Cabin Fever

1

Dylan Powell never expected her last time sleeping with Eric would be in a Baltimore hotel room while ESPN played on in the background.

Asportscaster was hashing out the details of some new steroid scandal, and Eric emerged from the shower, wearing nothing but an obscenely small Marriott towel around his waist.

Wanna have a go? he’d asked, waggling his brows and giving the bed a meaningful side-eye.

And so they had.

It wasn’t supposed to be the last time. As far as Dylan was concerned, all that was standing between her and eternal happiness with Eric, was their company’s strict no internal dating policy. For their week in Baltimore, they’d paid for two rooms, but they’d only used one.

As it turned out, though, Eric wasn’t on the eternal happiness track.

Not with Dylan, anyway.

If you looked any more miserable, I would think your credit card statement came today. Kara Tanner handed Dylan a glass of white wine and draped an arm over her shoulder. Cheer up, at least it’s an open bar.

Dylan shifted uneasily in her stiletto heels, feet already aching after a full day in them. Whoever had invited heels had not thought about plus-sized ladies when designing them. If they didn’t make her calves look so good, she would have switched to flats years ago. As it was, she hadn’t expected to get stuck at the office an extra three hours today, so the added bonus of free booze wasn’t doing much to lift her spirits. She wanted slippers, and pajamas, and maybe a little Ben & Jerry’s to go with her wine.

The last thing she wanted was to be standing around the Stylish Life office, sipping Chardonnay, and giving her best wishes to Eric Magnus for his brand-new raise and promotion, and his engagement. The promotion part stung, since the company’s president all but told her was supposed to be hers, and yet as soon as the very old-fashioned board members found out Eric was getting married, he was suddenly their number one candidate.

Funny, how no one, and especially not Dylan, had heard a single whisper about this fiancée until a promotion was on the line. She fumed and took another sip of her wine, but it tasted bitter.

What was worse, was that she couldn’t tell Kara or anyone else at work why she was so mad. They were all going to assume she was upset about losing the promotion—which was true—but what no one else knew was she had lost her dream job and her boyfriend in one fell swoop.

In spite of Kara’s friendship, they were still co-workers, so Dylan had kept her romance with Eric a closely guarded secret. So guarded, no one had thought twice about making her come to the party.

Eric’s surprise engagement-slash-raise party.

Engaged.

When she’d gotten the email invite that morning, she’d been in the process of looking at cute getaway rentals within an hour of the city. She had big plans to celebrate her promotion with Eric. Sure, there was plenty of romantic stuff to do in DC proper, but she was going to suggest they spend the weekend together, somewhere they weren’t going to bump into anyone they knew.

Guess that’s not happening anymore.

If there were stages of grief when it came to finding out your boyfriend was a lying, cheating, womanizing, job-stealing dickwad, Dylan had reached the anger part of her journey. It was located in between the sob uncontrollably in the bathroom and drink all the wine in her apartment phases.

She was getting a head start on the wine stage. Hopefully acceptance came sometime after the hangover wore off.

"Dyl, I know it’s a bummer you didn’t get that job. You worked super hard for it, and we all thought you were a shoo-in for head editor, but you have to at least pretend to be happy for him. You look like you’re at a funeral. Kara elbowed her, and Dylan plastered on a fake grin. Oh no, that’s worse, stop."

The party had been going for about twenty minutes, but Eric had miraculously managed to dodge her the whole time. It was a big office, but not that big. He was definitely avoiding her.

The only blessing of the day was that his fiancée, Bethany, wasn’t in attendance. Dylan had done some snooping on that front once she’d fixed her smeared mascara and pulled her shit together, and because of the party’s last-minute nature, the office would only be giving their felicitations to Eric. It was, after-all, originally meant to be a promotion celebration.

Her promotion celebration.

Eric’s fiancée being absent was the reason she’d agreed to stay. If she had to come face to face with the other woman—or was Dylan the other woman?—she didn’t think she would be able to keep from flying into a fit of hysterics. And she wasn’t the type of woman who lost her senses over a man.

