Remember When 2 (2 page)

   It is surreal, the effect his body has on me. The racing electrical charges run along every nerve ending, the look on Trip’s face driving me closer to the edge. I am going to lose it. And soon.

   He moves a hand to my front and holds a thumb against me as I rock against him. Oh God… I am
so close
. I moan; he growls. I arch backwards without inhibition, giving him an all-access view as he watches me, completely naked and vulnerable and
his,
his expression turning pained as he grits out, “Oh,
God
, babe, you are so beautiful when you’re on top of me.”

   That’s it. I’m gone.

   I spiral completely out of control, washed away as wave after wave crashes against me, registering somewhere in the back of my mind that Trip is coming, too.

   I collapse against him, elated and exhausted, sweaty and spent.

   And happy.

   I know I felt happy.

   But when I woke up, and reached an arm across the empty side of my bed, I didn’t know what I felt.

   Confused, certainly. And sweaty. A little achy between the thighs. And very, very much alone.

   I dragged my overheated body from my bed and gave a whack to the air conditioner, hearing as it whirred back to life. I truly loved my modest apartment, and I really, really loved living in New York City, but there were cons to living in a “classic” building. Like unreliable wiring.

   I didn’t know what the deal was with the explicit Trip dream. Logically, I was fully aware that he was away on location for a shoot, but it sure felt like he was right there in my apartment just a few short moments prior.

   I took a look at the “
Class of ’91: Save-The-Date!
” postcard that had come in the mail the day before, and swiped it off my nightstand to check it over. I was stunned yet again at the thought that a few more months would mark ten solid years since we’d graduated high school. I hadn’t spoken to anyone yet about it and wondered if we were going to bother showing up for the party, which apparently was being planned a year in advance for the following fall. The reunion announcement brought some pretty vivid memories back to the surface; all the fun times spent back then with my friends, and of course, Trip.

   I tossed the postcard back onto my nightstand and started getting ready for work. For once, I wasn’t rushing around in order to do so. My graphic dream had woken me up before the alarm had even gone off, so I had plenty of time for a leisurely cup of coffee before my shower. I wandered from my bedroom to the kitchen before settling myself down in my too-quiet living room, twiddling my left hand against the coffee mug, hearing the clack of my new diamond ring tapping against the porcelain.

   The apartment seemed so empty now that Trip wasn’t there. It was strange. I knew I missed him, but I didn’t realize I was missing him so much.

Chapter 2

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

   “Warren! A word in my office, please!”

   I jumped at the sound of my editor yelling my name across the room. I clicked the screensaver on my computer before swiveling around in my chair and slipping into my heels. The dress code at Howell House Publishing was normally business-casual, although the formal footwear, for some reason, was always mandatory. But only when I wasn’t at my desk.

   I looked toward the commanding voice to see Devin Fields standing in his doorway. He was Senior Editor of
Now!
Magazine, the Sunday insert for every second-rate newspaper within the tri-state area. He reigned supreme from his corner office, a large glass enclosure that we in the copywriting department lovingly referred to as The Shark Tank.

   His tone told me he wasn’t very happy with me at the moment, but his stance told me he was practically itching to tear into me. Devin normally chose one thing a day to blow his top over and it looked as though it was my turn to be the unwitting scapegoat and undeserving target of his wrath. Again.

   I held my head up high and walked into his office.

   He closed the glass door behind me and asked me to sit down. I chose one of the black leather club chairs across from his desk as he planted himself down in the ergonomic seat behind it. He steepled his fingers in front of the cleft in his determined chin and stared me down before speaking. “Miss Warren,” he said at last, “why is it that I asked you into my office today?”

   I hated when he spoke to me as if I were a misbehaving child who’d just been caught stealing a piece of candy. It was rather condescending and there was no need for it.

   “Devin, why don’t we just skip the intimidation and get on with your reason for calling me in here, okay?”

   He broke his pose to point down at the papers in front of him, his eyes never breaking contact with mine. “
This
, Layla. This is the reason I called you in here. But I’m quite sure you’re already aware of that.”

   I craned my neck to peek at the stapled sheets between us, pretending that I needed to see what he was referring to, but he was right. I already knew what it was. It was a three-page article I’d written on the dangers of methane gasses. He stood up, placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward, close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “Might I ask how something like this wound up, yet again, under my door this morning?”

   “Devin, it’s a really important piece. Have you even read it? I thought maybe we could-”

   “Layla. The people who read
Now!
Magazine are not interested in the hazards posed by cow farts.”

   I had to stifle my laugh at him actually using the word “fart”. The term was not very Devin-Fields of him. But he didn’t break stride and just continued with his reprimand. “The readers of our little periodical
don’t care
about the environment, or the latest medical study, or politics.”

   “But Devin, it’s an election year!”

   He ignored my outburst and ran a hand through his thick brown hair in exasperation before continuing. “People who read
Now!
are sitting around the breakfast table in their jammies, trying to relax with a cup of coffee on a Sunday morning. They’re interested in heart-warming little stories about Billy Hanson’s lemonade stand and the opening of the latest Starbucks. If they want hard-hitting news, they can pick up a copy of
TIME
. And our
copywriters
,” he said, practically through clenched teeth, “should only be interested in filling the ad space in between all those delightful little fluff pieces. Are we clear?”

