Chapter 20: Force of Habit

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Rachel quickly realized how being alone in a house with an attractive man was the greatest blessing when she wasn't in the middle of a fight with him. But now that all she wanted to do was avoid him, being stuck in a house together was a curse. They were on edge around each other for the remainder of the day, barely speaking, and choosing instead to pursue activities which did not involve the other.

At dinner, neither of them could eat. Rachel wondered if this was what Frank's ex-wife had felt like while married to him. She stared across the table at him, determined to get him to look at her, but he managed to stare thoughtfully at every other object in the room. Their roles were reversed. Frank was hard to break when he was truly angry.

She tapped her fingers idly on the table, tracing the glossy wood, fidgeting to ease the awkwardness. Finally, after several insufferable minutes, he made eye contact.

"I'm sorry."

She blinked, surprised that he would come out and say it as candidly as he did. She hadn't been expecting an apology at all, much less one to come so quickly.

She kind of liked the way he didn't say anything else. Nothing else really needed to be said. They were both grown adults, they both knew what had happened.

"Thank you," Rachel murmured back. "I'm sorry, too."

It was perhaps the most mature string of words she'd ever uttered in her life.

Then he reached across the table and held her hand.

It was such a rare occurrence for Rachel to hold hands with a man, but already on this trip Frank had done it twice. Once in the rest stop parking lot, and once when she had woken from her nightmare. This made the third time. She was floored again by this act of holding hands, how intimate a gesture it was, even for someone who had thrown her naked body into bed before. It was not sexual in the slightest, but she felt so utterly domiciled by it. All it took was for her to look into his eyes.

They didn't manage to make it to the bedroom. Somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, they had shed their clothes and surrendered in front of the fireplace. In her fervor, she had knocked the chessboard to the floor, and the pieces went scattering around them, pawns and rooks and knights and queens, black mixed haphazardly with white.

He clumsily pulled all of the pillows and blankets off the furniture, still attempting to keep her comfortable no matter how undecorous their site of lovemaking happened to be. He had made it abundantly clear earlier that day that he was not accustomed to lovemaking outside the confines of a bed. Rachel found it endearing.

If there was one thing she had learned about this man, it was that he was never one to neglect foreplay if given the choice. He seemed to prolong it more than necessary. Foreplay, as Frank Farmer carried it out, was essentially gentle torture; a slow and often agonizing lapse of time in which her body was tenderly teased beneath the warm palms of his skilled hands.

His caresses were precise, never haphazard, even when the anticipation was high. His every touch held a thrilling deliberateness about it that was as arousing if not more than the touch itself. If he brushed two fingertips along the curve of her hip, that was exactly what he meant to do. The unsuspecting nature of his touches kept her on delightful edge. He never touched the same place twice unless she responded especially favorably. His silent goal was always to contact every spare inch of her skin before he moved on to coupling their bodies.

He spoke very little during lovemaking, which was certainly not surprising. And if he were to offer rare words, they would be quiet and brief – soft encouragement, her name.

He held her in his arms there, his hands exploring her back, his fingers grasping her waist and massaging her hips. His kisses started light and lazy, then slowly grew more passionate and full of intent, the roar of the fireplace seeming to encourage him. His lips were flush against her throat, and his breathing was ragged.

Rachel was not about to let him keep control over the situation for long. He had grown to understand the intention behind her touches, and when her hands gripped his waist and pushed him down to the ground, he knew it was time to submit. She swept her hands all over his body, taking in every detail as he had with her.

He looked so perversely peaceful that she blushed just looking at him. As her hands had stopped their wanton dance across his skin, he barely managed to open his eyes, hooded with longing as they were. His expressions, as she'd always known them to be, were so nuanced even now - wonder, hunger, desperation, admiration - in just a twitch of his mouth, or a flicker in his brow, the tension in his jaw.

He quickly reduced her to a state of powerlessness with just one look. She laid her cheek on his chest and shuddered when he slipped his fingers between her legs. He brought her close to that familiar precipice, but he did not let her fall.

She took out her frustration on him by licking him from the neck down. She got far too much enjoyment from making him squirm. He reacted the same way to her tongue around his belly button as he had to her tongue around his ears. Rachel was immensely satisfied to think he would have lived the rest of his life without ever knowing these things about himself, if it hadn't been for her.

She wanted to torture him the way he tortured her. But that, she realized, was where he maintained all knowledge and experience over her. Repeatedly, he withheld her from any friction, unless it was designed intentionally by him alone. With every attempt she made to assert control over him, he seemed to grow stronger at resisting.