She also used to believe she wasn’t the kind of woman to get cheated on, though, so maybe she wasn’t as smart as she thought.

Finishing off the wine she left the empty glass on a nearby desk. I’m going to get a refill, you want another one?

Kara held her half-full glass aloft. I’m okay. But grab me one of those hot crab things if you spot a waiter. Deeelish. Kara was short, about 5’3 to Dylan’s own 5’7, her dark hair was cut in a smart bob, and her brown eyes tended to always have a mischievous glint in them. If there was anyone in the office Dylan might have entrusted her secret to, it would be Kara. But it was too late now.

Finding a roving waiter—how had they hired waiters on such short notice?—she grabbed a napkin and loaded it up with crab tarts and a few mini-bruschetta. With the bounty of appetizers balanced in one hand, she found the makeshift bar and got another glass of wine. When she turned to make her way back to Kara, she nearly ran headlong into the man of the hour himself.

Eric. She was startled but managed to hide her unease by focusing on the overburdened napkin in her hand.

Need some help?

He was gorgeous. Tall, blond, big blue eyes, and cheekbones she could use as a letter opener. He looked like he was either about to run for Senate or had just come from a rowing session with the Winklevoss twins. When Eric smiled—like he was doing right then—one corner of his mouth pulled up, making his grin lopsided. She used to think it was charming and handsome, now she… who was she kidding, it was still charming and handsome.

No. She pulled her hand closer to her, almost losing the whole stack. "I don’t need any help from you."

Dyl…

Dylan had plenty to be mad about right then but picked the most obvious target. Congrats on the engagement. She made sure to draw out the last word so each and every syllable was enunciated. I’m sure she’s a wonderful gal. Known her long?

His smile faltered. I wanted to talk to you about this before—

Before what? Before the wedding day? Were you planning to wait until it was announced in the newspaper, or was I just going to get the invitation in the mail like everyone else in the office? She sipped her wine, then widened her eyes dramatically. "No, of course not. Because you wouldn’t invite your girlfriend to your wedding." Her voice was low, but still Eric gave a nervous sideways glance around the room.

Can we go to my office?

Your old office, or the new head editor office? Her glare narrowed, and she didn’t bother to wait for him to answer. No. I need to take these over to Kara. She felt a weird need for him to know that all the snacks weren’t hers. Maybe it was leftover trauma from a childhood of being called names like whale and Big Dill but she still harbored fear that people saw her and thought of her as the fat girl in the room. Some part of her had felt freed from those thoughts by being with a guy like Eric, and they had all come racing back to the surface after one glass of wine and a huge rejection.

Can I call you tonight? Eric asked.

Dylan lost her moxie. One second, she was ready to tell him where to stick his phone call, and the next she was lost in his stupid blue eyes and his stupid hopeful smile, and his perfect goddamn face. She just wanted to remember what it was like to be loved, even for one more second.

Fine.

Okay, I’ll call you. We’ll talk.

Great, she grumbled, shaking off her sad-sack romantic notions and already regretting that she’d agreed to hear him out. This ought to be rich.

Instead of leaving the party and going home to sit next to the phone, though, Dylan opted for Plan B. She wove through the coworkers who were oozing well-wishes all over Eric and found Kara again.

You want to get out of here?

But… free booze.

Yeah, but who wants to get drunk in front of Sheryl from Accounting? Don’t make me remind you of the Christmas party.

Holiday Party, Kara corrected, grimacing at the memory of her now-infamous lap dance with Pete the mail guy. No, Dylan wouldn’t have to remind her, that particular event was still fresh in everyone’s mind six months later. Poor Kara, it was a low blow to use that against her friend, but Dylan needed to get out of the office ASAP. Okay, sure, let me get my purse.

