Present Day

David groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the blank white ceiling above his bed.

"Hopeless," he muttered aloud.

He straightened the covers over his chest. Flicked on his bedside lamp. Took a sip of water. Flicked the lamp back off. Stared up at the ceiling once again.

He'd been lying here for hours now, waiting for sleep to come.

Why? he thought. Why even bother? He knew it wasn't happening. Not tonight. His mind refused to shut off. It was stuck in an endless loop, as usual. Replaying the same scenes over and over and over again.

This new nighttime workout routine might have been a mistake. He'd hoped it would help with the insomnia, but it only seemed to make things worse. His mind always wandered back to the same topic while he ran. The same face, the same night. The same morning. And the memories just seemed to keep right on running, running, running in his head afterward.

"Power Off. Goodbye!"

He could press the big round silver power button and make those words flash across his treadmill's LED display. If only his brain came with a power button.

David closed his eyes again and rolled onto his side. His left side. He always slept best on his left side. No matter what position he fell asleep in the night before, he always seemed to wake up the next morning on his left, with his knees curled up toward his chest. Every single morning, for as long as he could remember. Every morning, including that one....

He'd started on the other side that night. He'd been flat on his back when she pulled the covers up over him and tucked him in the way his mother used to do when he was little. And then she'd rolled him onto the wrong side and started rubbing his back. His mother never used to do that. He remembered the sensation. Cool fingers running along his shoulders and down the length of his spine. In some corner of his mind, he'd known that he should tell her to stop. He shouldn't let her touch him. Not like that. Rubbing and kneading. Working her way downward. Downward. Downward. Not a direction his mind had any business going.

"What are you doing?" he'd mumbled into his pillow.

But it had been too late at that point. The Valium must have kicked in. The vice around his chest had finally released, followed by an overwhelming weariness. Exhaustion in its purest form. He could only compare it to the feeling he'd experienced after crossing the finish line of the New York City marathon—that feeling when every last ounce of energy has been mustered and spent, and every movement starts to feel like floating and sinking at the same time. Like your whole body has suddenly flooded with liquid lead. Legs too heavy to take another step. Head too heavy to hold upright. Eyelids too heavy to hold open. Tongue too heavy to speak. Brain too heavy to think. Every last molecule of your being too heavy to do anything but give in to it—fall to the ground and collapse into oblivion, in whatever position you happen to find yourself.

So he'd fallen asleep on his right side that particular night. On his right side, with her hands on him. That was the position when the wave of fatigue had overtaken him. But it wasn't the position where he found himself the next morning. He'd shifted in his sleep at some point in the night, just as he always did.

She must have shifted with him.

He remembered how the heaviness of sleep had lifted slowly that morning. Stealthily, the way the darkness of deep night fades into the dawn. Not like his usual return to consciousness—the flip of a switch from sleep to full alertness the moment the alarm clock starts to blare. It had been a gradual awakening. At first, nothing more than the faintest flickering in his fingertips and toes. Then a prickle of warm, delicious firelight, dancing up the lengths of his legs and down the lengths of his arms. Meeting in the center. Joining together in a brighter, hotter flame.

His body had come to full attention that morning, long before the light managed to reach his conscious mind. He'd been lying on his left side, with his knees curled toward his chest, and the full length of her body spooned against him. His right arm was flung across her hip. His left arm tucked in the space beneath her waist, bent at the elbow, with his forearm locking her in place against him.

The tip of his nose had woken next, tickled by her hair where it nuzzled against the back of her head. He followed the trail of baby-fine wisps to their source at the nape of her neck and then to the hollow behind her ear. And then his lips had woken up. And his teeth. And the tip of his tongue.

He'd heard the sudden intake of her breath, but his brain hadn't registered the meaning. She'd frozen for a moment. He'd felt the change as every muscle of her body tensed. His arm around her waist had loosened. His mouth had formed a sound—whisper soft—although his mind had not yet woken up enough to comprehend the meaning.

"Penelope."

"David," she whispered back.

