Going to Extremes. Dawn Atkins

She popped the cork and her green eyes jumped at the sound. “Seems like kismet.”

      He smiled. Or karma. A chance to make up for hurting her. He watched her pour the liquid into two tall, elaborate glasses.

      “Don’t you just love these flutes? Hotels use those terrible saucers that allow the bubbles to zip away. I travel with these.” She was obviously chattering out of that nervousness.

      “Very beautiful,” he said, feeling protective of her.

      “Aren’t they?” She admired her brimming glass. “Made from a single piece of blown glass in a little shop in Italy. Perfect weight and balance. Just holding one of these makes me feel better.” She did seem calmer and she gave him the glory of one of her open smiles. This one almost lit her eyes, but not quite.

      “To us,” she said, extending her glass. “To the past…which shall remain our dark secret.” She regarded him over the bubbles that misted above the rim. What did she want? She used to grab him with a look. He should be beyond that now, but he felt the tug like pain in a phantom limb.

      I’ve missed you. The words formed in his head, but there was no point in saying them. It would just make things more awkward. “To the next two weeks.” He intended to tap her glass with his, but instead their fingers bumped.

      Her eyes widened, and he felt a surge of heat, which he attempted to douse with a quick swallow of champagne. The stuff tasted almost otherworldly. Kathleen had that power over things. When they were at Arizona State together, she used to make every moment a celebration. Mimosas for the first sweet blast of citrus blossoms in March, a desert walk after every rain, marshmallows toasted in a chimnea for the first winter chill, the entire apartment filled with candles for something called Candlemas, homemade brownies—complete with a whipped-cream fight—for the end of finals.

      She arranged every detail to intensify the moment, to make everything seem more significant than it was. He’d asked her about the source of that inclination—were her parents so celebratory? It’s just me was all she would say. But there was more to the story, he knew. With Kathleen, there always was.

      “So, what do you think?” she asked him, playful now.

      “I think it’s great you’ve done so well.”

      “I meant the champagne. But thanks. I’ve been lucky.”

      “It’s very nice. Very pink.”

      “Exceptional, really. The tiny bubbles are the mark of a fine champagne. This one’s been fermented slowly in wood for a fuller bouquet, allowing the pinot to turn it rosé. It’s a myth that rosé champagne is sweet. This is a brut, which I prefer. You?”

      “Champagne’s your drink, Kathleen. What did you used to say? ‘I am drinking stars’?”

      “Actually, that was Dom Perignon. I just happen to agree.”

      “I hope this isn’t as expensive as it tastes. I have plebeian preferences, you remember. An occasional beer does me fine.”

      “It’s never too late to refine your palate.” Some devilment flashed in her eyes. “Actually, what would people think of the Master of Moderation swilling champagne before five? Très extravagant.”

      “No doubt.” He’d only been in the room with her for ten minutes and he was acting out of character. He put the glass on the table.

      “Come on, enjoy it, Dan. I’ll never tell.” She touched his hand, just a brush of fingers, but a feeling shimmied through him like tires on ice.

      “So,” she said, “you wanted to get together to get our stories straight?” She raised brows as delicate as Japanese calligraphy. “That we met for the first time here? That we know each other’s work…not each other’s…everything?”

      He grimaced at the deception. “I know that sounds bad, but I thought it would be best.”

      “You’re right.” She gave him a steady look. “If people knew about us, the focus would shift to us as a couple, not us as authors, which is what matters on this tour.”

      He’d always liked the way Kathleen cut to the chase.

      The mischief returned to her green eyes. “I mean, we wouldn’t want anyone to know that Dr. McAlister once spent an entire weekend in bed, only going to the door for pizza, right?”

      “Lord, no.”

      “Or that he once had sex in an apartment hot tub?”

      “That either,” he said, wincing at the memory.

      “No one would believe it if I told them.”

      “I hardly believe it myself.”

      “Exactly.” She paused, unfathomable emotion in her silence. “Talking about what happened wouldn’t help my credibility, either.” She snatched her lip between her teeth—a sign of hurt—and guilt seized him.

      “I’m sorry, Kathleen, about how it ended. I was abrupt and I know that I hurt you.”

      She held up her hand. “Don’t apologize, Dan. It was time. We were done.” She stuck her chin up, pride bright in her eyes. “I know I was too intense for you.”

      “We were young.”

      “And clueless.” She managed a choked laugh. He tried to read her expression, but she wouldn’t hold his gaze. She tipped the delicate glass to her lips and swallowed fast—also not like her. Kathleen took her time with champagne.

      He watched her pretty throat undulate, felt the old desire rise in him. Ten years had passed, but he felt the same.

      They’d brought out the worst in each other, gotten completely swept away. The whole world shrank down to the size of the two of them and their bodies. Toward the end, Kathleen had gotten irritable and elusive, which had made him even more single-minded in pursuing her. He’d failed classes, let his practicum patients down, couldn’t think of anything but being with her. Not even academic probation had scared him. In the end it had been an inappropriate jealousy that made him realize that he’d let his life spin out of control.

      He remembered it all, sitting here, watching her put down her empty glass, lick her soft lips and give him that look—the one that held both challenge and promise, the one he’d sunk into, lost himself in.

      He yanked away his gaze and drained the glass as if it held beer on a sunny day. He extended it for a refill. He shouldn’t be drinking so much—and certainly not champagne—but this was a special occasion, right? He’d cut himself some slack this once.

      She poured champagne into both their glasses, lifted hers and looked him straight in the eye. “To being older and wiser.” She ticked her glass against his, the delicate ring a warning bell in his head. “And to keeping our secret.”

      As the champagne headache kicked in, he wasn’t sure the first was true or the second would be easy.

      JUST DESSERT to go, Kathleen thought, gritting her teeth as the dinner with Dan, their agents and Rhonda Lockhart, the publicist from Dan’s house, eased to a close. She’d achieved her goal—behaved with her usual flair and kept JJ off the trail of any dynamic between her and Dan. Dan had managed just fine—cool as gazpacho fresh from the fridge. Sometimes she’d kill for some of his restraint. Her skin itched, her stomach jumped and her heart skittered in her chest like a hockey puck.

      At least she didn’t have that hollow feeling that had started that night with Troy, the last man she’d been with. Something was definitely amok with her, which added another knot to the string of knots she’d been tying in her stomach since she’d agreed to this book tour.

      Rhonda—their scheduler, media hound and general gofer for the tour—had chattered nonstop, which helped Kathleen hide her feelings. Rhonda reminded Kathleen of Reese Witherspoon—all perky and bouncy and blond, a regular publishing cheerleader. Kathleen could practically hear her pom-poms