When Kara wandered off to her cubicle, Dylan shifted her attention back to Eric. Why did he have to be so hot? Couldn’t nature find a way to make off-market men hideously unattractive to single women? He was laughing at some story their boss was telling, and his head tipped back, showing the long length of his neck. Dylan recalled how all too recently her mouth had traced a path down his throat, over his stomach and lower…

Her guts churned, an argument brewing between the booze and her anger. Anger or guilt? It was hard to say. She shouldn’t feel guilty. Eric hadn’t told her he had another girlfriend, let alone a fiancée. Dylan was the wronged party here, yet she couldn’t help feeling like she was the other woman.

The Other Woman. Her brain added intentional capitals to punctuate each word into a scarlet letter title.

That’s exactly what she was, wasn’t it? What an ugly thing to have hanging over her head. She imagined her new business cards: Dylan Powell – MA, Features Editor, Other Woman.

Gross.

For a supposedly smart woman she had made one hell of a stupid mess when it came to her love life. How could she have believed Eric was The One? Another big, crazy title. She’d honestly thought he was special enough to be the long-term guy.

It turned out he was, but for someone else’s long-term.

He caught her staring, and instead of looking away Dylan kept right on staring at him with her arms crossed over her chest and a frown etched on her face. Let him see how mad she was. He deserved every ounce of her rage.

She couldn’t wait to hear what kind of bullshit excuses he would make for himself when he called later. If she bothered to answer the phone.

Kara sidled up next to her with a lightweight jacket draped over her arm and her Chanel bag hanging on one shoulder. You ready?

Dylan grabbed her own bag—a well-worn old leather messenger bag so far outside of being chic it might actually start a new trend—and slid her black leather jacket on. It was June, and DC summer weather was usually too humid to consider thinking about a coat, let alone wearing one, but they’d been going through an unseasonable cold snap, and she wasn’t sure if it would still be cool when they got outside. Better to be safe than flash nip through a sheer blouse, was Dylan’s policy.

They passed by Eric and his newest crowd of admirers on the way out and Kara chirped a friendly farewell, with another round of congratulations. Because there was some scrutiny on her, Dylan added, Yeah. Congrats.

Outside the weather had warmed enough for Dylan to shuck off the jacket, but her mood was getting darker and darker,

Where do you want to go? Kara asked, a cheerful skip in her step.

Dylan didn’t have many friends, at least not close ones. She had friends the way most professionals in their late twenties in big cities did. People she could make plans to drink with, but not ones she could talk to. Kara was the closest thing she had to a real friend since leaving Kentucky, and she was wondering why it was she’d never thought to trust her friend with the truth.

Kara…

Uh-huh? Her dark hair blew in front of her eyes and she pushed it back to look at Dylan. Kara’s smile was wide and sweet, and Dylan suddenly wanted to tell her everything, just to get it off her chest.

Let’s go get a drink. I need to tell you something.

Sounds ominous.

Nah, Dylan said, not sure if she was being totally truthful. But I need another drink before I say it out loud.

"Oh my God, are you pregnant?"

Dylan gave Kara an incredulous stare. Would I be drinking this much if I was pregnant?

"Oh. Ha. I guess not, no. It sounds serious though. Did you sleep with the boss or something stupid like that?" She started laughing and turned to walk down the street.

Dylan didn’t reply.

Something stupid, indeed.

2

The ring of her phone cut through Dylan’s sleep like a knife, jamming the sharp end right into the densest part of her hungover brain.

"I hear you, she growled, fumbling for the phone. What ?"

Um. Hello to you, too? Eric’s confused, put-off voice came through the line.

What time is it? she asked groggily, not able to focus on the red lights of her alarm clock.

About two.

AM?

Yes.

"Jesus, Eric. What do you want?"

I’m outside, can you let me in? I’ve been buzzing your apartment for the last fifteen minutes.

Dylan’s whole body went cold. "You’re here?"

Yeah.

Why are you here?

Are you drunk? he asked, and she could hear the judgment in his tone even through the phone line.

