Payton inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Banter. Flirtation. Good, this is what she knew—they were on equal ground again. She ran her hands along J.D.’s chest. Whether she admitted it or not, she had missed him. And it had only been an hour.

“I have a feeling I could get you out of those jeans if I wanted to,” she said.

“You’re certainly welcome to try,” he replied. He leaned down to kiss her, and Payton knew that her earlier hesitation had been wrong.

Whatever this was between her and J.D., it most definitely was not over yet.


THE DAY FLEW by far too quickly.

It was after one o’clock by the time they finally stumbled out into the bright Florida sun. Although each of them had packed extra clothes, neither had a swimsuit, and while J.D. was thoroughly in favor of seeing Payton in a bikini, there was no way he was about to wear any swimsuit that came from a hotel gift shop. Payton laughed and called him a snob, but didn’t seem at all disappointed when he suggested they walk the beach instead.

The walk led them to a nearby beachside café, which led to lunch and afternoon drinks—Payton looked as shocked when he ordered a beer as she had when she’d seen him in jeans—and by the time they headed back to their hotel they were both feeling good and warm and maybe just the slightest bit sunburned.

Partly out of convenience, partly due to laziness, and frankly because there was no beating the view, they had dinner on the hotel’s oceanfront terrace. The “scene of the crime,” Payton called it as they ordered a bottle of wine. In one sense, J.D. agreed—that was where things had all started. But not really. In truth, things had started eight years ago, at a welcome orientation, when he walked up to the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and introduced himself.

J.D. never would’ve described himself as a particularly sensitive or romantic guy—and even if he did have any tendencies of that sort, he definitely would’ve hidden them far, far beneath his rational-minded lawyer exterior—but he was in touch with his emotions enough to know that, simply stated, everything about his weekend with Payton had been perfect and he wanted more time with her.

The problem, of course, was that he had no clue whether she held a similar opinion on the subject. He sensed that she was holding back, and he understood that better than anyone. Possibly his favorite part of the weekend had been earlier in the day, the moment in the bathroom when she said she’d missed him. It was a rare thing for him to see her let down her guard like that.

J.D. realized that, sooner or later, he and Payton were going to have to have A Serious Talk, and if she didn’t initiate it, then he would. If he had learned anything from the Clark Kent Stupid-Fuck-Up-Beyond-All-Stupid-Fuck-Ups, it was that he wasn’t about to waste any more time wondering or assuming what Payton Kendall might be thinking.


“ADMIT IT—YOU were a little spitfire in law school, weren’t you?”

Payton grinned at J.D.’s question, shaking her head no. “By the time I got to law school, my rebellious, instigating days were pretty much over. My freshman year of college, per family influence no doubt, I joined protests over . . . well, everything. But by my junior year, I guess I just got tired of being so . . .” She searched for the right word. “. . . angst-y all the time.”

They lay in bed, again with sliding glass door open, so they could hear the crashing of the waves on the beach. This being their second night together, they had a routine now, a way “they” liked to do things. They had drifted into the airy, sentimental kind of conversation that lovers do after eight years of wanting to throttle each other and then realizing—oops—maybe we should just have sex instead.

“I wish I could’ve seen you back in your angst-y college days,” J.D. said.

Curled in the crook of his arm, Payton couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “You really don’t,” she assured him. “You’ve met my mother—picture her scaled down just a notch or two.”

“Considering that we’re lying here naked, I think I’ll pass on picturing your mother doing anything, thank you.” J.D. tilted her face up toward his. “Although I am kind of curious—did she hate me as much as I think she did?”

“My mother generally dislikes everyone I introduce her to,” Payton said evasively.

J.D. gave her a pointed look.

“Okay, fine—you weren’t exactly her favorite person,” she conceded.

“Does that bother you?” he asked.

Payton thought that was kind of a curious question. “No, it doesn’t.” Along with her angst-y days, her attempts to follow in her mother’s footsteps had ended long ago.

