forgetting you.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re not, but it sort of feels like it because you¡¯re impossible to reach and you¡¯re living this exotic European life now and I miss seeing you every day at work.¡±


    ¡°I miss seeing you too,¡± Lydia said plaintively. If she wasn¡¯t careful she¡¯d have to bite her lower lip hard enough to stop the tears, letting the pain overwhelm the emotion. ¡°I¡¯ll be home soon.¡±


    ¡°Months from now, Lydia. That''s what you told your mom.¡±


    ¡°I know. It¡¯s only a five-hour plane ride. Planes go both ways.¡±


    ¡°You told your mom that, too,¡± Krysta said flatly, ¡°and those plane rides are $900 roundtrip.¡±


    ¡°Not if you catch a good sale.¡±


    ¡°Lydia, you know that I can¡¯t afford to just hop on a plane. I¡¯ll get there eventually,¡± Krysta added, ¡°but for now, it¡¯s phone and email.¡±


    It was the first time Krysta had hinted at struggling with the fact that Lydia was going away. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Jeremy playing with his phone, clearly bored. She needed to make a decision.


    ¡°Hang on a second Krysta,¡± she said, waving Jeremy over and putting Krysta on mute.


    She caught his attention and he popped up quickly, scrambling to hear what she had to say. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that I can¡¯t go to the church,¡± she said.


    He scrunched up his face in consternation. Those brown eyes were intense and deep, yet playfully welcoming. Jeremy¡¯s had a warmth to them, a devil-may-care expression that made her just want to climb right in a settle down for a fun ride. Mike¡¯s, on the other hand, were pure, white-hot intensity. So different, and yet, she found herself attracted to both.


    What? she thought. What? Where did that thought come from?


    Banishing it, she held up one hand as if protesting something that he hadn¡¯t actually said. ¡°There¡¯s no way. I just¡­my friend has an emergency and I¡¯m going to have to talk her through it.¡±


    ¡°Guy stuff?¡± he said, nodding. ¡°Not everybody can meet a guy as wonderful as me.¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°That¡¯s right, Jeremy. You¡¯re one of a kind.¡±


    He took the hint and lifted an arm in a gesture of goodbye. ¡°I¡¯ll catch you later.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you will.¡± Lydia had the feeling that she¡¯d be seeing a lot of Jeremy over the next few weeks. If Mike had actually sent him to watch over her and Jeremy had followed through, complete with plane ride and guest-house rental, then he was going to obey Mike¡¯s wishes.


    She had done so, too, taking his transfer and promotion and running with it. Malicious obedience had prevailed.


    So, could Jeremy apply the same thing to his orders? Could he maliciously obey and take care of Lydia? What, exactly, did that mean? Would the next few weeks tell her?


    ¡°Lydia? You there?¡± Krysta''s voice came through the speaker on her phone and she nearly dropped it over the edge, down two stories onto the cobblestone street below. She unmuted the phone.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I¡¯m here,¡± she snapped. ¡°I got rid of the guy.¡±


    ¡°You did? I¡¯m sorry. You didn''t have to do tha¡ª¡±


    She interrupted Krysta. ¡°It¡¯s okay. Let¡¯s just take an hour and talk. I may be nearly a continent away, in a new job, and in a strange land, but I still have time for the people who are important to me.¡±


    A baseball cap, an old light blue Egyptian cotton V-neck t-shirt and Levi¡¯s, along with a pair of Merrells made him feel more in touch with his roots, and the disguise was closer to Matt Jones than to Michael Bournham. But, really, it wasn¡¯t either of them. He felt renewed, reborn, without the trappings of his wealth. He was just another guy coming to a campground to rent a cabin for a month and just be. Figuring out who Michael Bournham really was without the CEO title, without the driver and limo, without people like Diane trying to broker his fame. Without so much money that he could never spend it in ten lifetimes. That! That was his mission. This was no vacation! This was more of a retreat. A journey inward with a level of self-reflection he had not been able to engage in for far too long.


    Of course, it was Lydia who provoked all of this. Every single step. His own stupidity was the driving force behind the house of cards that came crashing down this past few weeks. Entering her world at work, though, had been the most unintended consequence of his entire career. Of all the planning and scheming and manipulating that he¡¯d engaged in to scrape his way to the top. The irony as he pulled into the driveway for Escape Shores Campground, that even in his own escape he was entering another part of her world, was something that he would need to tease out for the next month. She was in Iceland, safely ensconced in one of his final acts as CEO of the company, giving her a promotion, raise, title, and position she richly deserved. He knew, though, that it wouldn¡¯t go smoothly. His plan had been to ramp up European operations to give her enough meat in the new job to make it seem more real. To be more real, in fact. He knew she had what it took to engage in the kind of client work, project management, development, and expansion that the push to turn Bournham Industries into a juggernaut required.


    Shaking his head, he took the baseball cap off and ran a hand through his nonexistent hair, forgetting that he¡¯d shaved it off. A tiny stubble from a few days¡¯ growth greeted the palm of his hand, and as he scratched one eyebrow and pulled the cap back down, a man in a little red golf cart drove past in the opposite direction. Insanely large and folded over into the tiny vehicle, his face was friendly, framed by overgrown curls, and he waved and smiled. Mike returned the gesture. That had to be one of her brothers.


    Here he was searching for authenticity, and once again he had to do it in a disguise. If Matt Jones had been a terrible, horrible pseudonym, so milquetoast it made his teeth hurt, then he needed to come up with something better. Spending a month among Lydia¡¯s family, hiding out in what he presumed to be a small, rustic cabin with acres to wander and shores to walk required some level of social interaction, no matter how sparse.


    When he parked in the visitors¡¯ check-in spot, got out of his car, and smelled the ocean, the endless loop of concentration that had consumed his mind, teasing out all the details he needed to be careful to craft into a coherent story, vanished. It was a balm, like being fed medicine for a sickness he didn¡¯t realize had infected him. Three deep breaths later he faced the office, a general store with a counter and a computer, but oddly enough¡ªhe watched as a customer ahead of him made a transaction¡ªthe cash register wasn¡¯t. It was an iPad propped up with a card reader attached to it.


    He looked around the front porch before entering fully. Rocking chairs, window boxes with herb gardens growing in them, the occasional marigold peeking through, a bit limp in this early August weather. The front porch needed to be painted. It had that weathered ocean look, and the building itself was shingled and looked like something you¡¯d find on Nantucket. White trim and sea-faded wood, but inside the store high tech met the 1950s and now his curiosity was piqued. Lydia had seemed so modern, advanced, tapped into the Matrix, and yet smart enough to see corporate life for what it really was. A nonsensical superstructure that placed human interests last and profits first. Here, though, technology was integrated into a very old and very relaxed vacation spot.

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    ¡°Can I help you?¡± a friendly voice asked. Mike turned to see a tall, dark-haired older man, about the same age his own father would have been if he were still alive. Maybe this guy was five or ten years younger at most, and the similarity to Lydia was striking. Same coloring, same broad, slightly Nordic look to his cheeks, and yet with a very Irish appearance. His eyes were a greenish blue, like the ocean after its been churned up from a storm, so he assumed she got those sparkling topaz eyes from her mother. Soon enough he¡¯d find out, because he intended to meet her as well.


    Mike stepped up to the counter and said, ¡°I¡¯m checking in.¡±Advertisement


    ¡°And your name?¡±


    Of all the times for his mind to go blank. He¡¯d called in advance to ask about cabins for monthly rentals. And the woman he¡¯d spoken with, he assumed Lydia¡¯s mother, had cheerfully taken his reservation. But he forgot the name he¡¯d used, and then it hit him suddenly just as Lydia¡¯s father gave him a look of consternation.


    ¡°Oh, uh, Mike. Mike Davis,¡± he said.


    The man popped into the iPad, tapped the glass a few times, and pulled it up. ¡°Ah, yes, here we go. You are in the cabin we call Balsam.¡± He eyed Mike up and down and said, ¡°Yankees fan?¡± with a look that said, Do you like to eat chocolate-covered shit, dude?


    Mike pulled the baseball cap off, turned it around and looked, then laughed. He had been paying absolutely no attention when he was packing, and Jeremy must have played a prank on him.


    ¡°You might as well paint a target on yourself that says ¡®kick me¡¯¡ªor worse,¡± the man joked. He reached out and shook Mike¡¯s hand, introducing himself. ¡°I''m Pete, Pete Charles. Nice to meet you, Mike.¡±


    Mike felt the strong, weathered grip in Pete¡¯s hand and met it with as much power and agreeableness as he could. He slipped the hat back on his head and said, ¡°Well, I got it off a dead Yankees fan. Don''t ask about the circumstances.¡±


    That did the trick, and Pete¡¯s rumbling, hearty laugh filled the small office and general store, pouring out into the back room and seeming to draw an older woman out, wiping her hands on an apron, her brow furrowed.


    ¡°What¡¯s so funny, Pete?¡± she asked. Neither of them had the flat Mainer accent, which made him curious. But their voices had no affect. Simple, clear, competent, and quite nice.


    And there was the source of Lydia¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Mike here is just checking in.¡±


    Her eyes zeroed in on the logo on his baseball cap and she recoiled, her expression transmitting a sense of revulsion, surprise, and amusement. ¡°You here for your own funeral, Mike?¡± she asked, pointing to the hat.


    Pete nudged her in the ribs and leaned over with a stage whisper and said, ¡°He got it off a dead Yankees fan.¡±


    Instead of laughter, she responded with pursed lips, an eye roll, and a head shake. ¡°Men¡± was all she said.


    Mike had come prepared with a wallet full of cash, hoping to keep things simple this month, not wishing to trigger a single note of intrigue, of suspicion, or to trip anyone¡¯s sensors about who he really was. Unfortunately, that plan was thwarted the second Pete told him that the monthly fee would be $1900, and Mike pulled $1900 in hundreds out from his wallet.


    Both of the owners¡¯ eyebrows shot up to their hairlines, and Pete stammered a bit, finally needing his wife to speak for him.


    ¡°Uh, Mike, we don''t get too many cash-payers here.¡±


    Pete seemed to find his voice, his eyes narrowing, weathered wrinkles around his eyes folding in as he got very serious. ¡°What did you say your name was again?¡±


    Oh, shit, Mike thought. He hadn''t planned this out as carefully as he''d thought. ¡°Mike, Mike Davis. It¡¯s fine if you can''t do cash, I understand. I just prefer to use it,¡± he said, keeping his head down and pretending to feel a shame that he didn''t actually feel. ¡°I¡­don''t have credit cards. It¡¯s¡­well, you know, the economy. Four years ago I lost my job¡ªit wiped me out but I¡¯m doing better now, and I¡¯m just¡­you know, credit is an issue.¡± The lie rolled off his tongue in the least fluid way possible, but it seemed to do the trick.


    Pete¡¯s chest relaxed, his shoulders slumping a bit. But his wife¡ªwhat was her name? She hadn¡¯t said anything, just peered at him and nodded. ¡°We know all about that up here.¡±


    The transaction complete and Mike¡¯s receipt tucked away in his back pocket, he sighed, looked around, and decided that he would come back and buy whatever he needed later, but for now getting settled in the cabin unobtrusively and just fading out of their attention would be the best approach.


    ¡°Let me have Miles walk you to your cabin,¡± Pete said.


    And then his wife stopped him, a tender arm on his forearm, an affectionate gesture that told Mike so much about their relationship. ¡°Miles is busy fixing the railing on one of the walkway to the beach,¡± she said, shaking her head. ¡°He can¡¯t help. I¡¯ll take him.¡± Her kindly eyes held a wariness that triggered guilt in Mike. Maybe she should be wary.


    Her daughter had trusted him and look at how well that had gone.


    On the walk to his cabin he spotted multiple garden sculptures, a few overturned pink bicycles for little girls, countless children running in rag-tag groups, and saw more people relaxing than he''d seen since ¨C well, since he was a kid. The trip to his cabin was short, and Sandy arrived and spread one arm.


    ¡°The Ritz-Carlton.¡±


    ¡°Even better,¡± he said, smiling.


    It was simple, no bigger than a garden shed, but with a little proch attached to the front and two plastic chairs for sitting. Inside he had two bunks, a table and two chairs, a fan, and a refrigerator. No bathroom.


    ¡°The outhouse is back there,¡± she said, pointing behind the cabin. ¡°And the larger bathrooms and showers are attached to the rec hall.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said, suddenly exhausted. He still needed to unload his car, unpack his belongings, figure out dinner, and oh ¨C get his hands on some beer. The folks sitting in small groups around campfires, drinking, made him yearn to join in.


    ¡°You''re welcome. Have fun.¡± Sandy took a few steps away and then stopped, reconsidering something.


    ¡°Yes?¡± he asked, anticipating it. Did she know about the video? Diane''s claim to fame might fool the majority of the world, but if Sandy''s daughter told her the truth, then Mike would be found out in a week or two, once his natural hair color grew in. He wasn''t exactly inconspicuous. Being on the cover of major magazines for years as a hotshot rising star had given people a general sense of who he was.