She went limp as he reached down, drawing perfect symmetry with the length of his arm down the center of her body, with his hand resting on her lap. She felt deliciously compromised, trapped beneath his arm, as he began bearing down on her flesh with the heel of his hand, slowly, deliberately.

She gritted her teeth and swore under her breath. She almost screamed at him when she realized he was going to pull away again. There was a madness to his eyes whenever he did it. He seemed to get pleasure out of denying her, as if part of him still wanted to punish her for all the trouble she had caused him all those years ago. And as many times as he did it, she found that she couldn't be angry with him.

She pushed him to the ground again, smashing her lips against his in a vengeful kiss. It weakened him just enough to give her control back, and she cudgeled his hips with her thighs, settling onto him until she could feel him deep inside.

His eye contact was suffocating. It drew her in, like nectar to a helpless pest about to plunge to her death. She rode him with maddening urgency, her hands almost in a chokehold around the base of his neck. It was a fantasy her prior self had entertained half-seriously at times when he was her bodyguard. Now it was purely a turn-on.

She felt his attempt to push her off of him, but it was half-hearted. He tried once more, his hands weaker from the mounting pleasure. She smiled to herself, determined not to let him drag her out any longer. Having lost the strength in his hands, he raised his hips, as if it would deter her. All it did was push her into early orgasm, and she considered it a triumph.

He came shortly after, staring up at her with a deranged reverence in his eyes. The blue in his eyes became deliriously bright, his handsome face purely petrified with pleasure. She collapsed against his body and allowed him to cover her with blankets where she laid beside him on the floor. His breathing was ragged for many minutes afterward, as if he were fighting aftershocks. Her fingers trailed contentedly across his abdomen, fascinated by every tiny twitch of muscle in response to her touch.

It was very strange for Rachel to recall the minefield they used to inhabit, every word intended to vilify the other, every glare like a lethal dart whenever they'd looked at each other. How could they have gone from despising one another to lying naked with their limbs tangled helplessly together this way? Her soul was battered by the sight of his adoring gaze, so close she could see his eyes dilate when she touched his lips.

It was so similar to the look he had given her the first night they'd made love. He had looked at her as if he had known her for years, but at the time they had barely scratched the surface of a blossoming relationship. Tucked safely against his body, she still remembered the careful caress of his fingers on her shoulder, the linear glint of the katana blade along his face, the postcoital rasp to his voice as he'd murmured, "Right now might not be too difficult."

There was something in her that yearned to go through every memory she had of their times together and ask him if he remembered each as vividly as she did. It absolutely burned her to know what kinds of thoughts plagued him in these tender moments of shared silence.

After a long while spent studying his unreadable expression, she finally asked the question she had been aching to ask him for days. "Why do you do that?"

She knew from the look on his face that she did not need to clarify – they both knew she was referring to the edging.

"I'm not complaining," she added hastily, "I just need to know." Her fingers traced the noble filigree of pale blue veins beneath the inner part of his wrist.

He did not answer her until he had targeted every feature of her face with his gaze. "It feels better when you have to wait for it."

Her heart fluttered helplessly at the forwardness in his voice, but she still did not understand his motive. "Sometimes it's better not to wait," she challenged in a whisper.

His gaze shifted away from her after processing her words. Without a reply, he picked up one of the fallen chess pieces from the floor beside him – a white king – and twisted it idly about his fingers.

}0{

"If you cross me up this time, Rachel, I swear I'll kill you myself."

Having a morbid sense of humor, she sometimes wondered how he would have done it. Would he have taken his gun and shot her in the head? Or would he have taken a more sadistic approach and slit her throat before throwing her into the ocean? She wanted to ask him, just to mess with him. But he would likely have thought she was psychopathic if he knew her genuine curiosity.

He had asked her if she wanted to go out to a local place for lunch that day, and she had agreed, thinking the change of scene would be a healthy excuse to keep her hands off of him for at least a few hours. Rachel wasn't used to having to drive fifteen miles for somewhere "local," and she was famished by the time they had been seated and served at the restaurant.

He ate much more slowly than she did this time, his eyes distracted by the happenings around them. Toward the end of their meal, he leaned in and murmured, "The couple behind us is breaking up."

Overcome with curiosity, Rachel glanced over her shoulder. Having expected a pair of teenagers, she was surprised that the man and woman appeared to be about her age. They did look upset, but aside from that there was no way she would have been able to tell they were in the middle of a break-up.

