Knock Me for a Loop (8 page)

Not that he’d minded. He’d liked her choices, and hadn’t even known some of the stuff existed until she’d introduced him to it.

And if having him smell like a rain forest, pine cone, or ocean breeze turned her on, then he’d been all for it.

She’d had him try Angel Ice, Cool Water, Chrome, Dirty English (which had spurred so many jokes, they’d actually come up with a new sexual position to go with the name), Euphoria, and a few more. He hadn’t noticed much difference between them, and only remembered some of the names because the bottles had cluttered the vanity for months on end.

Finally, she’d narrowed it down to the two she liked best—Fahrenheit and Sexy Men. Frankly, he thought the name Fahrenheit sounded more manly than Sexy Men, but whatever revved her engine was a-otay with him.

She sprinkled a few drops into her palm, then rubbed her hands together before touching them to his cheeks, just the way she used to when they were together. Not every time he shaved, but some of them.

The sweet but musky fragrance tickled his nose and brought back a kaleidoscope of memories—all with Grace at their center, and most revolving around making love to her. They’d done it more than once in this bathroom, against this very countertop.

Something he
didn’t
need to be thinking about right now. Not if he wanted to keep from popping a tent under the towel covering his waist and making her think he was either A.) interested in starting up with her again, or B.) he was so hard up, he got turned on by any woman who happened to brush up against him—even one who’d wrecked his ride and stolen his dog.

Locking his jaw and curling his hands into fists, he chastised himself.
Get your big head back in the game, Hoolihan, and your little head off your ex.

“What do you mean, the shave and shower are only the beginning?” he asked, recalling her earlier remark and suddenly being clear-minded enough to wonder about it.

“You’ve spent long enough holed up by yourself in this apartment, and enough time ignoring your doctors’ orders.”

He scowled, brows and mouth drawing down at the direction he suspected this was going. “What business is it of yours?”

“None whatsoever. Not anymore,” she replied flippantly, stepping away from him to wash the aftershave from her hands and put away the items she’d used to get him looking a bit less like Grizzly Adams. “Except that your friends seem to think that if I don’t sweep in to save you, you’re going to turn into some pathetic, housebound slob or end up doing yourself in with the sharp end of a Triscuit.”

Without turning her head, she cut her gaze to him, her blue eyes glittering with more than a touch of concern. “You weren’t planning anything like that, were you?”

“Suicide by snack cracker? Wasn’t part of my upcoming agenda, no.” He raised a brow. “So what do they think you’re going to do—sweep in with your sunny disposition and turn my world into rainbows and lollipops?”

She chuckled, proving that at least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor to all the bile and vitriol that had come to the surface last summer.

“Doubtful. They probably expect me to stick pins in your eyes and set your bedclothes on fire. But they’re desperate enough that I guess they’re willing to try anything. Or at least look the other way while I whip you into shape.”

“No whips,” he deadpanned. “I wasn’t into that when we were together, and I’m not into it now.”

Hitching a hip against the vanity, she murmured, “I don’t know. I still say that with enough pleasure thrown into the mix, you can learn to enjoy anything.”

Then she pushed herself away from the sink and slapped her hands together, rubbing them as though in anticipation of something truly delectable. “But you’re in no condition to fight me, regardless of how I decide to handle your rehabilitation, are you? You’re pretty much at my mercy.”

Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his ear, her cheek brushing his while her warm breath danced across his skin. He tensed, fighting the shiver that threatened to climb his spine and break out over the rest of his body.

“Be afraid,” she whispered. “Be very afraid.”

And then she straightened as though she hadn’t just delivered a veiled threat. “Now come on. Time to get dressed and get some breakfast before we have to leave.”

“Leave?” he asked, letting her drape his arm across her shoulders and hoist him to his feet like he was a child.

Or an invalid.

Or a sack of rotten potatoes.

“Where are we going?”

“
You
have an appointment with your orthopedic surgeon.”

Reaching the bed, she turned him around and sat him down.

“I don’t think so,” he shot back.

“I do.”

She moved around in front of his row of dresser drawers for a couple minutes before returning to drop a pile of clothes at his side.