    And now? His face and Lydia''s back were plastered all over those same covers. And more. What did Sandy know?


    ¡°Enjoy your stay. You seem to need it,¡± was all she said, leaving him to ponder that one.


    Chapter Seven


    Jeremy and Lydia never did make it to the Hallgrimskirkja together, but in lieu of that trip he invited her on a day excursion to the Blue Lagoon. Again, the terrain reminded Lydia of a desert¡ªa cold desert¡ªas they drove through the rocky volcanic countryside between Reykjavik and the hot springs.


    The Blue Lagoon was a giant resort built around a geothermal abnormality, an acre or so of an enormous hot tub, essentially, filled with minerals at the bottom of the hot springs. She¡¯d never seen anything like it, and as they parked it looked like an exotic, high-end spa. In fact, it turned out, there was a spa doing a fairly brisk business, but that wasn¡¯t what she and Jeremy came for.


    As they checked in and paid their admissions, she saw that the man on the airplane who had harassed her on her plane trip here had been correct; one could, indeed, rent a bathing suit, and towels, and just about anything you needed. As bus after bus brought people from the airport on a layover for a quick dip in the water, she was impressed at the efficiency of the entire operation.


    Changing into her bathing suit was a bit of a cultural shock as women wandered around the locker room completely naked and absolutely uninhibited, whether they were fourteen or ninety-four. She joined in. Being the only girl among a gaggle of boys had meant preserving her modesty, but she also had no problem with joining the Romans when in Rome.


    Her body was one of the curvier in the room, although each woman had her own differences¡ªsome with wider hips, some with saggier skin, some with saddle bags, others with pert breasts and tight waists and perfect skin. The sheer variety of bodies in the room was almost artistic, and if she hadn¡¯t thought that it would brand her as some sort of pervert or peeping Tom, she would have stared openly just to catch more of a nuanced look at what a woman¡¯s body could be and why she didn''t need to feel a sense of shame for her own lushness and peaks and valleys in the way that her body had formed over the years.


    Wiggling into her suit, she was glad she had manicured herself where she needed to be manicured, and while some women seemed to be waxed such that any hair trying to escape would have been lasered, tasered, or plucked, others went au naturel with hair wherever hair grew. She was somewhere in between and wondered what others must think of her body, of her cultural norms, as she straightened her body in the mod ¡¯60s black bathing suit that she¡¯d chosen for its slimming characteristics.


    A wave of self-consciousness hit her as she began to pad barefoot outside to the main lagoon area. What would Jeremy think of her body? Why was she worried about this? They weren¡¯t dating, this wasn¡¯t a relationship, he¡¯d simply asked her to go to this natural wonder that she could only access here in Iceland. It was a fun day trip and nothing more.


    Yet, she felt exposed¡­ as if the first moment his eyes landed on her uncovered flesh she¡¯d be judged. An evaluation she didn¡¯t feel like undergoing right now, one that felt heavy and cumbersome, and for the first time she wished his presence weren¡¯t such a weight around her neck.


    The day was sightly overcast, the sky¡¯s blueness still peeking out through grayer clouds. This wasn¡¯t the kind of cover that made her worry about rain, but was more a gentle shift in weather patterns that simply muted the sun. As she searched the crowd for him, she found him, his height no variant here¡ªmost of the men were his size.


    He wore swim trunks and her self-consciousness increased as she had the opportunity, while his head was turned away, looking for her elsewhere, to evaluate his body. A long, stretched-out torso, like an Olympic swimmer¡¯s, went down to narrow, sculpted hips and stretched up to broad shoulders. He was what her mother would call wiry, with tight, small muscles stretched across his bones in ways that were compelling, that made her want to touch each one with her fingertip as if taking an inventory.


    He had a smattering of hair in all of the places that men should have a smattering of hair, and it thickened at the waistband of his swimsuit. His legs were long and his stride confident as he turned away from her to look for her. By the time he turned back she could feel her breathing quick, and, licking her lips¡ªan involuntary response¡ªshe enjoyed the few moments to just take him in.


    ¡°Dear God,¡± she muttered. ¡°What the hell is wrong with you, Lydia?¡±


    And then, as if she were calling him, like some sort of signal for Batman, he turned and locked eyes. His face went slack as he openly cataloged her with an expression of smoky lust.

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    To her surprise, she let him, not moving a muscle.


    Her body could almost feel his eyes on the swell of her bicep, the outer edge of her breast going down to the soft curve of her waist and then the wider, ample hips. By the time he got to her feet and her toenails, which were painted a lovely China red, she tingled, completely caught off guard by his simple, searching look.Advertisement


    Those were the eyes of a man who wanted her. Pure and clear. There was no ambiguity. No disguise. No fake green eyes.


    No fake human being.


    Faltering, his smile shook a bit as they reached each other, then looked down at the milky waters, mesmerized. Steam rose up in pockets from the water¡¯s surface, jagged black rock around uneven edges of the hot springs.


    ¡°It¡¯s too hot!¡± she exclaimed, dipping one toe in.


    ¡°Yes, you are.¡± He coughed as she arched one eyebrow. ¡°I mean, it is.¡± Contradicting himself, he waded right in, diving under the water like a seal, popping up ten feet away to Lydia¡¯s right.


    Following slowly, her feet sank into the muddy floor, the gray dirt mushing between her toes. It wasn¡¯t really mud, yet not sand. Wholly new, the feeling disturbed her as she made her way, inch by inch, toward Jeremy, who was now crouched down in three feet of water, his head hovering, wet hair slicked back and face excited, like a child¡¯s.


    His exuberance was contagious, and Lydia imitated him, sinking into the water until only her head and shoulders were above the surface. Warmth radiated through her, relaxing all her muscles. Reaching down, she scooped up a handful of the strange mud from the water¡¯s bottom and held it out to him.


    ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°Mineral mud, I think,¡± he answered, shrugging. Scooping his own handful from under the water, he studied it. ¡°I think the brochure inside said it¡¯s silica mud.¡± Jeremy looked around, then rubbed both hands together.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Spa treatment.¡± He began applying the mud to his face, like a woman getting a mud mask, leading Lydia to giggle. Two older women nearby were doing the same, Jeremy studying them intently, mimicking their movements. When he was done, he looked ridiculous, with whitish-gray mud on his skin, eyelids, lips¡ªlike a four-year-old¡¯s version of playing ¡°spa.¡±


    ¡°Here. Let¡¯s do you,¡± he said, reaching out with one muddy hand for her face. Do me, she thought, laughing nervously to get rid of the thought. Wrestling away from him, their arms clenched in battle, she enjoyed the contact, wet skin and fingers sliding against each other, his face a mask of playful determination, covered in white goo. How could he be so open, so uninhibited? Jeremy had no filter. No self-consciousness or concern about how he appeared; he was just there to make merriment and to enjoy himself. His hand brushed against her breast and she wondered if he was like that in bed, the idea making the sudden heat that filled her burn far hotter than the water.


    On the losing side of fitness compared to his size and physique, she found herself hopelessly outclassed by his sheer strength, succumbing to a palmful of mud on her cheeks and nose.


    ¡°Hey! On the face, not up the nose!¡± she sputtered, snorting inelegantly.


    He looked stricken, the shocked expression comical when combined with the mud mask.


    ¡°You look like Mr. Bill.¡±


    Flattening his hands, he placed one palm on each cheek in mockery of the Saturday Night Live joke. ¡°Oh, noooooooo¡­¡±


    She took that as her cue to dip underwater, the hushed sound of the hot bath covering her ears, making her stop thinking about how his hands felt on her bare skin, how strong his forearms were, how she¡¯d brushed against his taut thigh while he pinned her in place to wipe the mineral mud on her. Down here, she could think, even as her lungs burned for air.


    Breaking the surface, she stood, the water at her waist, the cold air a balm. When she opened her eyes, he was staring openly at her breasts, a half-smile on his now-clean face.


    ¡°I''ve been watching¡ª¡±


    ¡°I noticed,¡± she interrupted.


    ¡°¡ªother women,¡± he continued. Oh. Oops. ¡°And they massage the mud all over their bodies.¡± He stepped closer, his body looming over hers, hips inches from each other. The steam filled her lungs and rose in a cloud around them, the lagoon large enough that no one was near. Jeremy began wading further out, walking backwards and facing her, with Lydia entranced, following him, her eyes drawn to the rippled muscles of his chest, the same cut abs that Mike possessed, stretched out in a swimmer¡¯s body on the longer, lithe Jeremy. Both bent under water to grab fistfuls of white mineral mud, and she reached out to rub his back, seeking an excuse to make contact. He straightened up, shoulders broad and outstretched like a cobra¡¯s back, her hand taking its time to massage the mineral mixture in.


    How strange life was. A few weeks ago she was living a life she¡¯d carved out for herself, barely having met ¡°Matt Jones¡± and worried about her romance marketing presentation. Here she was, now, in Iceland, slathering silica residue all over the best friend of the man who¡¯d won her heart and betrayed her. As her hands moved down, closer to Jeremy¡¯s waistband, she took some liberties, caressing the skin at his hip a bit too sensually, reaching forward just one extra inch to¡­


    The hitch in his breathing told her what she sought.


    He felt it, too.


    What could they do with these emotions, though? Mike had sent Jeremy to watch over her, right? What the hell did that mean? Teasing this out just a bit more, she leaned forward into his shoulder, her lips at his neck, and whispered, ¡°Is this relaxing enough?¡± as she massaged the mud into his hip, reaching forward just enough to¡ª


    A ninja-like grip on her wrist was her answer. ¡°Don¡¯t start something you¡¯re not prepared to finish.¡± His tone was beseeching, not the smoky threat she''d expected. If he turned around right now, if she faced him, if one more millimeter of skin touched his, she would kiss him and start something she would absolutely want to finish, back in her room, on her bed, on the floor¡ªhell, in an alley. The image of Jeremy''s nude body over hers, his hands on her ass, his mouth on her where she needed it most, invaded her brain as his grip softened, his face turning back toward hers, cheeks against one another. When he swallowed, she felt it, the movement sending a ripple through her.


    ¡°And,¡± he added, his voice ragged with emotion as he turned around, facing her, making it impossible not to kiss him, ¡°it¡¯s your turn.¡± Hands clamped over her shoulders as he spun her around gently. The heat and wet of mud stroked against her shoulder blades as Jeremy patiently began touching her in small circles, branching out into larger paint swipes, his palm a brush and her back his canvas. No mere massage, his hands told her what his body could not¡ªyet. As he stepped closer, his hips touched her ass, giving Lydia a very certain sense of how he felt about her, firm and rigid flesh colliding with her pliant curves. A gentleman, he stepped back, letting only his fingers smooth and push into her back and neck now, covering her in a pale, creamy coating meant to rejuvenate and restore.


    Oh, how it did.


    Yet it wasn¡¯t the mud that accomplished one iota of that¡­


    His presence behind her blocked out the sun, his warmth radiating so much more than any rays could produce, and as her pulse raced, her knees locked and throbbing, her body thrumming with desire, she realized that if he didn''t stop touching she would never let him stop touching her. This had to end. Now.


    Plunging underwater with a sudden, vicious drop, she ended the torture of his socially acceptable touch, a series of brushes that led to not so socially acceptable scenes in her mind. Coming up for air, she found him standing in place, hands planted on his hips, a seductive smile on those lips.


    ¡°Had enough?¡±


    Oh, Jeremy, she thought. Hell, no.


    ¡°Sure. Let¡¯s go exploring,¡± she replied, a little too chipper. Was it cheating when you slept with your ex-lover¡¯s best friend? The guy who had been sent to spy on her? Or to¡­whatever on her?


    Whatever had so many interpretations.


    Of course it wasn¡¯t cheating! She had no fidelity to Michael Bournham. In fact, she should sleep with Jeremy simply to exact revenge on Mike, right? Wouldn¡¯t that even the score?


    No! It wouldn¡¯t even come close to evening anything. How much did it take to make up for not telling her their lovemaking was being videotaped and would be shown worldwide?


    She¡¯d need to sleep with a hundred of his best friends to make even the smallest dent in that sort of betrayal!


    What the hell was she thinking? Jeremy shot her a confused look as she paused, her mind reeling, a kind of madness taking over as her body wanted Jeremy and her mind cracked at the edges, trying desperately to hold the center together.


    ¡°You okay? You look like you might be overheating,¡± Jeremy asked, his hand on her elbow. Even that tiny contact sent her body back into full-on adrenaline bursts, all leading to a throbbing clit, her heightened awareness making her swoon.


    Understatement of the century. ¡°I could use some water,¡± she admitted. ¡°Maybe it is too hot in here.¡± A quick wade to shore and she looked over her body, realizing how pink she was. Then again, so were all of the bodies coming out of the hot water.


    Jeremy handed her a bottle of water from a stash he had set up next to their towels. Gulping down half a bottle in seconds, she amazed herself.