Frank whispered almost frantically at her, "Turn around. Turn around. You're being too obvious."

She followed his command and faced him again, biting down on a scandalized smile.

He carefully shifted all his attention onto her and stared at her for a few moments to avoid suspicion. She knew him well enough by now to notice the quiet amusement hidden in his eyes.

He looked just over her shoulder again to watch the couple in question, his expression growing darker as he observed their exchange. The moment Rachel heard the sound of a chair scraping the floor, Frank looked down again and said in a low voice, "She just walked out on him."

Rachel shook her head. "Why are relationships so damn difficult?"

To her shock, he took her question seriously. "Because no one thinks they should be the one to change. The reality is that both people have to change to make it work."

He avoided meeting her eyes after speaking, busying himself instead with placing his silverware and napkin on his empty plate. His tone of voice had triggered a deep need for her to be seen, and she suddenly found herself opening up.

"I once tried to change for a man. Then he told me that he didn't love me anymore." Her fingers pulled gently at the ends of her paper napkin as she spoke. "He said he felt like he was always chasing me, and he just couldn't keep up." She met Frank's eyes again, warmed by his intense focus on her face. "I remembered that night at the bar, when you told me about the woman who had stopped loving you. Did she ever give you a reason why?"

Frank looked surprised that she'd remembered such a detail. He gazed out the frosty window in quiet recollection. "She said that I was a difficult person to love. That loving me was exhausting." He turned back to face Rachel then, the tiniest hint of humor in his otherwise melancholy expression. "She told me she couldn't compete with my lifestyle, and she was convinced I would do more for the President of the United States than I would ever be willing to do for her."

Rachel looked down at the table, processing his revelation. She had always suspected that relationship had been when he had first entered the secret service. Somehow she'd been correct.

She stared at him again and dared to ask, "Do you think she was right?"

He looked thoughtful. "At the time, I didn't. I just wanted her to stay. But I know now that she was right."

There wasn't a single ounce of pride in his voice as he admitted it. It gave Rachel hope.

"Was she your 'one true love?'"

Though her tone had been teasing, he again replied to her with an air of seriousness. "What do you mean by that?"

Rachel smiled and explained, "Your 'one true love' is the person you always want to be with. They're the person you can't stop thinking about even when you're with someone else."

He smiled briefly down at the table but his response was clipped. "I don't believe in that sort of thing."

Rachel opened her mouth to challenge him, but was interrupted by the untimely appearance of their waitress.

"I'm so sorry, I just have to say what a huge admirer I am." The young woman gushed nervously, staring down at Rachel in disbelief. "Queen of the Night is still my favorite movie to this day. You look exactly the same in person as you did on the screen."

Frank's hassled expression inspired Rachel to be twice as appreciative of the woman's compliments.

"Thank you, dear. That's awfully sweet of you."

The waitress laughed obliviously. "I guess I'm just wondering what the hell brought you all the way out here!"

Rachel simpered at Frank as he glared between her and the waitress. Neither of them said anything.

The waitress pointed at Frank. "Is this your husband?"

Rachel and Frank exchanged a startled glance across the table. His eyes seemed to say a thousand things to her, but she couldn't decipher a single one of them.

Flustered, Rachel shook her head and pushed her hair back behind her ear. "No, he's … no."

"I'm so sorry," the waitress spluttered. "I'll leave you alone." She dropped the check in the center of the table, and Frank slapped down a handful of cash.

Both of them stood up promptly, avoiding any acknowledgment of the awkward exchange that had just occurred at their table.

"Don't you ever pay with a credit card?" Rachel asked, shrugging her coat onto her shoulders.

"When you pay with cash there's no paper trail," he said as he eagerly escorted her out of the restaurant. Rachel rolled her eyes.

Frank all but rushed her back to the truck, obviously now spooked at the thought that more people might recognize her. As he lifted his jacket to put his wallet in his pocket, she saw that he was armed on both sides. He emanated paranoia in every possible way in that moment, but God help her, for some reason she thought it was insanely hot.

By the time they had made it home, she was ready to attack him. She trapped him between her arms as soon as they entered the house, her hands finding easy access to the handguns on either side of his hips.

"Do you carry these because of me?" she asked softly.

"Force of habit."

She stroked the grip of each pistol with suggestive fingers. "You ever gonna teach me to shoot?"

"That depends," he said.

"On what?"