Payton noticed that J.D. relaxed again after her response, and while she had suspicions where he might have been going with his question, she wasn’t 100 percent positive. Which meant, once again, that she went for a light and teasing tone.

“Does this mean we can now talk about what you were like in college?” she asked him.

“No.”

“No?”

In one smooth move, J.D. suddenly rolled Payton over, tangling them both in the sheet and trapping her beneath him. He stared down at her with sort of a half-coy, half-serious expression. “I want to talk about what’s going to happen when we get back to Chicago.”

Payton met his gaze. Okay. Good. Frankly, she was relieved they were finally going to talk about this.

“I don’t know,” she answered him truthfully.

Now that answer he didn’t seem as pleased with.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Payton continued. “A lot, actually.”

“And?”

“And I think this has probably been the most amazing two nights of my life,” she told him. “I’d love to figure out a way for this to work back in Chicago. But I’m worried about what’s going to happen after Tuesday.”

She saw the acknowledgment in J.D.’s eyes.

“I’m worried, too,” he admitted.

“I can’t hate you again, J.D.” Payton touched his face gently.

He took her hand in his. “I thought you said it was never hate.” He said it lightly, but his expression remained serious.

“The problem is that we’re both in this race to win,” Payton said. “What’s going to happen to the one of us who the firm doesn’t choose—the one who has to leave, who has to go out and interview and start all over again somewhere else? I’d like to tell you that I won’t be resentful if they choose you—that I could swallow my pride and not be angry or embarrassed—but honestly, I’d be lying. I know myself too well. And I know you, too.”

She searched J.D.’s eyes, trying to gauge his reaction. He was quiet for a few moments. Then he rolled off her and lay on his back with one arm folded behind his head.

“So are you saying this is it?” he asked.

Payton felt something tug at her. “I’m saying . . . that I think we need to see how things go on Tuesday. Then we take it from there.” She moved next to him, wanting him to look at her. “Don’t be mad at me,” she said softly.

J.D. turned his face toward hers. “I’m not mad at you. Just mad at the situation.”

Not knowing what to say, Payton kissed him while holding his face in her hands, hoping the gesture at least somewhat conveyed the way she felt. And when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, with his chin nestled against the top of her head, Payton closed her eyes to savor the moment and forced herself not to think about what might lay ahead.


J.D. MADE UP his mind: Payton had given her answer and that was that.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he disagreed with her concerns. Come Tuesday, one of them might very well resent the other for making partner, and—given the animosity that had been the cornerstone of their eight-year relationship—who knew where that could take them?

While it was true that J.D. had some definite reactions to Payton’s “wait and see” approach—to put it bluntly, he hated it—he didn’t want to have to tell her that. And he certainly didn’t want to spend any part of their remaining time together arguing. So for the rest of the night, he said nothing.

Similarly, the next morning, when he woke Payton up by sliding over her, when he laced his fingers through hers and kissed her neck, not wanting to waste another moment with sleep, he said nothing.

During breakfast, as they joked about whether they could bill their time for the weekend, and about how Ben and Irma and Kathy and everyone else back in the office would react if they only knew what they had been up to, he said nothing.

During the airplane ride home, when Payton leaned her head against his shoulder and kept it there nearly the entire flight, J.D. may have reached over the armrest to take her hand, but he still said nothing.

And finally, when the plane landed at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, and Payton gave him a sad, regretful smile, J.D.’s heart sank because he knew he was losing her.

But even then, he said nothing.


AS THE TOWN car pulled to a stop in front of her building—and despite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon—it finally struck Payton that the weekend was over. She turned to J.D., not having a clue what she was going to say, and was surprised to see him already getting out of the car. He took her suitcase from the driver and asked him to wait, saying he would only be a few minutes.

Once inside her building, J.D. carried her suitcase upstairs and deposited it on her doorstep. But when Payton unlocked her front door, he didn’t follow as she stepped inside her apartment.

“I should get back to the car,” he said.

She nodded. “Thanks for helping me with my suitcase.” Lame. They had been home for all of about thirty seconds and she already hated the way things were between them.