    ¡°I was thirstier than I realized.¡± An inner shakiness caught her off kilter, making her sit down and stretch out in the sun, Deep breaths helped to center her. Better. Much better. Until Jeremy lay beside her, his full body long and on display for her eyes to covet. The suit was very American¡ªno Speedo like most of the other men. Completely casual, he rested on his side and faced her.


    ¡°Better?¡± he asked, his face etched with concern. If he knew that what wobbled her wasn¡¯t the heat, but was instead his body, his hands, his interest and her own, teeming and ready to explode, would that make a difference?


    ¡°Better,¡± she muttered, not trusting her own voice.


    ¡°Then let¡¯s just take a breather and relax,¡± he said, rolling flat on his back. Her eyes raked over his body as he closed his own, giving her carte blanche to just watch him. The wet hair made him look younger, more her age, and the light stubble on his face gave him a backpacker''s appearance. With a jaw line that was slack, unlike Mike''s perpetually-tense neck, Jeremy looked like someone who spent a lot of time lounging ¨C and who had mastered it.


    More than anything, though, he could just be. Company was what she needed now, even more than a friend with benefits or a bedmate. Company.


    If his hard-on were any bigger it would be tracked by NORAD.


    Willing it to go down, he drank his water slowly, as if controlling his throat would loosen everything else. Nice try¡ªit didn¡¯t work, but he could deceive himself into thinking it might have an effect.


    Lydia looked unhinged and dazed, the water clearly addling her. Getting her up here was a relief. For as magical as the Blue Lagoon was, he could see that it needed to be experienced in small doses. His eyes wandered over her legs, lush and strong, the thighs cut off by her emerald-green one-piece suit, the cut showing off curved hips and a full rack. The green brought out flecks of a deeper amber in her eyes, which were now open and staring straight at him.

 Page 27

    Down, boy. Down.


    What had he been thinking in there, smearing mud all over her body? He¡¯d been thinking he wanted to do the same thing with her naked form, hands going to wet thighs, mouth following, exploring her. That line of thinking wasn¡¯t helping with his tight suit, damn it, so he stood and forced himself to adjust his chair, thinking about Diane. That was always good for a wilted willie.Advertisement


    Settling back in, he let his mind grind through the past hour. She wanted him. He wanted her. Why not connect? The cat and mouse game was a bit much for him, something he¡¯d engaged in twelve or even fifteen years ago. Being more mature, his sexual transactions tended toward the more direct kind, though the kind involving financial transactions had ended years ago, thank goodness. A few stupid years of hedonism had ended with a hefty dose of antibiotics and a medical lecture that did its job. Scared straight, Jeremy had become a near monk.


    And an exaggerator.


    Six months. He¡¯d been in a lull, wanting what he, Mike, and Dana had just a year ago, searching for someone with that expanded view of sexuality so few women possessed. So few, in fact, he¡¯d only found one.


    And she¡¯d been temporary.


    He felt like a eunuch, stuck next to Lydia as his dick throbbed in his swimsuit. A eunuch with a pulsing appendage. Even worse than having it cut off and unusable was maintaining it and being unable to use it. The pain of blue balls was a steady reminder that what Mike wanted most in the world was resting beside Jeremy in the Iceland sun, a light coating of gray mineral dust clinging to her skin, begging to be washed off in a shower with him standing behind her, washing her back, hand snaking down between her¡­


    Throb.


    Cursing himself, he turned over on his stomach, nearly yelping in pain. Pain was better than frustration. In pain, he could find relief from torment.


    Or so he told himself.


    Chapter Eight


    ¡°Name three things you like better about Iceland than you do about home, Lydia,¡± Sandy asked. Actually, it wasn¡¯t a question¡ªit was more like a verbal water-boarding. The problem was that Lydia couldn''t come up with three¡ªat least, not three things that went beyond the trivial. Like how she felt when she sat on top of a coffee house, in the rooftop garden among flowering bushes, small plants, little herb gardens; the hippie feel of the kind of place that had been regulated out of cities like Boston and Cambridge.


    The little coffee houses charmed her, made her feel like she had entered into a different era, one that was both timeless and aged, where all she was was a young woman with no past and no future, sitting with her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, staring at the clear blue sky, the sun warming her as she sipped a latte.


    If she told Sandy that, her mother would simply say, ¡°We have coffee here!¡± and Lydia would reply back, ¡°You just don''t understand, Mom,¡± and Sandy would say, ¡°Then explain it to me so I can.¡± And they would enter into the endless loop of misunderstanding and frustration driven by the ongoing tension for unconditional love and independence, the two caught in a tug-of-war that left no victors, only raw, sore hands, aching shoulders, and hurt feelings.


    Lydia could easily tell her mom three things she missed about the United States. Number one, though, wasn¡¯t home¡ªit was Matt Jones, or, rather, Mike Bournham. Two and a half weeks here had been just enough for Lydia to develop what she thought was a mild culture shock. Everything except the coffee was terrible here. The men were too tall, bland, and seemed already committed. And if they weren¡¯t, there was no easy way to flirt, to connect, to test the waters. The idea that she would find a hot Viking was now laughable. The only way that would happen would be to ask someone the time while they sat in a thermal spring.


    The food was overpriced and quite terrible, with a few exceptions. And even then it was the quality that was good, not the price. Twelve dollars for one hot dog and a Coke wasn''t her idea of fine or affordable cuisine. And so she clung to the coffee shops as her buoy in a storm. The perfect storm, one of her own making. It combined three elements: scandal, disappointment, and impulsiveness. The scandal was self-evident. By the skin of her teeth she¡¯d escaped it, this Diane taking her place. A place Lydia had never wanted, and never intended to be in.


    Not quite true, a voice whispered. You certainly wanted to be there, you just didn¡¯t want to be videotaped.


    Fair enough, another voice in her mind said. This happened a lot without a confidante. And although Krysta was only a phone call away, it wasn¡¯t the same. She had arguments in her head¡ªmost of them leading, like conversations with Sandy, to frustration.


    Disappointment? Disappointment came from her mother, who she knew mourned Lydia¡¯s move. After what happened to Luke a year and a half ago, she knew it pained her to have a child even four hours away. But a continent away, or damn near close? That was too hard.


    And impulsiveness. That one was a hundred percent on her. She jumped at the chance at first, and then ran from the scandal, not giving herself the time to weigh the gravity of such a last-second decision. Hers was thoroughly a first-world problem. The poor little corporate drone, making six figures now, living in a foreign country, all expenses paid for now, until her relocation allowance was spent, with a title most people couldn¡¯t dream of until they were ten years older than she.


    And then there was Jeremy¡­


    ¡°Lydia, are you there?¡± Caught in her thoughts, she dragged herself back to her conversation with her mom.


    ¡°Three things, okay, Mom. First, there''s the coffee¡ª¡±


    As if on cue, Sandy said, ¡°But we have coffee here!¡±


    Lydia just nodded to herself. ¡°Second, there¡¯s the salary.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Sandy demurred, ¡°we definitely can''t match what you told us you¡¯re making. But you can have unlimited lobster and steak nights with the tarragon butter sauce your brother makes. We¡¯ll even throw in free flourless chocolate torte and some Michaelson¡¯s ice cream on the side. How¡¯s that for a bonus?¡±


    The laughter that the two shared filled Lydia¡¯s heart in a way that really did make her homesick.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the third, Lydia? What¡¯s the third thing you like better about being there than you do about being here?¡±


    Jeremy.


    ¡°Uh, not being henpecked by my mother,¡± she blurted out.


    ¡°Too bad. At least they have phones there, so I can henpeck via fiber-optic cable,¡± Sandy shot back. ¡°I have to close the office now, honey. I love you, and you better come back for the talent show. I mean it.¡±


    Lyda got off the phone quickly, smiling to herself, weaseling her way out of a commitment. It felt like all the parts of her life had been put into a blender and set on high.


    Forever.


    Racing thoughts filled her mind suddenly, a frantic, rat-like frenzy that filled her eyes with tears at the chaos of it all. Two minds, two thoughts ran in parallel tracks through her frenzied brain. What she said was, ¡°The thermal hot springs,¡± and Sandy groaned in jealousy. But what she thought was, I don¡¯t have to face my growing need for Michael Bournham if he¡¯s not here.


    But then there''s my growing interest in his best friend who is here.


    The torture of missing not only what they¡¯d had, but also what she imagined they could have, and now a third imagined world of what she could have had with the real man behind the bright green eyes, the one with laser-beam sapphires, nearly snapped her in two. Michael Bournham had been her celebrity crush for years, and she knew damn well that was part of what attracted her to Matt Jones. The similarity, the way they stood with their hands on their hips, arms flexed, eyes smart and focused. The crafty smile, the curl of lip that said this was a mouth for pleasure, the hint of it in a sultry grin caught on camera.


    She''d had endless hours to mull over their final conversation, to absorb and analyze what Michael Bournham had confessed to her in that brief, shining moment before she''d ordered him out of her apartment. Years ago, when she¡¯d first been hired, she¡¯d gone to some ridiculous employee orientation event that wasn¡¯t required, but that all the good do-bees went to, to try and impress whoever it was that you were supposed to impress in that setting. She hadn¡¯t gone for the same reasons as everyone else. Lydia had gone because the human resources orientation specialist had hinted that Michael Bournham might attend. In the days that followed, she had carefully cultivated her outfit, her hair, her makeup¡ªeverything. Wanting it to be perfect, not because she had some hope that he would find her attractive¡ªshe was a realist. But the princess in her, that little part that held onto fantasy long after it should have been driven out by the ugly reality of relationships gone sour, of nasty comments about her weight and appearance, of men who openly had told her, ¡°Pretty face, nice ass, but no second date.¡±


    That princess wanted a chance to meet the guy who fueled so many battery-operated-boyfriend orgasms. Tapping on her car window that morning¡ªhad it really only been a month ago?¡ª¡°Matt Jones¡± had walked in like a pale photocopy of the prince. His royal tester, his stunt double. She¡¯d been more caught off guard by how much he resembled Michael Bournham, physically and in mannerism, than she had been by his snatching her job.


    All of it was a ruse, she now knew, every damn word. How many interactions with him had been set up, a script that he followed for ratings, for television notoriety? What part of Michael Bournham and his Hollywood cronies thought that she would be a willing participant in all this? Krysta had urged her to seek out a lawyer, to sue, because that video had been taken without her permission. But once Diane stepped forward and claimed that she was the brunette in the video, Lydia had decided she didn¡¯t want to poke the sleeping bear. Filing a lawsuit would just put her name out there, and right now she was protected, living with her own private shame.


    While that was its own kind of hell, having her name splashed across countless gossip websites and magazines and newspapers because she chose to sue for their failure to get her permission would be a kind of reputation suicide that she didn¡¯t want to take on. Living with the injustice of what had happened, and the emotional aftershocks, was more than enough for her to bear.


    God, she missed him.


    And he¡¯d been attracted to her too, years ago.


    How could she miss someone she barely knew? And yet she did. How could they both have denied themselves that early interest? There was an ache in her that started from the moment she realized she was awake in the morning, until she drifted off, and sometimes she felt it in her dreams. Chemistry like this was as foreign to her as the Icelandic she heard spoken nonstop throughout daily life here in Reykjavik. Every look from him had been like ten thousand stares. Every touch from him had been enough to keep her sated for three lifetimes. And yet, never enough. Stolen kisses had turned her world topsy-turvy. Because in those moments she was the real Lydia, her authentic self, and yet they had to be captured and claimed and enjoyed in private, hidden from the corporate shell that held their drone selves.


    And then there was Jeremy¡­


    Even his creation of Matt Jones spoke to the ludicrous duality, the aching need for something real in Michael Bournham¡¯s life, she supposed. Letting those cameras film him, dyeing his hair and wearing colored contacts, assuming a role that he could toss aside a few weeks later when the filming was done, all for the sake of¡­what had he said? Boosting corporate profits? It was so fake, so sociopathic, and so contradictory to the very piercing, vibrant sensuality and connection that she felt with him, that it made it easier to set aside his assumed self, this persona of Matt Jones, precisely because it was so false and so over the top. That didn¡¯t stop the pain in her heart, or the longing for what had been real.

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    No one could tell her that he had not transmitted want in his fingertips, that his mouth hadn¡¯t conveyed desire, real and deep. The way he had touched her, the sighs, the groans, the little sounds of pleasure that bounced between the two, on and off camera, were a language that only they could speak. You don¡¯t create a reality like that and push it aside like a role in a play or a sitcom. Matt Jones had wanted her as much as she¡¯d wanted him, and Michael Bournham, she suspected, wanted her even more. So here she sat in her tiny guest-house room, eating potato chips and salt licorice, watching Who¡¯s the Boss? in reruns on Icelandic television at three in the morning. She was coffeed out, cried out, and in desperate need of a hug.


