Read Online Playing for Love at Deep Haven by Katy Regnery - Free Book Online Page B

glassed-in
shower and triple shower heads . Yes,
please. Can’t wait to give that a whirl later.
    She looked at
herself in the large vanity mirror, brightened by about twenty white globe
lights around its perimeter. Yes, she had changed a lot since college. Baby fat—and
all the rest of the fat—was gone now. Her hair wasn’t a wild, overprocessed disaster with four or five different shades
of blonde, red, and a brown that had turned out purple. She dropped her glance
to the expensive black lace bra that kept her larger-than-average breasts at a
perky angle. She was different, all right.
    A sobering
thought occurred to her: was it possible he’d broken up with the fat Bohemian chick
only to be interested in the svelte brunette nine years later? She couldn’t
help wondering. In the years since he’d walked away from her, she’d run just
about every possible scenario for him rejecting her, and her looks had always
taken a beating.
    She pulled out a
beat-up, frayed, navy-blue Yale sweatshirt from her duffel and threw it over
her head. The sweatshirt swam on her small frame, but it was her favorite. She
was half-way down the stairs before she realized her mistake in wearing it. Oh
no. It was the same exact sweatshirt she’d worn practically every day of sophomore
year. She’d made out with Zach several times that October weekend in this very
piece of clothing.
    She briefly
thought about running back up to her room, but he was waiting at the foot of
the stairs, holding the necks of three bottles in one hand and two crystal
tumblers in the other. She swore he almost dropped all five when he saw her.
    “Holy shit,” he said,
staring at the oversize sweatshirt. “You still have that? You look like . . .”
    “I didn’t . . . I
mean, I wasn’t trying to re-create any memories here. It was on top of my bag.
The, um, first thing on top of my duffel bag. I’m not trying to make a
statement . . . God, it’s just a sweatshirt.” She walked right by his open
mouth and wide eyes and turned toward the living room, her cheeks hot. She sat
down on the edge of the couch, on the middle cushion, and fixed her glance on
the roaring fire.
    My battered heart
    Split asunder.
    Rent and torn.
    Twisted flame.
    She committed
the short verse to memory. She’d write it down later in her useless little
notebook of poems that no one would ever see.
    “Scotch,” he
said softly, placing the bottles and glasses on the coffee table before her,
then retreating to a wingback chair to her right. “You choose.”
    She looked up at
him. “Twelve year. Neat.”
    “Not eighteen?”
    “Let’s start out
simple.”
    He poured two
glasses and handed her one. Her fingers brushed his, and their eyes smashed
into each other for a second before she looked away. A bolt of heat raced from
her fingers to her gut and then lower, where it pooled, pulsing with awareness.
She scooted back into the couch, curling her feet up under her, watching as he propped his bare feet up on a matching footrest. She took a
shaky breath, bringing the glass to her lips.
    “What are we
toasting to?” he asked with a side-glance.
    “I don’t know,”
she answered honestly, pausing.
    “To Vile and Z?”
    She shook her
head, praying he wouldn’t make a toast to Violet-like-the-flower, or her face
would betray too much. She braced herself.
    “To writers?”
    She nodded,
relieved, and took a small sip, letting the amber liquid burn a path down her
throat. It felt soothing. It felt melting and welcoming. When she looked up, he
was grinning at her.
    “So, your mom’s
still a nurse in Portland?’
    She nodded.
“Yep. I’m supposed to spend the weekend after next with her. On my way home.”
    “How is she?”
    “The same.
Working too much. How about your folks? Your family’s still in Upstate New
York?”
    “Cape Vincent.
They’ll never leave.”
    She swirled her
glass and kept her eyes down. She remembered that his relationship with his
parents had been unhappy and