“This isn’t up for debate, Zack,” she told him in her best no-nonsense tone, hands cocked firmly on hips. “You’re going if I have to hit you over the head with a lamp and drag you there by the hair. So you can either dress yourself and go along under your own steam like a man, or you can be a big baby and make me force you to do the right thing. But know this: if I have to do the hit-and-haul thing, you’ll wake up looking like a drag queen, and I’ll make sure the press has plenty of opportunity to snap your photo.”

She stepped away, heading for the closet and rooting around on the floor. “I’m thinking a bright purple bustier, fishnet stockings, and a long black Catherine Zeta-Jones wig.”

Turning to face him, she held up a pair of well-worn Nikes. His favorites because they were Rockets blue and red.

“So what’s it going to be?” she asked. “Are you going to put on your big boy shoes all by yourself, or do I need to go out and find a pair of size twelve platform stilettos to go with your leather miniskirt?”

Row 7

She hadn’t meant to stick around. When Grace had agreed to pop in and check on Zack, her intention had been to do just that—pop in and pop right back out.

She’d forgotten how easy it was to be around him. How comfortable, even with the residual anger and suspicion of his infidelity bubbling at the back of her mind.

Shaving his face herself instead of simply handing him the razor and walking away had probably been a mistake. Maybe not her first one, or the biggest one she’d made that day, but a mistake all the same. It had been entirely too intimate an act, stirring up entirely too many memories of their time together.

The good times, when she’d loved touching him and thought they were going to live happily ever after.

Then they’d gone to his appointment, and her determination to exit stage left at the first opportunity had taken yet another hit. According to the doctor, Zack’s recent sloth hadn’t caused any additional damage to his injured knee, but he hadn’t done himself any favors, either. He was behind on his physical therapy, and it was going to take weeks, possibly months, of intense effort to get him back up to speed. To undo the atrophy and buildup of scar tissue his couch potato habits had created.

The surgeon had given her a stack of papers outlining exercises Zack could do at home…and that she could help him with. And his receptionist had set up a physical therapy schedule at a nearby sports medicine and rehabilitation facility on Grace’s promise that she would see he attended every single session.

Apparently, they’d gone through all of this with Zack once before, and had very little faith he’d follow through this time, either. Grace’s presence, though, had encouraged them to give him another chance.

A couple of the nurses had watched them like a cat eyeing a goldfish bowl, and she had no doubt that as soon as they’d left, the gossip had begun.

Were Zack “Hot Legs” Hoolihan and “Amazing” Grace Fisher back together? Had he really cheated on her, and if so, had she forgiven him?

If she weren’t so busy packing, she would take a good ten or fifteen minutes to bang her head against the wall and wonder
why, why, why
her? And
how, how, how
did she get herself into these things?

But then, she knew how and why, didn’t she? Because she had two fickle, devious friends with no compunction about throwing her to the wolves. Or at least in the general vicinity of the wolf.

Grabbing the phone from the bedside table, she continued pulling bras and underwear, socks, slacks, and tops from her drawers and stuffing them into an overnight bag with one hand while dialing Ronnie’s number with the other. The call went to voice mail, but she didn’t let that put a damper on her plans.

“Hey, Ronnie, it’s Grace. Just wanted to let you know that Zack’s appointment went well. He has a lot of catching up to do with therapy and the like before he gets full use of his leg back, but the doctor is optimistic. Of course, someone needs to be there to make sure he gets to all of his appointments and does all of his at-home exercises. And who do you think that person might be, hmm? That’s right—me! So I just called to
thank you”
—she laced the words with so much disdain, the plastic phone shell nearly melted around her hand—”for getting me into this. And to warn you that if I end up killing Zack, I’ll expect you to bail me out of jail. Or if Zack kills me, I’ll expect you to cry at my funeral. Really hard. We’re talking full-out, inhale-your-tissue, on-the-verge-of-collapse sobbing, complete with a guilt-induced mental breakdown afterward, got it?”

With that, she hung up and punched in Jenna’s number, leaving much the same message on
her
voice mail as she moved into the bathroom to collect toiletries.

Nice to know that her two
supposed
best friends were unavailable while she was in the middle of a crisis. She would definitely remember this the next time one of
them
needed something—like a kidney transplant or ride to the airport. As far as she was concerned, unless Jenna and Ronnie found a way to redeem themselves and make her life less of a nightmare right quick, both her car
and
her kidneys were officially off-limits.