    In four hours she would need to rouse, shower, and walk to work, where she¡¯d made no inroads in weeks. No one would tell her what her job was. The others at the office had work, duties, responsibilities, issued reports, and all gave her a palms-up shrug when she asked about her role. The senior vice-president for communications still wouldn¡¯t answer her phone calls or emails.Advertisement


    If Michael Bournham¡¯s intent had been to reward her for a job well done, he had failed miserably, just as he had failed in his effort to raise profits by using the reality TV show. If his goal had been to make her a kept woman, then he¡¯d succeeded wildly.


    Minus the sex.


    And then there was Jeremy¡­


    Her phone rang, making her squeak with surprise as she fumbled through her pants pocket to find it. Krysta. What was she doing calling this late?


    ¡°Why are you calling me at 3 a.m.?¡± Lydia demanded.


    ¡°Found a hot Viking yet?¡± Krysta asked, her voice infused with a smile. ¡°Is he in bed with you? And it¡¯s only eleven here. Time difference.¡±


    Lydia was grateful for the call. She needed it. With no one here to talk to other than the occasional hello to Siggi or Elsa¡¯s polite two-sentence morning conversations, Lydia had found herself clearing her throat constantly, the lack of conversation killing her. ¡°No, no hot Vikings, and no hot job either.¡±


    ¡°They still aren¡¯t telling you what you¡¯re supposed to do, or how you¡¯re supposed to act, or what?¡± Krysta asked.


    Lydia could feel the incredulity in her voice, and it wasn''t anything that she herself hadn''t wondered. ¡°I know, right? I keep emailing the senior vice-president for communications and she¡¯s ignoring me. I¡¯ve called. If I knew the woman¡¯s mobile number I would text her. I¡¯ve even resorted to texting Matt¡ªer, Michael Bournham, but he¡¯s not answering.¡± Her voice cracked at the end. She wasn''t sure if it was from disuse or emotion. When tears filled her eyes, she knew.


    ¡°Oh, Lydia, I don''t think he¡¯s going to answer.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said, wiping the corner of her left eye, ¡°I know. He¡¯s too important and he¡¯s probably gone off and gotten some high-powered CEO job where he makes forty million a year there, too.¡± The silence that greeted her made her pull back and frown. ¡°Krysta?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Spill it. What do you know about him?¡±


    ¡°They fired him, Lydia.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s disappeared. Nobody can find him.¡±


    Her heart thumped against her ribcage, fast and furious. ¡°What do you mean, disappeared? Like, disappeared like something¡¯s wrong? Some sort of crime?¡±


    ¡°No, no, no,¡± Krysta assured her. ¡°More like he just went away, and when people try to talk to his people¡ª¡±


    ¡°He has people?¡±


    ¡°I guess he has people,¡± Krysta responded. ¡°They just won¡¯t comment on where he is.¡±


    A thousand thoughts crashed through Lydia¡¯s mind at once. ¡°Could he have, like, a drinking problem or a drug problem? People don''t just disappear like that, Krysta! Not people like Michael Bournham.¡±


    ¡°I know. We¡¯re all talking about it here at work and no one has any answers.¡±


    Lydia could imagine Krysta¡¯s shrug, the way her right cheek lifted up when she didn''t know the answer to something. She missed her best friend, she missed her old life, she missed Matt Jones. She even missed home. All of this was getting out of hand. Michael Bournham had set her up in a job that no one cared out, that had no responsibilities, and that she suspected wasn¡¯t going to be around for much longer, especially if he wasn¡¯t.


    ¡°Lyd. It¡¯s only a few days before the big talent show you were telling me about¡­¡±


    ¡°You remember that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s kind of hard not to. You made it sound like it was the freakin¡¯ Oscars of Maine!¡±


    They both laughed.


    ¡°My mom would love it if I showed up. That would be a hell of a surprise, wouldn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Can you get time off from work?¡±


    She¡¯d already composed a resignation letter. Hadn¡¯t pulled the trigger yet, but it had given her a sense of peace to write it, to have it on her hard drive, ready to submit. Maybe that would be her final act of malicious obedience. Because if Michael Bournham could disappear, could pull away from corporate life and from his own company and make a change, then imitating him may be the best next step.


    Hot, strong hands traveled up the swell of her ass, over the soft nip of her waist, finding the edge of her ribcage, her sternum an altar. His lips enveloped one perked nipple and sucked until a thin line of electricity stretched down to her little red nub, which now pulsated in time with his heartbeat. Too tall to kiss, even on tiptoes, he was wet with rivulets of water from the shower, her hands slip-sliding across his broad chest, the smattering of hair thickening in a V towards his throbbing rod. She found the shower¡¯s spray a full blast to the face as he moved, dipping his hands lower, finding the source of her heat and need with fingers that seemed programmed with lust code to enact a program designed to produce a singular outcome.


    Her release.


    And then, just as her skin shot from fire to ice, two more hands and a muscled wall came up from behind her. Steel-blue eyes and wet, silver hair. A body as tight and compact as a soccer player¡¯s, legs so thick she could anchor a sailboat to them.


    ¡°Lydia,¡± both men whispered, the sound of her name in two timbres as sensual as the four hands that found her breasts, sank into the soft, pliant flesh of her deepest cravings, her breath coming in little pants as the water steamed up the room, two erections seeking her body, her attention, her approval.


    Mike slid his shaft between her legs and pulled up, short thrusts sliding his foreskin in and out of her soft skin, the friction against her labia and the very edge of her clit maddening. Simulfucking him was too keen; she needed to be filled by him, but Jeremy had other ideas, bending down to take her in his mouth, her hood shocked as his tongue nudged it back, and then Mike was at her opening, the tip pushing gently as she¡ª


    ¡°Oh! Oh!¡± she gasped, waking to find her hands on her clit, one rubbing in perfect circles to bring her out of sleep and into a massive orgasm, pussy walls clamping hard against one finger deep inside her, body slamming against the sheets as her hips thrust up against an invisible lover, a man¡ªmen¡ªwho faded quickly from her unconscious, the dream somehow triggering this¡­what did you call it?


    Sleepsturbation? Was she really masturbating in her sleep? Musk covered her fingers, her body shivering in the cool night air, no break from the endless day as light peeked in around the blackout curtains. Guilty and a bit pathetic, she bundled her hands into fists and punched her pillow. Really? Now she was having threesome dreams and fingerfucking herself in her sleep?


    The interlude with Jeremy at the lagoon had been just a little too much. He''d invited her to go clubbing and as her eyes found her phone¡ª6:11 a.m.¡ªshe wondered what the evening would be like.


    And then there was Mike¡­


    Both had been in her dream, equally engaged and aroused, both wanting her and sharing her. Mike¡¯s hands were what she missed most, the preternatural command in his touch, the way he owned her with a groan. Jeremy was new, and, most of all, here. And here on Mike¡¯s command, no less. The way Jeremy obeyed made it seem that way, as if Mike had conjured him. She¡¯d stopped thinking of him as Matt, allowing Mike to slowly seep in.


    After all, how could she ever hope to know who Michael Bournham really was if she couldn¡¯t let go of who she thought he was?


    Years ago Mike had discovered that if you really want to know someone, sit in complete silence with them. How they respond will tell you more about them than anything they could say with words. On this journey here at the campground, Mike had tried this out repeatedly, at the heated outdoor pool, on the shore, sitting and watching the sunset. Person after person had responded with radically different cues.


    Pete had just sat and stared into the horizon as the sun had slowly made its descent, the two men companions in watching its exit. For a good twenty minutes neither had said a word, just stretching, moving, watching in peace. Pete was a good man. Mike sensed it second by second, look by look, breeze by breeze. He had tried to sit in silence with Sandy, and if thirty seconds had passed by he¡¯d be surprised. Her small talk kicked in quite quickly, and he sensed a nervousness in her at the prospect of silence.


    If he¡¯d raised six kids, he supposed, he might be uncomfortable with peace and serenity too. Maybe that wasn¡¯t it, though. Maybe there was more, but he wasn¡¯t going to pry. It just wasn¡¯t his place.


    Lydia¡¯s brother, Miles, had the most distinct reaction, which involved sitting quietly in front of a burning campfire down to the coals, perfect for the last few marshmallows. And as each had sat, sticks outstretched, the warm day turned to a chilly night, Miles had finally turned, looked at Mike and said, ¡°So, you know about the silence trick too, huh?¡±


    Flashing a big grin, Mike just looked him in the eye and said, ¡°Ah-yup.¡± Which had elicited a grumbling gurgle of laughter from the enormous man, who shook his head wryly and said, ¡°So, what did you learn about me?¡±


    ¡°I learned you know the silent trick,¡± Mike said.


    Miles had just nodded and then his marshmallow caught fire. ¡°Oh, fuck!¡± he shouted, blowing it out. ¡°Dammit!¡±


    ¡°Well, I learned two things, I guess. You don¡¯t like burnt marshmallows.¡±


    If he sat next to Lydia in complete silence, what would she do? No way, he thought. No way he could sit next to her, immobile, breathing in and out, for more than a few seconds. Her tantalizing self, mind, body, soul, would be too tempting. In that moment he would learn far more about himself than he would about her. And maybe that was why he was here, after all, among her family. Disguised as a mere customer but covertly finding himself within the world of Lydia.


    Sandy had damn near begged him to come up with an act for the talent show. ¡°No,¡± he¡¯d told her. Not his style. He could play guitar and he had gone to camp as a kid, mostly church camps that had been all about inclusion and fun and drama and polar bear swims. But standing up on a stage would draw too much attention to him. Staying under the radar had been a healing process. He didn¡¯t want to screw that up now by trying to get in the spotlight.


    Just enough people over the past weeks had done a double-take when they saw him. But his new persona¡ªwhich wasn¡¯t a persona, it really was him¡ªlooked just different enough from the famous Michael Bournham that he was able to maintain this whiff of privacy. Besides, campgrounds generally weren¡¯t havens for failed CEOs of near-Fortune 500 companies. So, while he had gotten a few looks, no one had really pressed him.

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    And he wanted to keep it that way.


    No one needed to know the real Mike before he could find him.Advertisement


    Chapter Nine


    The euro techno beat of the nightclub took over her brain waves within about ten seconds. It wasn¡¯t so much the pounding as it was the actual syncopation of the beats and the electronic sounds that drilled a kind of thrumming through her body, focused all the way to a pinpoint at the tip of her clit. It was music designed to move bodies, to encourage people to push bodies against each other, and in its mimic of lovemaking rhythms, it spurred desire. She wasn¡¯t exactly looking to encourage desire inside her. A steady dose of vibrator-induced orgasms had been her only sexual diet, and like any diet consisting of only one food group, it wasn¡¯t satisfying. While she would certainly enjoy meeting someone in the abstract, in reality she had that pesky problem of still being in love with Matt Jones, or Mike Bournham, or fuckhead¡ªwhatever you wanted to call him.


    Jeremy had been the one to suggest the nightclub, and she¡¯d reluctantly agreed. Still struggling to understand exactly what his role was here, she¡¯d come to view him as a goofy, temporary friend, someone to spend time with and converse with, and to break up the monotony of her non-work time. Otherwise, she still viewed him with suspicion, if Mike had actually sent him here to watch over her. Attraction was evident, so what was this cover story really about? As her own interest in him simmered, threatening to boil over, she found his story too flimsy. What kind of man does that? A weirdo, right? Jeremy wasn¡¯t that weird; he was just privileged, spoiled in some ways. Who had the opportunity to travel like he had for over a decade? To skip the worry of needing a paycheck and of having a steady home?


    She was certainly jealous in some ways, but who wouldn¡¯t be? Her own ambitions would never get her to the level of money that he and Mike had acquired so young. Stop thinking about Mike, she told herself. Pretty soon all she would think was boom, boom, boom, boom, the beat of the music taking over.


    ¡°There,¡± Jeremy said, weaving through the crowd, holding two sloppy glasses of some kind of drink above half the people¡¯s heads. Mostly the women, because the men were about as tall as Jeremy.


    She took the drink and sipped eagerly, enjoying the cool bite of what turned out to be a Cosmo. Not fearing Jeremy, or even worrying that he was coming on to her, she found herself drinking the cocktail quickly, less worried about getting drunk and more concerned about getting numb. Between the music and the alcohol, maybe she could make the keening for Mike fade a little bit more.


    That damn dream last night. Tactile sensations that had been so vivid she could almost feel Jeremy¡¯s breath against her shoulder right now. Face burning with the memory, her core clamped down, a wave of fire filling her pores. Or maybe that was the alcohol taking over.


    The strange mixture of desire for him and knowing that he wouldn¡¯t push made Lydia want to drink more, to loosen up and let go, to drop whatever jumble of thoughts had taken over these past few days and just be.


    Ever proficient at self-delusion, as the alcohol kicked in, she had to admit, layer by layer loosening, that she was attracted to Jeremy, too. Too soon, she thought, it¡¯s too soon. But when? Look what Mike had done¡ªhe¡¯d invented this entire scenario for the sake of promoting his company, sacrificing her as the billion-view whore. All for the sake of winning some corporate version of a bet with the board of directors. Who does that to someone?