He smirked. "If I'd be endangering myself by teaching you."

"Still less hazardous than teaching me to throw knives," she whispered against his neck.

He sighed in willful resignation and slid both firearms out from beneath her hands, letting them clatter to the ground. They made it all the way through the hall at a slow pace, having shed one article of clothing at a time.

They'd barely made it an inch into the bedroom before she was pressed against the door, locked in place by the strength of his hands on her wrists. They kissed desperately, lost in an insatiable burst of desire. Rachel barely broke contact with his lips as she mindlessly uttered, "I want you to pin me up against the wall and throw your fucking knifes at the door behind me."

His blue eyes widened in pure, unorthodox excitement. His voice shook breathlessly as his hips moved steadily against hers. "What if I miss?"

She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, curling her fingers through his hair. "You never miss." She smiled drunkenly.

He looked up and down her face in a frantic search for her sanity as he shook his head. "Seeing your naked body would distract me," he excused, still unable to catch his breath.

No matter how many times she tried to get him to incorporate his violent skills in the bedroom, he refused. He was obviously aroused by her unspeakable suggestions, but uncomfortable with them all the same. She couldn't comprehend how this same man had behaved with the katana blade all those years ago.

Nevertheless, they didn't make it to the bed.

Rachel considered it a personal achievement that she only had to endure one round of his denials before he gave in and fucked her senseless on the hard wood floor. Maybe he was finally learning that it didn't always have to be a marathon. Sometimes, a sprint was just as satisfying.

Once he'd had his way with her, he lifted her off the floor and laid her adoringly down on the bed with every intention of kissing her to sleep. Rachel responded with ravishing enthusiasm, assuring him that sleep was the last thing on her mind. His innocent kisses rapidly turned into a second round of foreplay.

She quite enjoyed the way she could knock all of the power out of him just from teasing his ear with her tongue. After lavishing her attention onto his ears so often, she was drawn to notice every detail about them. One detail in particular had her very perplexed.

"Where did you get this scar on your ear?" she asked him softly, as her fingertip carefully stroked the rim of his left ear.

His confusion lasted only a moment. He knew his lover well enough by now to understand why she would ask him such a question at the peak of his passion.

Rachel listened as he described in gripping detail the story of that tiny scar. He held her hips in his powerful hands, and with each slow, confident thrust inside her, he set the scene — Romania, 1989, guarding a foreign diplomat from the crazed leader of a terrorist faction.

"I shot him twice in the chest, once in the throat," he recounted, his voice shaking as she wrapped her legs encouragingly around his back. "When he fell to the ground, his weapon misfired and the bullet grazed my ear."

Rachel smiled absently with a whimper of fawning delight.

"This turns you on?" he asked her in breathless disbelief, his hips moving faster as she nodded and swept her wandering hands around his shoulders.

"Oh, God, yes," she gasped, digging her ankles into his firm thighs. "Tell me more."

He shook his head, flustered. "I … I don't know what else to tell you."

"What would you do if an intruder broke in here right now?" Rachel practically purred, her beautiful black eyes fixed on his.

Emboldened by her fixation, he bowed his head to murmur against her throat, "I would kill him with the gun I have hidden under this bed… and then I would finish fucking you."

He came almost instantly in response to her cries of pleasure. Rachel could hardly reconcile his growling words with her quiet and humble bodyguard. She wasn't sure why he didn't make a habit of talking during sex. He was actually good at it, he just needed a teacher. She was two for two tonight now, she thought smugly as she came down from her high. Before long, maybe she would have him enacting her darkest fantasies.

They curled up in bed together instead of having dinner, and they fell asleep in each other's arms before the sun had even set. It was clear they had both needed to catch up on much neglected sleep.

Rachel had no idea what time it was when she felt his hands wrap around her waist in the middle of the night, but it was pitch black outside. There was no moon to cast flattering beams of light on their bodies, and no wind to lull them back to sleep. There was nothing in the room but blackness, and the strained symphony of their combined breathing.

Still delirious from sleep, she felt herself being pinned down by his weight, his lips locked on her breast. She tossed her head back onto the pillow, vaguely wondering if it was all a dream. Her toes curled from the attention of his tongue, and her skin prickled with goosebumps as he breathed heavily over her chest. Not wasting any time, he feverishly pushed her legs apart and entered her with one hot thrust. She lifted her arms to embrace him, her tired body jostled repeatedly by the relentless rhythm of his hips. Only because the room was so impossibly quiet, she heard the slick sounds of him beating into her, followed by the traces of his voice when he came. The soft, beckoning whimper from his throat was enough to destroy her.