Once she had everything she thought she might need for the next few days, she zipped the overnight bag, returned the phone to its charger, and headed into the living room.

Muffin was stretched out full-length along the couch, snoring gently and leaving a waffle-sized wet spot beneath his right jowl.

“Hey, Muffin! Come here, sweetie.”

The giant brown and white Saint Bernard first perked up one ear, then slowly lifted his head. Grace slapped her thigh, and Muffin heaved himself into a sitting position, then dropped his two massive front paws to the carpeted floor, letting his back legs slide off the sofa cushions as he started in her direction.

Poor Muffin might be a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, but none of it was particularly energetic. Sometimes she thought she could just buy a beanbag chair, stick it in the corner, and get the same amount of activity as she did with Zack’s former dog. But then, a beanbag chair wouldn’t lick her face, keep her warm on cold winter nights, or inhale leftovers so she didn’t have to eat them herself.

“Good boy.” Kneeling down so they were eye to eye, she hugged Muffin’s neck and gave his furry cheek a big kiss. He returned the gesture with a slobbery lick of her ear.

She giggled at the tickle his tongue caused, then quickly lifted a hand to check her earrings. She’d learned the hard way that kibble and leftovers weren’t the only thing Muffin was fond of eating—and that it was not only zero fun, but a thousand percent disgusting to search through Saint Bernard droppings for a missing two-carat diamond stud.
Yerk.

“We’re taking a trip, baby,” she informed the panting ball of fur. “Now, I don’t want you to get your hopes up. We aren’t going to the park or the lake.”

Two of his very favorite destinations. One because there were usually other dogs for him to either play with or terrorize, the other because he loved to pretend he was a fish, then climb out and shake half of Lake Erie onto the shore.

Another Muffin-related lesson she’d figured out the hard way—never stand within six feet of a wet Saint Bernard. And never wear anything even remotely considered “nice clothes” while taking one for a walk.

There was now a section of Grace’s closet dedicated to Muffin-wear. Grungy jeans and T-shirts, shoes and jackets that could be tossed in the washer or thrown in the trash, depending on the amount of canine destruction leveled upon them.

“You’ll remember this place, though,” she continued, reaching for a pale pink doggie sweater and fitting it over Muffin’s head. She’d knit it herself—along with several more in varying colors—because there was nothing more harsh than Cleveland in winter, and she didn’t want her sweet little boy getting chilly.

Never mind that Saint Bernards were cold-weather dogs. The ones that searched out missing hikers in ten feet of snow and brought them brandy in those cute miniature barrels around their necks. Those kinds of endeavors might be fine for other people’s dogs, but
not
for hers.

“Lift,” she said, and Muffin obediently raised his right front paw, letting her slip on one of the four hand-knit slippers that matched his adorable sweater.

“We’re going back to your daddy’s apartment,” she said as she helped him step into the remaining three slippers, “but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. It’s okay if you love him and play with him and let him rub your belly, but we won’t be staying forever, so don’t get too used to having him around. We’re only going over there at all because your daddy is a big, fat idiot who can’t get himself to the doctor to get his leg fixed. So we have to cook for him and clean for him and haul his…
butt
around until he’s back on his feet.”

Next she circled his neck with a collar about an inch wide and studded with sparkling faux diamonds that spelled out his name in fancy, flirty script. “You’ll help me do that, won’t you? Won’t you, my big boy?”

In response, Muffin’s tongue lolled out to sweep a damp path up the full length of her face. A year ago, something like that would have sent her into a tizzy. She’d have bitched at Zack about his disgusting, slobbery dog, then raced to the bathroom to fix her makeup.

Now…well, a little puppy saliva and streaked mascara just didn’t register on her diva-o-meter anymore. She had more important things to think about. Not to mention a deep and abiding love for the source of that slobber.

“All right,” she said, pushing to her feet. “Are you ready?”

Muffin wagged his tail, not just ready, but raring to go. He loved walks, even in the dead of winter. Loved it even more when Grace put on her sweats and took him running.

Alas, there would be no running today. Not unless Zack drove her crazy within the first ten minutes of their forced recohabitation and she ran screaming from his apartment. In that case, though, she probably wouldn’t just be jogging with the dog, but racing for the nearest intersection to throw herself in front of a bus.

