52

J.D. thought about this. Then he grinned, holding out his hands.

"Or maybe we could just go to the beach." He picked a large piece of bacon off his plate, bit in with relish, and winked.

"Now that idea I like," Payton agreed, tucking her legs underneath her and leaning back in her chair to take in the view of the waves breaking against the sand. Yes, definitely—the beach sounded great.

A short while later, Payton walked down the four flights of stairs to her room. Not the most comfortable thing to do in heels, but she figured she'd run into fewer people in the hotel's internal stairwell than in the elevators, which in turn lessened the odds that anyone would notice the patchwork job she and J.D. had done on her dress.

Luckily, they'd found a safety pin to hold the zipper together. When pinning her, J.D. had kissed her neck and his hands had begun to roam, and despite the fact that Payton knew she needed to check out of her room before the time expired, he pushed her against the wall and they were on their way to some serious mischief when the telephone rang. It was the travel company, calling back to reschedule their flights for the following day. Payton snuck out, leaving it to J.D. to explain that yes, they both wanted to change their flights but, no, only one of them needed to book another night at the hotel. Fill in the blank.

When Payton got to her room, she glanced at the clock and saw she had just enough time to squeeze in a quick shower before checkout. But first things first. She pulled out her BlackBerry and scrolled through her email. Luckily it was Saturday and things seemed relatively quiet. When she got to the end, she saw she had an email from J.D.—one that he'd sent about five minutes earlier. She opened the message and read:

Stop checking your email and get back here.

Payton laughed. Wow—for J.D. that was practically mushy. She showered, got ready, threw her things into her suitcase, and before she knew it, she was back on the "Club level," opening the door to J.D.'s room with the spare key he had given her.

Although now, she supposed, it was their room.

Given their history, it was kind of surreal that she and J.D. had a "their" anything. Payton shoved her suitcase into the closet, figuring she'd decide later where to put her stuff. She paused in the marble-tiled hallway, suddenly hesitating before entering the main part of the suite.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Maybe she and J.D. should have left things on a high note. Last night was perfect, and maybe that's all they were meant to have together—just one great, crazy night, 95 percent of the details of which would have to be edited for content when she got back to Chicago and told Laney about it. Maybe now, in the light of day, things were going to be different.

Payton headed into the living room and could hear J.D. in the bathroom. From the intermittent splashing of water followed by pauses, it sounded like he was shaving. She peeked around the corner and saw that the door to the bathroom was open, so she knocked lightly. He told her to come in, so she did and—

—nearly did a double take.

"Hey, you," J.D. said with a smile, as he wiped his face with a towel. He had his shirt off, but Payton's shocked eyes were focused elsewhere on his body, a little farther south.

He was wearing jeans.

J. D. Jameson was wearing jeans.

He caught Payton's expression in the mirror. "What's with the look?"

Payton propped herself against the doorway, enjoying the view. "Nothing—I didn't think you owned jeans, that's all."

Now he gave her a look. "Of course I own jeans."

Payton stepped into the bathroom. "I didn't realize the Queen's tailors worked with denim," she teased. But the truth was, she loved it: very sexy-conservative-businessman-gets-down-to-earth-on-the-weekend chic. And had she mentioned that he was shirtless?

"Very funny." J.D. reached for the short-sleeved polo shirt he'd tossed onto the marble vanity before shaving.

Oh, hell, no. In two strides, Payton crossed the bathroom and put her arms around J.D.'s waist, stopping him from putting on his shirt. She stood up on her toes and kissed him.

"What was that for?" J.D. asked.

Payton smiled. "I don't know—I think I missed you."

Wow. That had just flown right out of her mouth before she'd had a chance to think about it. She quickly covered. "Or maybe I just really, really, like you in these jeans."

J.D. peered down at her. His eyes probed hers, and she had a feeling he was debating whether to call her on her slipup. But then he grinned. "In that case, maybe I should never take them off."

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."