    Michael Bournham. On the other hand, Jeremy had pleaded Mike¡¯s case. Told the truth. Given her insight into the man¡¯s behavior. Wasn¡¯t that enough? Maybe if Mike answered a single text, voicemail, or call. Silence told her nothing. Less than nothing. What it shouted was one, simple answer: there was no hope.


    She shook her head and Jeremy shouted over the crowd, ¡°You okay?¡± His head was bent down, his face screwed up with concern. ¡°The drink a problem?¡± he asked.


    She shook her head. ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. Just thinking.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t do it¡ªit¡¯s dangerous for your health.¡±


    Lydia smiled, flashing more brilliance at him than she was probably capable of going forward this evening. ¡°Get me another drink so that I can be healthier and think less.¡±


    He saluted. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s ma¡¯am,¡± she shouted over the crowd.


    ¡°Whatever.¡±


    Asses brushed against her hip and she swore a hand grabbed the edge of her breast as a throng of people crushed her into a support post at the periphery of the dance floor. She looked around for Jeremy, but in the sea of tall guys with brown, wavy hair, he faded into the background. In some ways he belonged here far more that she did, her wavering regarding the job tipping her more and more each day toward resigning and just going home.


    No, she told herself, it¡¯s not time to leave. I¡¯m still here for all the right reasons, even though I left for all the wrong reasons.


    Jeremy returned with another drink, a second cosmo. This one she sipped. He chugged his back fairly quickly, loosening up. In no sense of the word did Jeremy need to loosen. He definitely was going to get plastered tonight from the looks of it. Where did he stay? she wondered. The thought caught her off guard. She¡¯d never asked before.


    ¡°Where do you live?¡± she shouted.


    ¡°What?¡± He cupped his ear.


    She stood closer on tiptoes as he leaned down. ¡°Where do you live?¡±


    He thumbed toward the door, as if that were going to give her some direction help. ¡°At a guest house, I don¡¯t know, a couple blocks from yours. It¡¯s clean, it¡¯s nice, and the whores don¡¯t charge too much.¡±


    She almost spat out her mouthful. ¡°Good to know, half-price whores in Iceland.¡±


    ¡°How do you think I stretch my money out? When the Euro softens¡­¡±


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t skimp on the condoms.¡±


    His turn to spit out his drink.


    ¡°Why are we here again?¡± she screamed.


    ¡°Because you wanted to have some fun.¡±


    ¡°And this is supposed to be fun?¡±


    ¡°It is if you dance.¡±


    The dance floor was intimidating. All of the women looked like fashion models and most of the men looked like giant redwood trees with brown and blonde hair. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to dance like that,¡± she admitted.


    ¡°Neither do I. Let¡¯s give it a try.¡±


    ¡°It pretty much looks like you just rub your body all over someone next to you,¡± she said, as they wended their way through the crowd.


    ¡°Then I¡¯ll be sure to stand next to you.¡±


    She giggled, caught off guard by the comment. Then again, he¡¯d been dropping hints, but he¡¯d then pull back, baiting her like a kitten struggling to snag a piece of yarn dangled in front of it, bouncing up and down. Was he attracted to her or wasn¡¯t he? This was one of those moments where, as the alcohol kicked in, she started to think that maybe fucking Michael Bournham¡¯s best friend wasn¡¯t such a bad idea, after all. Would it hurt his feeling? He seemed to only have one, focused entirely on acquiring money. Her heart pierced at the thought of their last moments together, how heartfelt he¡¯d seemed, and yet how his lies had been completely exposed by the television story. If he had said just once that it wasn¡¯t true she would have tried to believe him.


    Then again, maybe she wouldn¡¯t.


    Being torn like this was driving her crazy. Jeremy¡¯s body was so close, so tantalizing, like that day at the Blue Lagoon. Nothing so achingly not-quite had happened between them since then, but as the music roared to life with a new song and her cosmos kicked in, she thought that not quite would quickly turn into about time.


    Finishing her drink, she got on the dance floor and began to rub her body against Jeremy¡¯s in a facsimile of the tight dancing. The way the dancers moved wasn¡¯t erotic or sensual; it was more utilitarian than that. They were sardines on a tiny parquet floor, with smoke pouring out from vents unknown, and as her body heated up and sweat began to form around the edges of her hair, framing her face, at the back of her neck, under her arms, and down at her V, she let her mind loosen, the right hemisphere of her brain taking over, turning her into nothing but energy that poured out over all of the people on the floor, mingling her atoms with theirs, and making her part of the one, instead of being one. The expansiveness relaxed her. Jeremy¡¯s arms, his hip, his thigh, brushed against her breast, her ribs, her ass, and it just felt like some communal touching.


    Until it didn¡¯t.


    A hand took a firm fleshful, fingers digging into the underbelly of her buttocks, almost touching her labia through her clothing, and she yelped, turning to look at Jeremy, who was physically turned away. Catching the back of his head and his shoulder, she pulled forward, stumbling into him, and then turned around to find herself staring at the chest of an immutable man. She had to crane her neck up to get a look at him.


    Siggi. A blanket of muscle, he tried to billow himself around her, wrapping his arms around her hips, hands clawing at her. Completely surprised and disoriented, she tried to make sense of her officemate groping her, the calculation impossible to compute.


    ¡°Siggi! Stop it!¡± she shouted, batting uselessly at his hands. A sloppy grin and more determined grip were the only response, his legs catapulting her up in rhythm to the music¡¯s beat, his thick erection pushing up into her groin as she was bounced like a puppet on a performer¡¯s knee.


    Except that wasn¡¯t his knee.


    Jeremy grabbed Lydia¡¯s hand and dragged her through the crowd. The guy was clearly three sheets to the wind, and Jeremy had absolutely no interest in trying to defend Lydia against someone so drunk, so belligerent, and so obviously capable of beating him to a tiny little pulp the size of the piece of pickled herring. Jeremy had had his fair share of scrapes around the world, getting into fistfights over cockfights in Indonesia, and once having to bitchslap a transsexual at a variety show in Berlin. That came about after being the recipient of three slaps himself. In his defense, he¡¯d done it simply out of anger when his own sexual prowess was called into question by a guy so hot, so feminine, and so alluring that he¡¯d provoked the argument simply for the sake of seeing where the passion might go.


    Turning back to see whether the groper was following them, he was chagrined to find that yes, he was. Guys this drunk, hitting on women as gorgeous as Lydia, were not easy to shake off. His body tensed, senses on alert, as he felt everything in the nightclub more acutely. Being the prey had that effect, and while he was the indirect prey, he knew that whatever the guy had planned for Lydia, only Jeremy could thwart.


    At least there was some consolation in the fact that they hadn¡¯t had much to drink yet. Two drinks made him loose, four would have fucked him up, and six would have sent him back to bitchslap land. Edging out of the crowd, he found sweet relief in fresh air, until the guy showed up, practically screaming at their backs.


    ¡°What the fuck, man?¡± he said.


    ¡°Siggi, cut it out!¡± Lydia shouted.


    Siggi? Of course his name was Siggi. ¡°Sigureur¡± was like ¡°Michael¡± around here. ¡°Hey, man, Siggi, let¡¯s just chill out,¡± he said, trying on the affable Jeremy, the one who could talk his way out of about half of these situations in whatever language he needed to use; it was more about being nonverbal. Not nonthreatening, though, and as he stood to his full height, his arm around Lydia, he felt her leaning against him¡ªappreciative, he hoped, for the protection, because if his face was about to get bashed in, he would expect that anyone would be grateful.

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    The music had dulled his ears, leaving him with not quite a ringing sensation, but a box of white noise in each ear canal, making it hard to pick up on subtle sounds. Lydia tried to whisper something to him surreptitiously, and he was completely unable to understand it. Whatever message she tried to convey, he would have to run through this scenario without it. Time to get blunt.


    ¡°Siggi, the lady has already indicated that she has no interest in you. You need to leave.¡±Advertisement


    ¡°What, you want to fuck her first?¡± Siggi showed no signs of backing down, chest forward like a peacock, ready to battle for his woman. Short of a fan of blue and green silvery feathers, Siggi could have contended for one of the top spots at any major zoo worldwide. Come to think of it, he looked a little bit like that performer in Berlin. Perhaps a bit more attractive.


    They were well matched, as tall as each other, with a similar build if you ignored the extra muscle on the other guy. Jeremy wondered if his reflexes were faster. Probably, given the amount of alcohol this guy had to have ingested. All of this ran through his mind at a breakneck speed as he processed exactly what to do next.


    Lydia stepped away from under his arm and planted her fists on her hips, looking up at the two of them. Standing between them, she glared at Siggi. ¡°Go away,¡± she said simply.


    The guy laughed. ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t I get a piece of you, all the other men you work with do.¡±


    ¡°First of all,¡± she said, stamping one foot, ¡°even if I did sleep with men at the office, you would not be one of them, and there¡¯s no right to sleep with a woman, period.¡±


    Siggi rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Second of all¡±¡ªJeremy could hear her voice losing heart as her anemic attempts to stand up for herself seemed to weaken¡ª¡°you¡¯re totally not my type.¡±


    Siggi¡¯s eyes raked over Jeremy from top to bottom. ¡°Oh, clearly,¡± he said sarcastically.


    Lydia pointed one finger at Jeremy. ¡°You think I¡¯m sleeping with him?¡± and then pointed a different finger at Siggi. It wasn''t her index finger.


    ¡°He¡¯s sitting here threatening me¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not threatening you,¡± Jeremy interrupted.


    ¡°Whatever,¡± Siggi said, ¡°I don¡¯t know what game you two are playing, I just want in on some of that ass.¡±


    And that¡¯s when something in Jeremy snapped. It wasn¡¯t the words, it was the grab, Siggi¡¯s hand going for the luscious swell of Lydia¡¯s hip, the slow curve down between that magical place where hip became buttock, and the hand was millimeters away from contact when the force of Jeremy¡¯s tightly closed fist connected with Siggi¡¯s jaw.


    The mandible moved out of place in slow motion before Jeremy¡¯s eyes, like some sort of Mythbusters show combined with World¡¯s Dumbest Criminals. If he were the star in the episode, it would have shown slow-mo over and over again, his middle knuckle burying into Siggi¡¯s mandible, the movement of the slack jaw muscles, and then his head crashing down onto Lydia¡¯s shoulder as his legs bent, then weakened under him, no longer holding the six-and-a-half-foot frame, falling down directly on Lydia, knocking her to the ground and pinning her there.


    Why was it that every time Jeremy tried to be a hero he just fucked things up? The only one remaining standing, Jeremy gawked at the scene on the ground at his feet. Lydia couldn¡¯t breathe, taken aback by the shock of what had just happened, while Siggi lay, either unconscious or semiconscious, breathing in a strange snoring pattern, and yet moaning at the same time.


    Last time Jeremy had heard someone snore and moan in their sleep had been in Vienna, watching a bedmate have a sex dream. A strange squeaking noise came from Lydia¡¯s mouth. The big guy¡¯s hand was planted on her breast, clamped like a claw on a vulture. She was on her side, he was on top of her, and the tangle of legs, and arms, and torsos was oddly artistic. Jeremy just stood there, marveling at the odd sort of beauty of it all.


    ¡°Oh¡­my¡­God,¡± Lydia gasped, ¡°get¡­him¡­off¡­me.¡±


    Stupefied, Jeremy just stared.


    She lifted one hip, and then, sort of rocking her pelvis, managed to roll the enormous torso of the out-cold offender off of her. Jeremy reached out, shook himself from his trance, and with one heave, pulled her up to her feet.


    She bounced up and then back to earth, staring down at the man, her shirt disheveled from his unconscious grope. ¡°You flattened him.¡± She looked at him with wide eyes and ran one hand through her long, silky hair.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Jeremy was as surprised as her. He¡¯d never done that to a human being before. The throbbing in his knuckles was an authentic reminder of the fact that he had done it, in fact. He wished that there had been a camera crew here for this, so that Michael Bournham could witness Jeremy¡¯s triumph. Why waste a good camera crew on some viral sex tape when you could document a knockout like this?


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Lydia asked. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered around Siggi¡¯s sleeping form. He was breathing in and out, and there was a faint, pinkish bruise on his jaw that would likely turn purple over a time.


    ¡°He¡¯s alive. He¡¯s breathing. I think we let him sit there like the piece of trash that he is.¡± Their eyes locked and they burst into laughter. Jeremy took her hand and bent down, eye to eye. ¡°You okay?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I think so,¡± she said, her voice breathy. Her hands shook and he worried that she might be in a bit of shock.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he said, ¡°I know a good place for a cup of coffee,¡± and then, pulling her hand, they ran down the street, Jeremy in the lead, to take her back to his guest house.


    Lydia ran down the cobblestone streets in a state of bewilderment. What the hell had just happened? Five minutes ago she was inside the nightclub with the pounding of the techno beat taking over, and now she was running down cobblestone streets in Reykjavik, away from a man Jeremy had just assaulted, but who had been in the process of assaulting her.