Not Mr. Powers. David. She said his name with such yearning in her voice that he mistook it for one of his dreams. His arms had tightened around her waist, crushing her against him. She hadn't pulled away. No way she hadn't felt his need pressed against her from behind. But she'd merely taken one of his hands and re-positioned it, tucking it beneath the hemline of her flannel pajama top. He'd groaned into the space behind her ear as his fingers splayed wide against the smooth, warm skin beneath.

At last, she'd turned in his arms to face him. His eyes had flickered open.

She had her hair in a messy ponytail, and the loosened tendrils framed her face. He ran his hand across her cheek to smooth a strand out of her eyes.

Those eyes, searching his face. Asking him a silent question. For the life of him, he couldn't think of the answer.

His hand was on her face. His thumb moved downward from her cheek to trace the outline of her upper lip. Her mouth had parted slightly at his touch. He felt his lips drifting closer as he watched her eyelids flutter closed. Two little half-moons, fringed in pale white-gold. He'd pressed his lips against the lids.

His brain had started to function just a little then. Something was different. Something about her eyes. The lashes. Were her lashes always so light? Had she done something to them? No, no. Naked, he realized. She usually wore mascara to darken them, but they were blond. Naturally. She was blonde. Natural blonde.

Natural blonde. Somewhere in his mind, an alarm bell started sounding. Natural blonde. He had a rule against natural blondes. He had a rule against a lot of things.

No one under twenty-six.

No one making less than six figures.

No one living outside Manhattan.

No co-workers.

No no no no no....

He couldn't remember exactly what had happened next. Somehow, he'd ended up on his feet. Standing beside the bed. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She had the covers pulled up to her neck to cover herself. What had he said to her?

"I think it's time we re-established some ground rules."

It had seemed like the right decision at the time. He'd stopped it just in time. He hadn't kissed her. He'd never crossed that line.

"It's my fault," he'd said to her. "I'm not blaming you. Completely my fault. I had no business calling you in the middle of the night like that."

"OK."

"It won't happen again," he told her.

"I said OK."

"Let's just forget this ever happened. OK?"

"Right." She'd gotten out of the bed then and headed for the living room. "I'll get going."

"Thank you for—you know. Helping me. Last night."

"No problem."

"I'll see you Monday."

"Tuesday." She retrieved her black winter coat from where she'd left it on the floor. She stood at the door with her back to him as she pulled it on over her pajamas. "Monday is New Year's."

"OK, then. I'll see you Tuesday."

She hadn't answered. She'd pulled the apartment door open. He'd come up behind her and put a hand on her elbow. "Penny, are you upset?"

She'd turned to face him then. She'd met his eyes at last. Lashes the color of straw, a little darker than before. Dampened with morning dew.

"Shit. Don't be upset..."

She'd swiped her hands across her face. "I'm fine," she said. Her eyes had flitted away from his. Her lips had curled in a too-bright smile. "Happy New Year, boss."

"Happy New Year, Penny."

He hadn't known what else to say. He'd smiled back and closed the door behind her.

David buried his face in his pillow now, trying to blot out the memory. He'd seen that expression on her face again, another time. He could see it now when he shut his eyes. When was that? At work, that time. In her cubicle. Nearly a year had passed, and it was Christmastime again. He'd been in such a mad rush to tie up all the loose ends before his holiday ski trip to Aspen. He'd forgotten to buy her a present. He'd dropped by her cubicle on his way out the door with one of those poinsettia plants they sell outside on the sidewalk. And he'd seen that look again. The barest tightening of a muscle at her jaw. A glance downward. A too-bright smile. "Merry Christmas, boss," she'd said.

And he hadn't been able to get it out of his head the whole three weeks in Aspen.

He'd had a miserable time. Couldn't sleep a wink the whole trip. He'd tried drugging

himself with scotch and nighttime cold medicine, but it hadn't helped a bit. He'd spent the

whole three weeks just like this: lying in bed, staring up at a blank ceiling, waiting for

sleep that never came.