   We both knew it wasn’t the end of the subject, as it wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time he and I would need to have this conversation.

   I’d been working at
Now!
since ‘97, submitting new articles that I’d written every few weeks since my first day on the job. When I was first hired, I’d taken the copywriting gig, hoping it would be a stepping stone toward a much bigger career in journalism. Three years later, and I was still sweating it out in the same circle I’d been running in since leaving college.

   I’d graduated NYU in ‘95 with a degree in creative writing. I thought I could parlay that accomplishment into a journalistic career, maybe do some in-depth pieces on a freelance basis for
The New York Times
, or, at the very least, command my own witty column in a high-profile magazine like
The New Yorker
or
Newsweek
. But reality had other ideas. I’d spent a couple years doing some temp work at my father’s architecture firm and picking up any odd jobs I could get in between interviews, just waiting for my life to start. But I was one of thousands of recent college graduates looking for work in the city, and I couldn’t even get hired as a go-fer at
The Aquarian
or
Time Out New York
.

   Finally, armed with my “Rachel” haircut and a deflated ego, I submitted resumes to every single printed rag in the city.
Now!
Magazine was the only place willing to take a chance on a bright-faced, wide-eyed girl from the suburbs, fresh out of school and ready to take on the world.

   They assigned me to their reception desk.

   After a few months of dropping not-so-subtle hints to anyone within earshot that I was looking for a writing job, I was tipped off to an opening in the copywriting department. It’s where I’d been ever since. But it didn’t mean I had to like it.

   I looked at Devin Fields, ten years my senior and lord of my destiny. If he was a less hard-headed supervisor or a more encouraging mentor, I may have had a shot at doing a lot more than just writing ads by then. Oh, I knew I’d get my chance eventually. I’d seen him move some talented writers up the ranks once they’d finally paid their dues. Devin knew I was hungry and that he couldn’t hold me back forever. But it just felt like it was taking
so long
. Why oh why did he have to be the one responsible for whether or not I made it in this business?

   And why did he have to be so damned good-looking?

   I crossed my arms, but managed to answer his question without further antagonizing him. “Crystal.”

   “Good. Then it’s settled.” He swiped the pages off his blotter and handed them over. “Here. You’ll probably want these for your files. And Layla?”

   I didn’t even try to hide my discontent as I answered, “Yes?”

   “The piece was very well-written. Nice job.”

   I went back out into The Showroom: a mile-wide expanse of linoleum, cubicles, and human misery accented with fluorescent lighting.

   Okay, fine, I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t as bad as all that.

   The lighting was actually halogen.

   My desk had recently been moved to within Devin’s line of sight, so I tried not to look sullen as I took a seat in my chair, just in case he was watching.

   I saw a pair of eyes slowly ascend over the cubicle wall to my left, with Paul Slovak’s voice attached to them. “What’s the infraction today, Warren?”

   Paul was a huge pain in my ass. He was a typical brown-noser who could never mind his own business. He wore gigantic, coke-bottle glasses which made his big, creepy bug eyes look even bigger, creepier and buggier. I referred to him as Sleestak behind his back.

   I ignored his question and instead changed the subject. “Paul, did you happen to get in touch with Dave at The Sneaker Hut yet? He hasn’t approved our copy and I can’t send it to print without his go-ahead.”

   Sleestak procured the yellow post-it note I’d left on his desk an hour before. He mumbled something unintelligible before slithering back to his cave and letting us both get back to work.

   I refreshed my computer screen and tried to concentrate on the words in front of me. But, as so often happened lately, I found my mind drifting whenever I caught the sparkle on my left hand from the light of the monitor. I absentmindedly fiddled with the diamond ring there, still getting used to the feeling of it on my finger.

   My boyfriend—excuse me—my
fiancé
had only just popped the question two days before. I didn’t normally sleep over at his place on a weeknight, but it just so happened that our anniversary fell on a Wednesday. We’d only been officially dating for one year, but we’d been on and off for quite some time before that, so it’s not as though we were rushing into an engagement.

   I was still pretty damned surprised when he asked me, though. And if I was surprised, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how shocked my co-workers would be. It’s not as though I had a bunch of close friends at the office, but I found it pretty strange that no one had noticed, much less even asked about the big, fat, diamond ring on my finger. None of them even knew that I had a boyfriend, never mind a serious, semi-famous one. Which was a good thing, actually, because I really didn’t feel the need to divulge my relationship to any of those people.  

   Sleestak poked his head back over the cubicle wall. “Dave at Sneaker Hut said we’re go for launch.”

   “Thanks, Paul. I’ll drop a note on Devin’s desk on my way out.”

   My mention of leaving made Sleestak take notice of the time, unnecessarily announcing to me that it was after five. He quickly shut down his computer, grabbed his man-purse and made a break for the door.

   I decided it was time I high-tailed it out of there myself. I only had two hours to get back to my apartment to tweeze, shave or bleach every hair on my body, take a shower, and pour myself into a knockout beige knit dress that I’d bought the day before for the occasion. I had reservations waiting at
Ocean
, for me and my
future husband
.

   Wow. It was going to take longer than two days before I’d get used to saying that.

   I closed down my workstation and headed off into Devin’s office. I was hoping he wouldn’t keep me any later than necessary.