    No one had ever decked a guy on her behalf. She¡¯d been fortunate enough never to need to try to do it herself. A swell of something feminine, primitive, oddly animalistic, and nurturing mixed inside her. The trope of having her honor defended by a man who would beat another man up for her made her gag with feminist outrage at it. She felt proud that Jeremy had done that. What exactly was the feeling? How do you feel pride over having someone else beat someone up for you?


    The name for whatever she was feeling was convoluted and messy, and as she worked to catch her breath on their run, Jeremy mercifully slowed down, his long legs taking in one step where she needed two. She didn¡¯t recognize the neighborhood that they were in, though she knew two or three parallel streets over she would.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± she asked, catching her breath in great whoops.


    ¡°My place,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I have a coffee maker and we can have a snack there and hang out, and¡­¡±


    ¡°And..?¡± she said, stretching the word out. It was more an accusation than a question.


    ¡°And just talk.¡±


    She halted on the street in front of a small tailor¡¯s shop next to a bookstore. Both were unlit, giving the night a dead sort of appearance, as if they could be in the 1880s as easily as in the 2010s. ¡°Jeremy, let me be clear. This is not one of those situations where the guy beats up the villain and the girl sleeps with him in gratitude.¡±


    His face fell. ¡°It¡¯s not?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°How do you¡­¡± he started to protest. ¡°How do you even know I want to sleep with you?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re a man,¡± she said slowly, drawing the words out. She didn¡¯t think his face could fall further than it had, and yet somehow he managed it.


    ¡°Oh,¡± he said, quietly, ¡°good point.¡±


    Her body was humming with adrenaline and the buzz of the bizarreness of the entire situation. Siggi had come on to her in the nightclub. Siggi had assumed that she slept with anybody at the office. The whispers and the poor treatment at work, it all added up to someone there either suspecting or knowing that she was the girl from the video. It was so strong here, and yet back home she assumed that everyone assumed that it had been Diane. Her savior of sorts had taken all of the responsibility.


    Now she knew she had also taken all of the credit for the original idea, and that Mike had nothing to do with that. Not that Diane had anything to do with it either¡ªshe was just an attention whore. What any of that had to do with Jeremy, standing in front of her, openly acknowledging that he wanted to sleep with her, she didn¡¯t know. And yet, somehow, it all mixed into one big pot of messiness that rumbled around. A stew of confusion inside her heart and her mind, and right now, her body. It wanted Jeremy. Her body stood before him, panting and alight, on fire with the fear, and the attraction, and the alcohol, and so many other factors that made her think that all she would need to do is to take one step forward, to let him know that yes, she would like to sleep with him, too. One gesture, one look, one glimpse, one kiss and she could start something new, but would she?


    ¡°Why do you want to sleep with me?¡±


    ¡°Lydia, that¡¯s like asking a guy why he wants to breathe.¡±


    He was so tall, and big, and long, and friendly, like a golden retriever in human form. And yet, she saw the swelling on his knuckles, the confusion in his eyes, tinged with a sort of disbelief that he¡¯d actually punched her coworker out. She got the impression that guys like Jeremy didn¡¯t go around beating people up very often. In fact, he was more of an ubergeek than a jock. He reminded her of her brother Miles back home, the only one perceptive enough to figure out what had gone wrong, and probably the type to punch out a guy like Siggi, too, when push came to shove. If she took one step closer, if her hand touched his arm, if she tipped her face up just right to look at Jeremy, she could have him, she knew it. If.


    ¡°How ¡¯bout that coffee, Lydia?¡± He held his hands up in a gesture of protest, palms facing her. ¡°Just coffee,¡± he said slowly.


    ¡°Just coffee?¡± she questioned.


    ¡°I swear, and maybe some salt licorice, if you¡¯ll let me add it in.¡±


    ¡°In the coffee?¡±


    They started to amble slowly back in the same direction he¡¯d taken her in.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t drink it that way, although I¡¯m sure there¡¯s some coffee shop that does that. I¡¯ve eaten stranger things here, though.¡±


    ¡°Did you go to that restaurant where all they have is the pickled fish?¡±


    For the next three minutes, Jeremy talked about nothing but the culinary quirks of Reykjavik. His guest house was considerably nicer than hers, though none of them were particularly formal in this area. His looked like a sleek late ¡¯6¡¯s or early ¡¯70s, slim lines kind of place, while hers was definitely more from the earlier half of the twentieth century. His room wasn¡¯t much bigger than hers, though he had a small couch, and a little sitting area, a pseudo-living room that would serve the purpose they needed. His bed was a double and neatly made, and it called out to her. A shout-out of possibilities that she could access at will.

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    The coffee he made was strong, though not too bitter, and she appreciated the heavy dollop of cream. Sitting in the quiet, tiny room with more daylight in the night hours than she was accustomed to, she felt safe again. He stretched out on a chair with an ottoman, his body impossibly long, while she tucked her feet under herself, curling into a ball as if she were going to sit down and read a nice, fat historical romance.


    He avoided eye contact at first and then he looked up from his cup of coffee, and said, ¡°Because you¡¯re too amazing not to try.¡±Advertisement


    The words came out of his mouth slowly, with more hunger in them than he had expected. She didn¡¯t wince, or flinch, or shift back in surprise. Instead, her eyes held his, steady and focused, a feline-like quality to the seconds that ticked by that made him swallow hard, glad for the gambit.


    ¡°Tell me why I¡¯m amazing, Jeremy,¡± she said, her eyes immobile, locked on his. Her mouth moving with a sensuality that he wanted to taste.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that the words that I can use are enough,¡± he said.


    That pleased her. ¡°I¡¯ve had plenty of words thrown my way.¡± She nodded to herself.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet Mike used plenty of them,¡± he said, acknowledging the elephant in the room. The big, Michael Bournham-sized elephant.


    ¡°He did.¡± She clipped her words. ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about him.¡±


    ¡°Considering he¡¯s filling about two thirds of this room, I think we should.¡± His voice was ragged at the end, filled with heat, lust, and reality.


    ¡°What do you want me to say?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to say anything,¡± he replied, ¡°I¡¯d like for you to say whatever you need to say.¡± His body felt poured into the chair, muscles like a sloth¡¯s, time slowing down at his leisure. Whatever Lydia might say next, he knew that he had her already if he wanted her.


    Problem was, he didn¡¯t just want her.


    He wanted her to want him.


    An unacknowledged need for Mike wasn¡¯t going to fly. The bundle of hurt she carried around like a baby in a bunting needed to be shed. Jeremy didn¡¯t mind if Lydia still pined away for Mike. That could prove to be helpful in the future, depending on which direction this strange series of relationships took. What he couldn¡¯t stand was to be sloppy seconds, or to be her rebound guy, or¡ªworse¡ªjust a pity fuck.


    Not that he hadn¡¯t taken his share of those¡­


    But not from her.


    Spending the past ten years on the road, he¡¯d carefully kept himself detached. When everything fell apart with Dana last year he¡¯d found solace in more travel, wandering to the various southeast Asian countries, where he¡¯d dabbled in micro-lending for years, investing money in local business loans for small-time farmers, weavers, cooks, and other little businesses. The purpose it gave him counterbalanced his party-guy tendencies, and had given him something to do. By year three or so post-dotcom success, he¡¯d been bored out of his fucking mind.


    Mike assumed his trips to Thailand, Senegal, Sri Lanka, and points asunder were all about playing the beaches and finding peace in a bowl, a lick, a bottle, or at the heated core of a woman¡¯s body. Not so. Losing Dana had hurt, and now ¨C with Lydia feet away, sitting in his room curled up like a smart cat, on total alert and waiting to know what to do next ¨C Jeremy needed to obey Mike¡¯s request.


    Lydia needed to be watched carefully.


    Every square inch of her.


    ¡°You tell me why you want to sleep with me,¡± Jeremy taunted. His legs slowly unfolded as he planted his feet on the floor, and then pushed himself up to stand, coming over to her chair and bending over her, looming large, like a jaguar, all fluid and sinew and purring. Literally purring¡ªthere was a strange sound coming out of his throat, a teasing melody that she couldn¡¯t put her finger on. He cleared his throat and stopped it. ¡°Hmm?¡± he asked. Deep brown eyes, relaxed and open, asked her to bare herself to him. C¡¯mon, they beckoned. It¡¯s not so hard. Just show me your soul.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to sleep with you,¡± she snapped back. The vein in her throat, where her pulse could be viewed when she was nervous or overwhelmed, throbbed. She could feel it, and his eyes trailed down her face, stopping at the nape of her neck. Could he see it, too? He was challenging her. the two engaged in a dance of words.


    ¡°Liar,¡± was his next one.


    The words How dare you? almost slipped from her lips, but she held them back, instead glaring at him, too aroused to make sense of anything that was pouring into her mind, all heat pooling in her belly as his body shifted closer to her, the air between them electric. She could almost feel the hair on her arms lifting, her nipples tightening and pulling up toward him, as if he were a magnet for all the parts of her that wished to touch him¡ªwhich, in essence, he was.


    Narrowing her eyes, the gesture as much about buying herself a few seconds as it was about focusing in more sharply on his fine features, she finally found the right thing to say back.


    ¡°Prove it.¡±


    He would have to make the first move. She wouldn¡¯t do it, couldn¡¯t do it. Paralyzed, with inches between them as he took one leg, nudged it between hers and then leaned down for a kiss, she relinquished to the allure of his mouth, the taste of coffee and Jeremy on her lips.


    What madness was this? What on earth was she thinking? Letting his lips touch hers, she sank into it. Blissful, and grateful, and needing the comfort of someone to help wipe away the last kiss she¡¯d shared with a man. This wasn¡¯t just anyone, though¡ªthis was Jeremy, Mike¡¯s best friend. A cloud of betrayal threatened to insert itself between them, until she realized that there was no betrayal to commit. She had no fidelity requirement in what had been a relationship with a man who wasn¡¯t. Had she been with Matt Jones or Michael Bournham? Who held her heart? Jeremy could do as he wished as well, so why not succumb to the growing heat between them?


    She¡¯d uprooted her entire life to escape a man who had disguised himself. Why not shake off her conservative sense of who she thought she was for the sake of a man who very much wanted her right now? The sound of their breath filled the room, the quiet, winking light outside giving the air a soft glow. As Jeremy took the kiss from a gentle hello to an insistent more, giving over to what she felt about Jeremy helped the thoughts of Mike to simply dissolve.


    Sinking her hand into his hair, she smiled through a kiss, her tongue darting out to touch his, the move triggering a deepening from him as he took her invitation and lay on top of her, his body a warm, muscled sheet, her hips rising to meet him as their mouths broke through the first contact with ever-increasing urgency.


    ¡°You want to sleep with me,¡± he said through a smile, the corners of his lips upturned, her own skin feeling his affection. He smelled like coffee and faded cotton and an exotic soap scent she couldn''t name, the combination imprinting in her. She would forever associate this scent with him, like a fingerprint in her system, triggering a palpable sense of Jeremy, and only Jeremy.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t,¡± she teased, running her hands along his back and ribs, palms stroking his tight ass in jeans so well-worn they were as soft as Egyptian cotton. His body went on and on and on¡­


    ¡°Prove it,¡± he murmured, biting her earlobe, then tonguing it with quick flicks, a preview she felt in her clitoris, which swelled and throbbed. The teasing had shifted from verbal tests to a very tactile layer they were about to experience, and she felt her hesitation fade.


    ¡°If I really wanted to sleep with you, I wouldn¡¯t do this,¡± she hissed in his ear, squeezing one ass cheek with a lovely possession, her fingers digging in to strong muscle.


    ¡°And I certainly wouldn¡¯t do this,¡± she sighed, arching her hips and shifting one thigh to find his erection, long and thick, curving her pelvis and making micro-movements that elicited Jeremy¡¯s groan of frustration.


    ¡°Of course, if I really wanted to make love with you, I would never, ever¡­¡± Her hand reached between them for the snap on his jeans.


    ¡°You win. You proved it.¡± Jeremy stood, stiffly, his voice choked and halted. Afraid she¡¯d alienated him, Lydia leaped up to explain herself.


    And he tackled her onto his bed, laughing. ¡°Gotcha!¡±


    ¡°Right where you want me.¡± A warm hand slid under her shirt, her inhale a sigh and a moan of repression unleashed. His double bed seemed luxurious compared to her single in her own room, and she quickly realized he needed it; keeping Jeremy¡¯s entire body on the bed was no small task. One searching hand cupped her breast as his mouth slanted against hers, the kiss more a claim this time. He was hers for the taking.


    Take me.


    Their joining took on a fevered pace, her own hands finding the bottom of his t-shirt and peeling it up over his head, revealing the same naked chest she¡¯d admired so much at the hot springs. His body was damn near perfect in a lean runner¡¯s sense, and as he hovered over her, one hand behind her back, expertly undoing her bra, she traced circles around one of his nipples, admiring and marveling that he was about to be hers.