David sat up in his bed now and flicked on a bedside lamp. He didn't want to think

about Christmas. Anything but Christmas. It was summertime, for crying out loud. He

needed a distraction. Something to take his mind off Christmas . . . and poinsettias . . .

and a certain someone's face. . . .

Maybe he needed to go on a date, he thought with a sigh. This had to be his

longest dry spell in a while. How long had it been since he had brought a woman back here?

He hadn't been making any effort lately. He spent most of his evenings working late or

home alone in his apartment, running on his treadmill. Maybe he needed to force

himself. Go to the bar. Pick someone up. Didn't matter who. Anyone would do at this point,

even if she didn't meet the rules exactly.

Forget the rules.

It wasn't like he had to make any kind of commitment. He couldn't remember the

last time a relationship had lasted for more than a couple weeks anyway. . . .

Celia, he supposed. They'd dated for a solid two months, and then he'd taken her

to Aspen. That's how he spent his Christmas last year. That relationship had seemed

promising at the time, but the trip killed it. They'd both had a miserable time. He'd spent

the whole three weeks in Aspen, walking on eggshells around her, counting the days until he could head back to the office and relax.

It wasn't Celia's fault, of course. He knew why he'd been wound up so tight on that

trip.

Guilt.

Guilt over a poinsettia plant, of all idiotic things.

He hadn't been able to get it out of his mind for some reason. He'd given that plant

to Penny on his way out the door, and he hadn't missed the look on her face. Ridiculous.

His assistant. What did she expect, a pair of diamond earrings?

Still, he'd been utterly unable to shake that leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach

the whole time he was out there in Aspen. He probably should have done something

about it then and there to ease his conscience. He almost had. Why hadn't he?

David remembered now. Celia had dragged him along to some tacky flea-market

gift shop, and he'd wandered over to a table with boxes of old vintage postcards. He'd

started browsing through them just to kill time, and he stopped when he came to one from Waikiki. The front of the card bore a palm-lined beach, faded with age, and the one-word caption: Aloha!

For a moment, he had considered buying it and sending it to Penny. He'd planned

inside his head exactly what he would write:

Wish we were here. Remind me next time how much I hate skiing...

But he hadn't done it. Stupid idea, he'd told himself. The trip was nearly over at

that point anyway. He'd be back in New York City before Penny even saw it. He'd stood

there hesitating for just a moment longer. Then Celia had tapped him on the shoulder.

He hadn't wanted her to see. He'd stuck the postcard back into the box with all the

others and walked away...

Was it a mistake? David wondered now. Was it all a mistake? Was that why he felt

so rotten on that trip? Because he was there with the wrong person. Because he'd left the

right person back in New York City, sulking in her cubicle, exchanging witty repartee with

a half-dead poinsettia plant.

But that couldn't be!

There were rules. Celia met the rules. Penny didn't. Simple as that.

It had seemed so clear before. Rules were necessary. To protect himself. When

people forgot to protect themselves, it didn't end well. It wouldn't have ended well with

Penny.

What would have happened if he'd taken her to Aspen last Christmas? Or if he

hadn't stopped himself in bed with her the Christmas before? What would it have gotten

him? A few fleeting moments of happiness. And then a mess. A big, ugly mess. Just the

thought of it made his pulse quicken with anxiety. The kind of mess that took a long time

to clean up. Months. Years. Maybe you never cleaned it up. Maybe your life became a

permanent jumble of broken vows and court dates, and alimony payments. And

loneliness.

Look at Leo.

It didn't matter now, David told himself. He'd made his bed. Now, he had to lie in it.

It wasn't like he had a choice. Not anymore. He'd had a choice before, but he'd closed

the door on it. And now it was over. Now she didn't want to see his face again. That was

clear enough.

What had she thought when she found what he had left her in the sweatshirt

pocket? She must have noticed it at some point. Had she understood the message? He

wished he'd had time to write something more. Hell, he wished he'd had time to talk to

her. To tell her—tell her what?

Maybe it was for the best.

Rules were rules for a reason.

Right?