His skin felt flushed, heart pounding vigorously against her, basking in the glory of finally having acted on impulse. Somehow, not being able to see him at all in the dark made it more thrilling.

He laid down beside her, rested his head on her shoulder, reached down her body and pulsed her with his fingers until she climaxed hard. If she hadn't been so preposterously wet following the ordeal, she might have still believed she was dreaming.

He didn't even give her breathing a chance to slow before he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Being enveloped by his warm, naked arms was still among the most wonderful sensations she had ever felt.

And now she was three for three.

She smiled to herself, oddly comforted by the rough skin of his gunshot scar where it rested just above her navel. Within minutes, she was fast asleep again.

}0{

Neither of them acknowledged what had occurred in the dead of night. Having slept mostly since dinnertime the night before, they were both wide awake and conversing before the sun rose. Rachel rarely got to see the dawn from her window, having always been a late sleeper. Over the mountainous lake, it was breathtaking. A dim blue promise colored the cold air, and the limbs of the trees outside were perfectly still in the clutches of an early frost.

Even though they were full of energy, neither of them seemed to want to do the two very daunting tasks of getting dressed or getting out of bed. She found herself lying back with her head at the foot of the bed, facing him where he sat, leaning against the headboard.

"Would you believe it if I told you, to this day I have never made out in the backseat of a car?" she said proudly.

"Is that a trick question?" He smirked. "You've spent more time in limousines than cars."

She gave a hardy laugh. "No! I'm not being tricky. I mean it. I have never made out in a vehicle. I'm too classy for that shit. How about you?"

"Oh, God, in college I-" His forehead quickly met with the palm of his hand, which made her laugh harder. "I swear it was so bad."

"You're not gonna give me details?" she begged, touching her foot to his chest. "Let me guess, she was a cheerleader, right? Fierce Frank on that football field, you must have had them all drooling over you."

He shook his head bashfully, his face reddened by her compliment. "Hardly. No, she wasn't a cheerleader, she was uh . . . the little sister of my best friend at the time. I was a senior and she was a sophomore."

Rachel covered her mouth with her hand in exaggerated shock. "He found you making out in the car together?"

"Yeah, he found us. And he . . . he kicked me in the nuts."

They both broke down in a fit of laughter that lasted at least a minute.

"Aw, Frank," Rachel could barely breathe for laughing so hard. "You silly ol' heartbreaker."

"I consider myself lucky I didn't sustain any permanent damage. He was a lot bigger than me. What you'd call a 'tough guy.'" Though he was still laughing, she detected a slight bitterness in his tone.

"I'm allowed to assess men by their body types," she defended.

"Well, you made a pretty quick assessment of me."

"I just expected you to look . . . well, like Shaft, I guess."

His laughter was full and rich. "Sorry to have disappointed you."

"You didn't disappoint me," she said shyly, tracing the stitching in the quilt as she avoided his eyes. "I guess I found you . . . a little bit attractive."

Because he didn't say anything, she had to look at him. His expression made her want to melt.

She added quickly, "At the very least I thought you'd make good eye candy."

He narrowed his eyes. "Eye candy?"

"Yeah, eye candy."

"I've never heard that term."

"Like something pretty to look at, but maybe it doesn't serve much of a purpose."

He scowled. "Oh, that's nice."

She giggled. "That was before I really knew you."

"Out here in the real world, we base our merit on our qualifications, not on looks."

"Hollywood poisoned me, alright?" she defended, pausing to think for a moment before adding, "I know I'm going to regret saying this, but I actually thought you were overqualified."

A satisfied smile crossed his face. "Hm."

"Devaney kept singing your praises, raving about how prolific you were and how you worked at the White House and all that shit."

He humbly shook his head. "You didn't know the extent of the threat you were under."

Rachel shrugged. "I'm sure you already knew who I was."

"You overestimate your fame," he said with a smug smile. "Remember, I live under a rock."

"Even country fans know the 'Star Spangled Banner,'" she giggled, extremely pleased with herself when he confirmed she was correct.

"It was the only time I cried hearing the national anthem," he admitted.

She laughed hard to hide just how touched she was. "I've still yet to see you weep, Farmer."

"You made a valiant effort when I was your employee," he said with a smirk, "but to no avail."

"Someday."

