Page 27 of Play for Keeps

Grabbing the discarded towel, he cleaned himself up as much as he could be bothered. His heart thrummed against his breastbone, beating harder than when he ran wind sprints with his team. A smile curved his mouth as he pulled the phone away from his ear, switched to speaker, and lowered the volume to minimize the chances of his father overhearing through the condo’s paper-thin walls.

Resting his hand over his heart, he drew in a bracing breath. “This was great, but let’s not do it again.”

“No?”

He caught her disappointment, but her reluctance strengthened his resolve. Sort of. “It’s not that I don’t want you. Trust me, my right hand and I have been spending a lot of quality time together lately.” He forced a laugh but sobered quickly. “But as much as I want you, I don’t want our every call to be some kind of…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Foreplay?”

“Yes.” The second the word was out, he realized he’d chosen incorrectly. “No. I mean, this is all sort of foreplay, right?”

“I guess one could call whatever this is foreplay,” she conceded.

“I don’t want to make our conversations all about sex, because I don’t think our relationship is all about sex.”

A long silence followed. This time, he was pretty sure she wasn’t pausing for pleasure.

“Ty, you’re in a really weird place right now, and I—”

He had to cut her off. “Don’t.” He took a shaky breath. “Can’t we just…let it be for now?”

She laughed softly. “Yeah, Ty, we can let it be.”

“I feel good. Incredible.”

“But you don’t want to do this again.”

“I wanna do it again so bad I can taste it.” She laughed, and he managed a lazy, “Wasso funny?” His words were slurred with lazy satisfaction.

“I think we know which of us is gonna be the screamer.”

Chapter 7

Ty was steadfast in his determination to nip any further phone antics in the bud, much to Millie’s frustration. She also found him a little more appealing for his sexual scruples. Talk about annoying ironies. Tipping the paper umbrella out of her way with a flick of her fingernail, Millie didn’t even bother lifting the glass to take a long pull from the double straws Bartender Bill always put in her drinks. Icy shards of strawberry daiquiri slid down her throat but didn’t quell the searing heat inside her.

The fire burning inside her started as an ember. A single unextinguished spark leftover from the holocaust of one indulgent phone call. As the days passed, the glow reignited. She did her best to play along, dampening her expectations each time the phone rang, but every time they hung up, she was aflame again.

Twice, she’d tried to tempt him into dumping his misguided moral code, and twice, she had been gently refused. Unaccustomed to being rebuffed, Millie found herself growing edgier and edgier with each passing day. Three nights ago, she had snapped and told him not to bother calling her until he was a free man.

Ty, of course, ignored her hissy fit. He called every night, right on time. And when she refused to answer, he proceeded to have charming conversations with her voicemail. Though she wasn’t a fan of his impression of her voice, she had to admit his knack for exchanging flirty banter with himself nearly made her crack a couple of smiles. Giving her slushy drink a desultory stir, she indulged in the one big sigh she allowed herself each day, then took a healthy gulp of the rum-laced cocktail.

“Who repressed your First Amendment rights?”

Millie rolled her eyes as she released the double barrels of her straws and grimaced when she caught sight of her friend Avery’s latest thrift-shop getup. The other woman was three inches shorter and a damn sight curvier than a porn star, but the population at large would never know. Wolcott’s one and only women’s literature and feminist studies professor covered herself from head to toe in a mishmash of fabrics that would have made Joseph’s coat of a kazillion colors look drab.

Though Millie liked to rib her friend about her boho-chic fashion choices, in her deepest, innermost thoughts, she envied Avery a little. Not that she wanted to swap closets, necessarily, but because she’d never once heard the other woman apologize or even appear uncomfortable with the way she looked. Avery’s utter self-possession twanged one of the few threads of insecurity Millie would admit to owning. So she covered with sharp-edged commentary.

Cocking an eyebrow at the ancient army jacket Avery wore, she shook her head. “What? The Che Guevara look is back, and no one told me?”

Avery simply smirked as she lifted her usual glass of neat scotch in mock salute. “Power to the people.”

Millie didn’t bother to hide her smile as she watched her friend’s smirk slide to a grimace as she swallowed. Avery had started drinking scotch because she was all about tearing down gender barriers—real or perceived—regardless of her own personal preferences. Millie admired her friend’s tenacity but refused to feed Avery’s already healthy ego by saying so. She enjoyed the slightly contentious byplay the two of them had developed over the years, even if Kate got tired of playing the peacemaker.

“What’s our cause of the week?” Millie asked, looking forward to the distraction of one of Avery’s tirades. “We’ve worn out equal pay.”

Avery quirked a brow. “Oh? Are you getting paid the same as a man?”

“A man wouldn’t have the balls to do my job.”

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