    And she, his.


    In a moment that should have been filled with doubt and recrimination, Lydia instead found joy. Sheer, playful joy as Jeremy stripped her bare and inhaled audibly. ¡°I¡­¡± He hesitated as he pulled up on his knees, watching her, his eyes combing over her body as if she were a painting. ¡°I had no idea how breathtaking you are, Lydia. I suspected, but¡­¡± His voice trailed off as she watched him watching her and knew he was sharing a piece of his inner heart.


    The look in his eyes was so patient, so caring, that she melted, whatever remained of her shell just evaporating under the spell of his adoration. It made what had been a more generic lust convert to a tempered pleasure, a desire to know him both intimately and with great respect, to honor the part of him that was worshiping her with his eyes.


    Simple touch wasn¡¯t enough anymore. She needed as much of him as she could handle. Their next kiss felt like finding her way home, and the last rational thought that lingered in her mind was crystal clear in its clarity: quit her job and go home with Jeremy.


    In the morning she would follow that through, but right now, enraptured by the full overwhelm of all that Jeremy offered her, she tangled tongues and fingers and sighs and caresses with him, both maneuvering out of clothing to find themselves under the covers and splendidly nude, open and ready for each other as if made for this encounter.


    Her ears rushed with the pumping of blood that drove her through each connection of flesh, his mouth telling her with his lips how he felt inside. Skin against skin, she worked to fit with his body¡ªnot in an awkward sense, but more from sheer logistics; the one-foot difference meant that they had to be creative.


    Creative was good. Creative was very, very good. His mouth found her nipple, their bodies tenting the covers as the sun shone in behind the curtains, pale midnight light that gave the moment a sweetness and surreality she needed.


    ¡°Jeremy,¡± she whispered, his name hissed out as his mouth teased and played, drawing out a slow burn inside her that heated so fast she was drained of playfulness, filled instead with a magnetic force that wanted only to be filled by him. Spreading her legs, she arced one around his hip, his erection pressing against her belly, the twitch of his strong shaft against her making her wet and ready. The warm heat of his mouth on her pert nipple made her remember that day at the lagoon, his hands massaging mud into her pores, how he¡¯d inhaled sharply when her hand had strayed a bit too close to¡­

 Page 32

    This. Fingers closing around his shaft, she stroked once, gently, as his teeth nipped her, the sensual pain sending splinters of thrill throughout her nerve endings.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready to finish what I¡¯m starting,¡± she said in a smoky voice, and he chuckled, the sound as seductive and engaging as any she¡¯d ever heard in bed.Advertisement


    ¡°Oh, no, Lydia,¡± Jeremy murmured, coming up to kiss her with a demure, sweet buss. ¡°You¡¯ve started something that I intend to finish.¡± Her hand dropped him as he ran his tongue along the edge of her ear, sending shivers through her, curling her toes. The trail migrated south between her breasts, making her nipples bead once more, stopping briefly at her navel and then those hands parted her legs. Strong arms slid under her, his body folded and bowing before her, as if in prayer, the supplication to her womanhood complete.


    And when his tongue touched her with a stroke that made her sigh, it wasn¡¯t just lust that made her feel pleasure¡ªit was the steady, happy knowledge that this was Jeremy, accepting, relaxed, casual Jeremy, who had done as he was asked and who was taking care of her.


    Admirably.


    A brief, fleeting thought of Mike and her threesome dream zoomed through her mind as Jeremy took his time, a man clearly accustomed to spending as much effort and grace on pleasuring a woman as was needed¡ªand enjoying every second. Dreams of the two men with her were new, and she found herself fully enthralled now, the brief interlude of Mike pushing out to the edge as Jeremy expertly strummed her to full release. Stopping just as she was about to crest, he slid one finger inside her and resumed, the break giving her a chance to build an even stronger release, one she desperately needed, hands buried in the sheets, one stroking his hair, until she came so close, her core clamping down and¡­


    He stopped.


    ¡°But, but ¡­¡± she sputtered.


    ¡°I finish this,¡± he said, coming up to her, giving her a taste of herself with his kiss. ¡°You finish when I tell you.¡± A cold chain of steel made its way from tailbone to the base of her neck, heightening her arousal with the unexpected tone he used. His voice was so dark and mysterious, though his body lay before her, nude and tanned, muscles liquid and languid. Control. He was in complete control, her orgasm right on the tip¡ªwell, of his tongue.


    Damn it.


    Was this how he played the game in bed? Because two could play that one.


    Lydia had no problem learning the rules. She was, after all, an expert in malicious obedience.


    Flipping places, she straddled him, her hands balanced on his chest, her own body curvy and juicy where his was taut and lean. The contrast amused her, for they complemented each other, as if an artist put their different lines together for good composition; no self-conscious silliness with Jeremy. On display, she reveled in how he studied her, and then she moved down, her lips and tongue ready for their share of control.


    He was rock hard, her lips easily stretching over his tip, and as she stroked with one hand, mouth melting over him, she realized he was intact. This was a first for her, and it made her smile and chuckle lightly to herself. A rite of passage. How cool.


    ¡°Oh, Lydia. I just love it when a woman laughs at my dick while giving me a blowjob.¡±


    ¡°Happens often, huh?¡± she shot back, now giggling hysterically. What had been sultry and intense was now descending into high-school goofiness and she couldn¡¯t help herself.


    ¡°More often than you would think,¡± he muttered. She snorted, now overcome with hysteria, Jeremy staring morosely and mugging as if he were truly upset.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­you¡¯re¡­intact,¡± she said through fits and starts.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he replied, drawing out the word, staring at his own dick.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never touched one¡­been with a man who¡­it¡¯s new,¡± she gasped through her dwindling laughter.


    ¡°It works the same as a cut one, I assure you,¡± he answered, leading her hand back to it. ¡°Even better,¡± he bragged.


    That just made her laugh harder, her breasts bouncing, catching Jeremy¡¯s eye. Unlike other encounters in bed with men, this one felt so...normal. Uninhibited. So real it made a part of her unfurl and bloom, eager to really be in a state of nature with this man. No judgment. No vying for control. No assumptions. They were two nude people traveling across each others bodies, seeking new trails, peaks and valleys. And best of all, he was so utterly comfortable in his own body that he put her at ease. Between his eyes and hands worshiping her and his playfulness, she found herself falling even more for him.


    ¡°Maybe you could stare at it a bit longer and laugh more. I¡¯m liking the view.¡± He bobbed his head in time with her laughter, tilting his head, a treasured smile on his lips.


    And she lost it. Sex was supposed to be deep and dark, filled with silence spiked by groans and grunts. Laughter and jokes weren¡¯t part of her sexual repertoire, and yet the mood shifted on a dime, back to serious, as she used long, soft strokes to bring back his erection, his eyes closing as he reclined back in bed, the giggles dispersing fast. Both were on edge sexually, and as she lowered her mouth to him, he sighed, legs tensing and rod swelling in her mouth, the tip gleaming and slick.


    Enveloping him with her mouth, she used both her hand and her tongue to tease and lure, coaxing his orgasm to the surface just as he¡¯d done the same to her¡ªand then she stopped.


    ¡°Who is in charge now?¡± she murmured.


    ¡°We both are.¡± Pulling her hips to his face, he positioned them so that she straddled his mouth, the action so erotic she felt a flush hit her whole body with such force it felt cold. Exposed, riding his face, he pulled her onto him as he hand froze, the sensation of his tongue on her, in her, hands roaming over her ass and hips as she began to thrust against him with her hips, finding a rhythm his mouth mastered intuitively, reading her signals and her sighs like a linguist.


    A cunning linguist.


    Her sensuality and ease in bed caught him completely by surprise, making him cherish her all the more. Jokes and banter in bed was a huge no-no for most women, but not Lydia. What he wanted right now, though, was no joke, needing to taste her, to feel her on him, to revel in her juices and to make her come so hard she would crack the headboard on his bed.


    The challenge awaited.


    As he parted her folds and found her clit, sucking it lightly, he felt her body tighten. It wasn''t a sensual movement, but rather that of a woman who hesitated, embarrassed. Why were women so self-conscious about this particular act? The scent of a woman in complete abandon on him, giving him full access, his hands finding her hips and lushness, letting him use his mouth and tongue to bring about her inner power ¨C that was erotic. That was sensual.


    It was divine.


    She was a goddess on top of him, letting him give her all the control. Sensing her temerity, he rolled her hips off him, the raw sexuality and her own fears co-mingling in a chaotic frenzy that he navigated very, very carefully. Whatever he said next, he knew, would be branded in her mind and body forever.


    No pressure, right?


    ¡°Please accept this, Lydia.¡± She looked down and he smiled up at her, taking in her body over his, how her breasts filled out over her ribs, the way the nipples peaked and her hair floated down in a dark, silky wave over them. ¡°Let me show you what my body wants to learn about yours.¡±


    ¡°I ¨C ¡± Her voice was choked and she slid back over his chest, leaning down for a long, slow kiss. His words seemed so inadequate, failing to express what his heart and body wanted to say. Let me love your body. Let me know it.


    Let me in.


    The kiss became more empowered, her mouth claiming his, and then she stretched up, like a lioness, tall and elongated over him, his mouth resuming access to her, finding the red nub of her clitoris with his tongue, grateful for her trust.


    Her hips stroked for him, giving him the tempo, and Lydia became the conductor for the orchestra of her own climax.


    Women rarely did this, They wouldn''t ¨C couldnt? ¨C say yes to being devoured, explored, understood. Her willingness and wantingness was the biggest turn-on Jeremy could imagine as he licked and laved, feeling her muscles tighten, hear her groans as her ass rose up, her pussy sliding down, and her whole body went rigid at once.


    ¡°I am ¨C ¡± she gasped.


    You are, he thought. Oh yes, you are.


    She had never been comfortable sitting on a man''s mouth like this; 69 was awkward enough, but here all of her flaws felt on display. Jeremy, though invited her to open up, and it was his obvious enjoyment of her body ¨C with all its flaws, quirks, and overabundances ¨C that gave her permission to just enjoy. Release.


    Be.


    Her orgasm rose as if planted there by the tip of his tongue, the shuddering slamming into her, hands rigid and clinging for dear life to the headboard, body rock-solid and moving barely against his tongue as full-body clenches released entire tsunamis of pleasure from some super-center within, all hot and wet and full throttle. As his palms caressed her ass, grazing the small of her back, she nearly collapsed on him, then slid back, his erection pressing against her shoulders.


    ¡°Oh. My. God,¡± she hissed, rolling off him and staring, dumbfounded, at the ceiling, her blood like a freight train with a Doppler effect cycling through her, over and over. Even without his mouth on her, aftershocks of contractions continued, taking over, until they wound down and she just...was.


    He reached for the bedside drawer and pulled out a condom, quickly putting it on. In the dim light she made out his features, tousled hair framing an open, friendly face that was so focused on her she nearly cried. Wanting him over her, the press of his body a shield between her and the world, she pulled him into the missionary position and wrapped her legs around his hips, guiding him to her gateway.


    ¡°You¡¯re unique, Lydia. You know that?¡± he asked as he filled her, the rasp of his words like a conversation with her soul.


    ¡°And you¡¯re wonderful,¡± she answered, the heavy weight of him on top of her exactly what she needed as his hips rocked and rotated, stirring what was at the surface into a churning ocean of much-anticipated release, her orgasms reforming and getting ready to debut. His kiss ended halfway through, the intensity of thrusting so great and the pending climax so close for both that they dropped everything but their strokes, the sensation too good to water down with anything else.


    Steady clapping of his tip against her cervix built a crescendo that tipped over quietly, then roared to life as she called out his name, biting his shoulder in ecstasy, his thighs and ass tensing under her calves, now clutching him to her, his orgasm coming with a full-body tension and her name grunted through a clenched jaw, the sound of three syllables so sweet that tears filled her eyes, happiness in fluid form.


    As the layers of orgasm abated, sleep poured through her, as if waiting its turn in the queue of biological needs. Lydia was barely aware of his body as he nestled beside her, curling around her as she cuddled with him. The fuzzy light at the windows turned to a contented darkness as she faded off to sleep, her last conscious experience of Jeremy whispering, ¡°Now I understand.¡±


    ¡°You slept with him, didn¡¯t you?¡± Those were the words that greeted Lydia when Krysta picked up the phone two days later. Not ¡°hello,¡± not ¡°hi, Lydia,¡± not ¡°what do you want?¡± not ¡°hey, how¡¯s it goin¡¯?¡± Instead it was ¡°you slept with him, didn¡¯t you?¡±

 Page 33

    ¡°Well, good morning to you, too, Mary Sunshine,¡± Lydia said, her voice dripping with snark. ¡°That¡¯s a hell of a way to greet someone.¡±


    ¡°Am I right?¡±Advertisement


    ¡°Yes,¡± Lydia admitted.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°Good?¡± That surprised her. She¡¯d expected Krysta to be upset or to disapprove, or to¡­who knew. Nowadays, she didn¡¯t know what anybody would say or think about her behavior.