Clicking a turquoise leash with black paw prints along its length to Muffin’s collar, she shrugged into her own long, bone-colored woolen coat, picked up her overnight bag, and said, “Let’s go, then.”

Zack was slouched on the sofa with his leg propped up on the coffee table, slowly working on more afghan squares and watching
One Life to Live
when he heard a key turning in the lock of the front door.

At first he froze, wondering who it could be. Then he remembered that no matter who might be breaking in or letting themselves into his apartment in the middle of the afternoon, he didn’t want them to catch him knitting. So he stuffed his needles and yarn down between the cushions of the couch, making sure everything was completely hidden before folding his arms over his chest, tucking his chin, and staring at the television screen as though that’s
all
he’d been doing since Grace dropped him off and left him to his own devices a few hours before.

A second later, the door burst open and a blur of pink and brown and white filled his peripheral vision. He turned his head to get a better look and found the brown and pink portion of the blur barreling toward him.

The blur barked, and he had a moment to breathe “Bruiser” in disbelief before it launched itself at him. A hundred and fifty pounds hitting him square in the chest didn’t feel great, but even the twist to his leg as he braced to absorb the impact was worth it to have his face bathed in sloppy kisses.

God, he’d missed this damn dog, he thought as he ruffled the Saint’s fur and tried not to drown in doggie drool.

He pretended he didn’t; acted like it hadn’t bothered him when Grace ran off with Bruiser and refused to give him back. Hey, not having a dog around, depending on him for food and walks, was a good thing, right? Gave him more time to stay out rousing and carousing.

Except that he didn’t stay out till all hours rousing and carousing. He’d fucked up his knee five ways from Sunday, which left him stuck in his apartment twenty-four hours a day, with no one to keep him company but fictitious television characters.

He sure could have used a little canine companionship this past month, that was for sure.

“Bruiser,” he said again. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

Bruiser barked again, then turned himself around and plopped his behind on the cushion next to Zack, tail thumping methodically against the leather.

Zack ran his hand down the dog’s back, finally noticing that his dog…his big, meaty,
male
dog …was dressed in some frilly pink froufrou outfit, complete with diamond-studded collar and—Good God, were those
booties
on his feet?

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asked aloud, the very sight an offense to his masculine sensibilities.

“That’s his pink sweater-and-slipper set. Do you like it?”

Zack craned his neck to glance over the back of the sofa. Grace stood on just this side of the kitchen, her hands resting lightly on her slim hips, an innocent smile playing along her lips.

Any other time, he might have taken note that she’d changed from her earlier running outfit into a pair of snug, low-cut jeans and short-waisted, long-sleeved cotton top in olive green that hugged her spectacular figure in all the right places.

Any other time. But at the moment, the only thing he could focus on was the fact that…

“He’s wearing
pink
, for Christ’s sake.”

“So? It’s my favorite color, he likes them, and they keep him warm in the winter.”

A couple reusable canvas totes sat on the counter behind her, and she turned to begin removing items. Groceries, he saw, as she moved around putting things in the cupboards and refrigerator. Healthy groceries, like juice and bananas and salad fixings.

Great.

“He’s a Saint Bernard. He doesn’t need to be kept warm during the winter. His job is to keep
others
warm during the winter.”

She shook her head, sending her loose blond hair swishing around her face as she reached up to slide a box of crackers onto a top shelf. The motion lifted her shirt and flashed him a luscious strip of pale bare skin. For a moment, his mouth went dry and his eyes locked on her midriff.

“That’s a barbaric way to think about such a sweet baby,” she corrected him. “Besides, the salt and gravel used to treat icy streets and sidewalks is horrible for the pads of animals’ feet. It burns and cuts and can cause real damage. You wouldn’t want Muffin to get hurt just going on walkies, would you?”

When Grace lowered herself from on tiptoe and her shirt fell back into place, Zack’s brain seemed to start functioning again. He replayed what he thought he’d heard her say and blinked. Once, twice, again.

He wasn’t sure what was tripping him up more. Her referring to Bruiser as a
sweet baby
when she never used to have a kind word to say about him; the fact that she’d mistakenly called him “Muffin”; or her use of the term
walkies.