The word hung in the air between them like an unwanted visitor. She didn't know why it was so hard to wrap her head around – maybe it was because he still hadn't given her any hints as to what his intentions were beyond this trip. She couldn't stand not knowing, and even more, she couldn't stand that she seemed to be waiting for his permission to continue whatever this was.

"I'm thirsty," she said suddenly, trying to break the awkwardness. "I'm going to get some water. Do you want something, too?"

He just nodded, his face frustratingly unreadable.

She wrapped herself in her robe, feeling his eyes on her until she disappeared into the hall.

She tiptoed into the kitchen, quickly finding the glasses she preferred on their shelf. She was so familiar with the place now, it felt almost like her own home.

As she unscrewed the cap on the Minute Maid orange juice and poured it into a glass, she felt a surge of domestic pleasure. It wasn't just the lyrics to a song anymore. It was actually happening. God have mercy on her, she was in love with Frank Farmer. To a nauseating degree.

She couldn't even stand to listen to her own thoughts of him anymore.

She was smitten with his smile, tortured by his voice, enchanted by his laugh, obsessed with his eyes. She loved every little damn thing about him. His intelligence, his history, his unintentional charisma. She loved the fact that he didn't know anything about pop culture, that he only listened to country music, that he lived under a rock. She loved that he was opposite to her in every way, that he was obsessed with her safety, and that he still acted like her bodyguard when they were in public together. She loved the way he walked, the way he scolded her, the way he protected her, the way he held a knife, the unfashionable way he dressed. She loved the confident shape of his hands, the warmth of his body, his unintentional tendency to turn everything into a slow burn. Hell, she even loved that all he drank was fucking orange juice.

It seemed a cruel injustice that any other woman could still claim him. She felt in some deep, primal part of her heart that he belonged to her, and her alone.

There was no way she could let him leave again. She would never be able to move on. Not after all these nights with him – much less, after all these mornings. What she wouldn't give to have mornings like this for the rest of her life.

Her heartbeat betrayed her with every step she took through the hall, balancing the two glasses in her hands. When she entered the bedroom, she saw the flicker of mirth in his eyes when he saw what she had brought him.

"Nectar of the gods," she announced as she handed him the glass.

"You know, I do drink other things besides orange juice," he said defensively.

She shook her head as she forced the glass into his hand. "You drink that orange juice or imma slap you."

"Please don't," he moaned. "My cheek still hurts from ten years ago."

She stared sympathetically at him and leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Better now?"

"I guess it's okay now." He barely managed to take one sip of his drink before she had invaded his personal space.

"Well, while I'm at it…" She kissed him aggressively on the mouth.

He laughed into the kiss before she finally broke away. "Jesus, Rachel, you're taking years off my life kissing me like that."

"No, I'm adding to it," she said sweetly.

He finished his orange juice in two more gulps before standing up from the bed. "Where do you think you're going?" She pouted.

"I need to shower."

Rachel smirked. "You sure you don't want me to just lick you clean?"

He lifted one eyebrow at her. "I thought you weren't a cat person?"

"Come pet me and find out."

His laughter made her heart flutter before he disappeared behind the door.

She reclined back in the bed, glass of water in hand, her entire body alight. She had never before felt so certain yet at the same time so uncertain about anything. Rachel thought herself very adept at hiding her feelings, but it was becoming more exhausting to play casual around him. She should have expected it would happen – all those years it really was there, just beneath the surface, waiting to seize her when she let her guard down. But now that she was faced with the reality, it was incredibly hard to process.

It would not have been so hard if she could devise a plan for what to do. Any time she'd felt attracted to another celebrity, she would flaunt herself in front of them until they asked her out, she'd date them for a few months, usually on and off, and then she would kick them to the curb either because she was sick of them or Fletcher hated their guts. With Frank, it wasn't that simple. She couldn't use the same equation with him. He wasn't some shallow, stupid, horny guy she could string along. She respected him, and she loved him. It was so difficult when she actually loved the man. Because then her decisions mattered. Consequences mattered.

Rachel did not do well with consequences. She preferred to pretend they didn't exist.

It was very difficult for Rachel to decide what to do with her feelings. They were not going to go away. Just as it had happened ten years ago when they parted ways at the airport, she carried the weight of his memory in her heart. It had taken several back-to-back affairs to try and erase that memory, and still she had been unsuccessful in the long run. It was her worst habit, and she could feel it waiting for her just beyond the mountains of Lake Tahoe.

She could not repeat history. She simply couldn't.