    ¡°You needed a rebound guy.¡±


    ¡°Jeremy¡¯s not my rebound guy,¡± Lydia protested.


    ¡°He¡¯s the guy after Mike, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Then he¡¯s your rebound guy.¡±


    ¡°Rebound guys are the guys you practice on before you move on to the real guy,¡± Lydia said.


    Silence.


    ¡°You think Jeremy¡¯s not right for me.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know, you didn¡¯t say anything. You never say nothing, but when you say nothing it tells me everything you¡¯re thinking.¡±


    ¡°How can it tell you everything I¡¯m thinking if it¡¯s nothing?¡±


    ¡°It just¡­because¡­¡± Lydia sputtered. ¡°It¡¯s friend magic.¡±


    ¡°Friend magic?¡±


    ¡°Yes, don¡¯t question it. You¡¯ll get your invitation to the BFF Friend Magic School soon.¡±


    ¡°Is that like Hogwarts?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but with ice cream.¡±


    ¡°How was the sex?¡±


    ¡°Why do you get to be the blunt one all the time?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m not the one having sex with two different guys.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t have sex with two different g¡ª¡±


    ¡°You had sex with two different guys at two different times.¡±


    Oh, phew, Lydia thought. It was almost like Krysta had read her mind. That threesome dream wouldn¡¯t get out of her head. She could almost taste Mike¡¯s skin in her mouth, smell Jeremy¡¯s hair, feel four hands roaming across her body at once. The palpable sense of the dream so vivid that even now, the mere idea of the memory of the dream was enough to make her sigh, and for parts untended to need more attention.


    ¡°I don¡¯t approve or disapprove, I¡¯m Switzerland.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re Switzerland?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m neutral.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re about as neutral as North Korea.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re calling me North Korea, then you¡¯re saying I¡¯m crazy.¡±


    Lydia¡¯s turn to be silent. She let the seconds tick by.


    ¡°Hey!¡±


    ¡°See, you¡¯ve got it,¡± Lydia interrupted. ¡°BFF friend magic.¡±


    ¡°Ugh.¡± Krysta uttered an exasperated sigh. ¡°You know what? Lydia, honey, you¡¯re free to do whatever you want. You don¡¯t owe Michael Bournham a damn thing, and if you want to fuck his best friend¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lydia.¡± Krysta¡¯s tone was abrupt again. ¡°I know you. If you¡¯re talking about him, you¡¯re thinking it.¡±


    ¡°No fair,¡± Lydia said. ¡°You do know me too well. Next time I¡¯m home, I¡¯m going to do the same thing to you.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Krysta laughed.


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna make you ¡¯fess up about Caleb.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not talking about Caleb right now,¡± Krysta protested.


    ¡°No, we¡¯re not,¡± Lydia said, ¡°but we will be.¡± She could feel Krysta¡¯s blush from a five-hour plane ride away.


    The phone went silent. ¡°So, Jeremy, huh?¡± Krysta finally said. ¡°Really, he¡¯s your type?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a type.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true, I never would have picked Matt Jones,¡± Krysta admitted.


    ¡°Hell, I never would have picked Michael Bournham,¡± Lydia said sarcastically. ¡°He¡¯s still really missing?¡±


    ¡°Not missing in a face on the milk carton kind of way,¡± Krysta replied, ¡°but yeah, nobody really knows what¡¯s going on with him.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve got Jeremy in front of your face,¡± Krysta continued, ¡°and Michael Bournham is a thing of the past. What are you going to choose, Lydia? The hot Viking in front of you?¡±


    Lydia snorted.


    ¡°Or the hot CEO who no one can find?¡±


    Chapter Ten


    He had not touched his cell phone in...how long? The wireless at Escape Shores Campground was fabulous, and he¡¯d been using his laptop, but the phone had just become just a non-entity in his life. A sudden change that had startled him when he noticed it shoved in a pair of pants as he did laundry the morning before the talent show. It had gone dead, so he went back to the cabin, found the charging cable, and plugged it in. Later that day he realized that he had seventeen text messages and forty-two voicemails. Email had been easy to check on the laptop but this¡­this he¡¯d missed.


    As he checked texts he found that most of them were from Jeremy right after he''d landed in Iceland, reporting that Lydia was ¡°well taken care of¡±, and one from his mom just asking him to check.


    And then, the voicemails. Joanie asking a detail that he could deal with later. Susan Morgan, the senior vice-president of communications, asking that he call her. A second message from her. A fourth. A ninth. And then, finally, a big one from Joanie.


    ¡°Hi, Mike, it¡¯s Joanie. A Lydia Charles has been trying to reach you and I¡¯m hoping that you get this message. She¡¯s been contacting Susan Morgan over and over again from Iceland and is wondering about her job. And what you don¡¯t know is that at the end of the month the company is going to be cutting that position, so it¡¯s kind of a political mess here and if you could call me I would appreciate it so I can try to explain this to people. I don¡¯t even really understand it,¡± she added. ¡°But¡­please call.¡±


    The message ended and then one more from Susan Morgan, a clipped tone. ¡°Hi, Michael, Susan Morgan here. Call me.¡±


    He sighed. The threads of his old life were woven too deeply into the fabric of something that he was trying to weave for himself. With great dread, he dialed Susan, who picked up on the first ring.


    ¡°Mike, good to hear from you. Glad you still have your old number. Thought you might be dead.¡±


    ¡°No, not dead.¡±


    ¡°Well the press is covering you as having ¡®disappeared.¡¯ Rumor has it you¡¯re in rehab.¡±


    He looked around at the woods, the glint of the ocean behind the children laughing and playing on the playground, the sound of an RV chugging slowly down the 5 mph main road and he laughed. ¡°Well, no, it¡¯s not drug and alcohol rehab but you could call it that. Rehab¡­for this. Rehab for CEOs,¡± he said wryly.


    ¡°Whatever you call it,¡± she responded dismissively, ¡°we¡¯re cutting that strange position that you created for European operations, and umm¡­the admin that you promoted three levels above herself,¡± she said derisively. ¡°She doesn¡¯t even know what to do. I¡¯m not sure why she¡¯s there,¡± Susan said with a leading tone to her voice.


    His stomach sank. Had he been that transparent? The decision to promote Lydia to get her out of the country, to just get her somewhere safe, may very well have backfired and brought more attention to her. If only he had known that Diane would be such an odd saving grace, her narcissism stepping up to absorb what Lydia would view as exposed horror. How could he play this off? What was the best approach to optimize getting Susan this trail? God, how he hated to think like this. Back to the daily analytical mind that schemed, the corporate sociopath who turned every interaction to his advantage.


    He hated this, but if it meant helping Lydia¡­


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t really matter now, I suppose. She just resigned,¡± Susan added.


    ¡°Resigned?¡± he spat.


    ¡°Oh?¡± she said in a mocking tone. ¡°You didn¡¯t know?¡±


    Click. No need to listen to one more word of her crap. He dialed Lydia¡¯s number. Turning his phone off had been so stupid. No recent messages from Jeremy. What could be going on?


    He got Lydia¡¯s voicemail. In an unusual state of panic, he shut the phone off. What would he say? ¡°Hi, Lydia. I¡¯ve infiltrated your family¡¯s campground and made friends with your parents. But I¡¯m not a creepy stalker. Swear.¡±


    If Lydia resigned, it meant she was coming home. Sandy hadn¡¯t said anything, though. Could Susan be lying? Washing his face with his hands, he let himself massage the questions out of his skin. The only way to know what was going on was to listen and observe. For the past few weeks, Mike had gotten a taste of what it meant to reclaim himself.


    Maybe Lydia had done the same.


    ¡°Where¡¯s your hot Viking, Lydia?¡± Madge asked, arms outstretched to envelop her granddaughter in a hug as Lydia came out of the gate and into the luggage area at Logan Airport. The hug was her welcome home. She knew that Sandy would give it to her five times as hard and vigorous and enthusiastic. But Madge¡¯s quick, tight embrace was more than good enough.


    ¡°No hot Viking, Grandma. In fact, I think I¡¯m done with Iceland as a resident. I resigned from my job.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re done with a hell of a lot more than Iceland, then,¡± Madge said, wrapping her arm around Lydia¡¯s waist and guiding her toward the luggage corral.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m done with Bournham Industries.¡±


    Madge pulled back and held Lydia by the shoulders as bag after bag made their slow way past them, Lydia keeping half an eye out for hers¡ªa large black bag with a rainbow string on it. She¡¯d shipped everything else home, hanging onto her laptop, a carry-on, and this one smaller bag. By the time she got to Maine she would need everything, because between Grandma¡¯s apartment and home, all of her worldly possessions were safe and where they needed to be.


    ¡°You¡¯re moving out?¡± Perceptive as always, Grandma had caught what she really meant.


    ¡°I¡¯m really done, Grandma. I¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about that sex tape, isn¡¯t it?¡± Madge asked. She waved a hand. ¡°You know what, Lydia? If they¡¯d had all these video things sixty years ago when I was in my prime, I¡¯d have been on one of those too.¡±


    Lydia laughed. ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it, Grandma.¡±


    ¡°You know¡­I slept with one of the Kennedys,¡± Madge added.


    ¡°Really? Which one?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember, they all look the same.¡±


    ¡°Not Eunice?¡±


    Madge shuddered. ¡°No, one of the men! I don¡¯t swing that way.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk about swinging, Grandma!¡±


    Madge laughed and reached over and, with virtually no effort, grabbed Lydia¡¯s sixty-pound piece of luggage, hauled it off the rack, propped it up on its wheels, and deftly walked them out to the car, guiding the suitcase.


    ¡°Your mom doesn¡¯t know you¡¯re here, does she?¡±


    ¡°No. Did you tell her?¡± Lydia had texted Madge in advance and she had replied I¡¯ll be there. Typical.


    ¡°No, no, I didn¡¯t tell your mother. I¡¯m not going to ruin your surprise. So, her gain is my loss.¡±

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    ¡°Grandma, I¡¯m not moving out completely.¡±


    ¡°Ehh, actually, it can¡¯t hurt if you do.¡±Advertisement


    Now she was just a little bit offended. ¡°What do you mean, Grandma?¡±


    ¡°Ed. you know, he¡¯s been talking about moving in with me, but I told him I couldn¡¯t because my granddaughter was living with me, but now¡­¡±


    ¡°Ed wants to move in with you?¡±


    ¡°Ed wants to marry me.¡±


    ¡°Marry you? Grandma, you¡¯re eighty-three years old. Why would you want to get married?¡±


    ¡°So I can finally have sex.¡± Madge cackled. ¡°This whole rule about waiting until you¡¯re married has made me the world¡¯s oldest virgin.¡±


    Lydia shuddered. ¡°TMI Grandma, TMI. I don¡¯t want to talk about your sex life.¡±


    ¡°Fine, then we¡¯ll talk about yours. So, that Diane girl just came in and swooped your fame, huh?¡±


    ¡°She swooped my shame,¡± Lydia sighed. ¡°Took the heat off me.¡± Lydia wasn¡¯t sure whether to be grateful or pissed. Truth be told, she felt a little of both.


    ¡°You know that woman got her own reality TV show after all?¡± Madge said, shaking her head, unlocking the car with the remote and slinging Lydia¡¯s suitcase, laptop bag, and carry-on into the trunk, slamming it shut.


    ¡°Good for her. I¡¯m done with being on camera.¡±


    Madge paused, looking at her. As she peered deeply at Lydia¡¯s face, wrinkle after wrinkle after wrinkle folded in on each other and her lips pursed and puckered. It was a disconcerting look, but one that Lydia had grown accustomed to. Grandma was full of piss and vinegar, and when she thought something, she said it. ¡°Do you love him?¡±


    Lydia cocked one eyebrow. She wasn¡¯t expecting that question. ¡°Do I love who?¡± She chuckled without mirth. ¡°Do I love the guy I thought I was sleeping with or the man I was actually sleeping with?¡± Two men. Having this conversation with her grandmother was making her head spin. Jeremy would follow her on a different flight, unable to book a spot fast enough. Lydia had caught the last possible seat and wanted to get home ahead of him, anyhow, to brace her mother for his pending arrival. He¡¯d promised up and down that he would, in fact, be there for the talent show.


    ¡°I need two days to prepare my act,¡± he¡¯d said, waggling his eyebrows.


    ¡°No Icelandic whores.¡±


    He¡¯d made a grumpy face. ¡°Spoilsport.¡±


    She missed him.


    As Madge made her way onto the Pike, she nodded slowly and then rasped, ¡°Why does there have to be a difference?¡±


    ¡°A difference between what?¡±


    ¡°Earth to Lydia. Between the man you love and the man you¡¯re sleeping with?¡±


    As they made their way out of the Ted Williams Tunnel, the city made her look up, eyes tracing the skyscrapers. So different from Reykjavik. Familiar and dirty and jumbled, it was home.


    Oh, Grandma, if only you knew the difference.