Now Dylan’s unease was replaced with annoyance. He was going to get on her case about whether or not she was sober. Pretty rich considering the bomb he had dropped on her a few hours earlier.

"No, I’m not drunk. I was drunk about three hours ago when you should have called me. Maybe if you had I would have been in a better mood."

He sighed, the kind of refined, high-class sigh that told Dylan she was being ridiculous. It was a sound cultivated through years in country clubs, by people who were accustomed to belittling others, without having to say a single word. But she wasn’t being ridiculous. It was perfectly reasonable for her to be mad that her ex was lurking downstairs at two in the morning.

In her experience, men didn’t show up on your doorstep at two in the morning to talk.

When he didn’t say anything after his sigh, Dylan said, Fine, hold on a minute. She climbed out of bed and fumbled around in search of her robe. Usually on nights she knew Eric was coming over she would wear a cute-but-sexy negligee or something lacy. When she’d gotten home from drinks with Kara, she’d dumped her heels and gone straight for sweat shorts and her old Georgetown t-shirt. Nothing screamed do me like a shirt with ancient pasta stains on it. She slipped her arms through the sleeves of her lightweight robe and went to the front door, hitting the buzzer.

While she waited for Eric to arrive, she paced the entryway warily, nibbling on her thumbnail. A nagging headache throbbed behind her eyes, and she had hoped to sleep off the worst of the hangover, but now she’d need to suffer through it. Getting back to sleep was going to be a nightmare.

Eric didn’t bother knocking, he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him as if he lived there. Once upon a time she’d thought maybe he would, but clearly that wasn’t in the cards anymore.

Dylan glared at him.

Don’t give me that look, he scolded.

You shouldn’t have given me a reason to give you the look, then.

Can we sit down?

She huffed a breath through her nose. He was staring across the loft to her bed. Yeah, right. He totally wanted to talk. Dylan pointed to the couch a few feet to her left, then hugged her robe around her to shield her skin from his vision.

The problem with her and Eric was that being near him made her want him. She was pissed and she wanted to slap his stupid half-smirk off his face. But she also mourned the loss of his hands, his fingers, his mouth and tongue. All the parts of Eric that made her head swim and body shake. Things in the bedroom had never been an issue for them, but it was now. Having him here was tricky tightrope act that kept her between smart-and-angry and stupid-and-horny.

The couch wasn’t much better. He’d had her in a dozen different ways on the smooth linen.

She followed him into the living room, her gaze darting uncertainly to the bed a couple times. When he sat in the center of the couch, she was forced to take a seat beside him.

You going to offer me a drink? he asked, his voice coy and smooth. She might be projecting, but he sounded a little drunk.

No.

Come on, Dyl.

Dylan lifted her hand to silence him, palm facing towards his face in a universal gesture of shut the fuck up. Don’t. You don’t get to use nicknames anymore. Do you seriously not understand why I’m mad at you?

Baby…

She glared at him and got to her feet, but he clasped her wrist and tugged her down again, so she was sitting with her thigh against his. Eric didn’t scare her, but for a minute she wondered how drunk he was and whether or not she should try moving again. Rather than fight with him she remained seated, arms crossed.

I’m not your baby. Not anymore. Was I ever? She tried to keep the hurt tone out of her voice, but it hitched making it sound like she was about to cry. Dylan wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

You know how I feel about you, he crooned.

"I thought I did, but you failed to mention you were marrying someone else. Did you think I might want to know about that?"

She and I were going through some rough times when I got together with you. I didn’t think it was going to last.

Dylan’s bullshit alarm started firing on all cylinders. "Oh my God, is that the best you could come up with? You’ve had eons to think about what excuse you would use for literally fucking me over, and you decided to go with we were on a break? Fuck you, Eric."

He looked crestfallen. I…

"Let me stop you right there. Did you come over here to explain yourself, or were you hoping I’d say no, baby, it’s okay? Did you think I’d still want you?"

His guilty gaze turned towards the bed. "We were already breaking the rules,