This Thing Called Love by Miranda Liasson

to subvert you, but I don’t have time now. I’ve got to get back to work.”
    She sat up, wincing and grabbing her head. Then squinted at him like the dim light in the room was the Red Sox stadium floodlights. “I’m good now. Hand her over.”
    He shook his head and pushed her firmly back onto the settee. “So prideful. You’d still rather cut your right arm off than ask for help.”
    “Since I’m left-handed, that might not be such a big deal.” He moved the ice bag to better cover her forehead and this time she didn’t fight him. “And you still have that same overdeveloped sense of responsibility.”
    “Other parts of me are overdeveloped, too.”
    “When I saw them last, they weren’t that developed.”
    “As I recall, the only complaints that ever passed your lips about my size were that you were afraid you couldn’t take it all.”
    “You must be mistaking your ego for your penis.”
    He laughed. Couldn’t help himself. Some perverse part of him loved her wit, her humor, her sass way too much.
    Brad stole a glance as Olivia leaned her head against the cushion. He was glad her eyes were closed, because he couldn’t take his off her. Dark, arched brows, long lashes, a beautiful oval face. He could do wicked things with those full pink lips, taste them and lick them and nip them and thrust his tongue deep until she whimpered low in her throat. Rove his hands over her fine breasts and her flat, taut stomach until they were both begging for more.
    A volley of memories shot at him right and left, pummeling him with all the times they’d been desperate for each other, out of control and frantic with need.
    He distracted himself by gazing over at the platform where all the brides stood to look at themselves in their dresses. “And then there’s that dais with the three-way mirrors.”
    Olivia cracked open an eye. “What about it?” she asked cautiously.
    “Don’t tell me you don’t remember that time you were working late and we came back here and turned on those runway lights and . . .”
    “Okay, okay.”
    “Remember when Alex’s aunt came back to investigate the noise?” Brad asked. “We hid in that tiny closet over there.”
    They’d been buck naked, he failed to mention out loud. He still remembered the feel of her silky warm skin, smooth and soft and naked under his roving teenage hands.
    God, that was the best sex of his pathetic, hardworking teenage life. Weird thing was, maybe it was the best sex ever. And that was just plain scary.
    Olivia cleared her throat. “This place still smells the same as ever.”
    “Rotty hundred-year-old wood and this morning’s burnt coffee. What’s not to love?”
    “I was thinking more in terms of lilac and rose sachets. They were stored in that closet with us, remember? You know, for the brides.”
    Brad couldn’t tell one flower from another if it came down to his life, but as far as smells went, the smell of rain always reminded him of her. When they were seventeen, he’d walked her home from his soccer game and they’d gotten stuck in a downpour. They’d run into the gazebo in the middle of the town square to wait it out. One minute they were running and laughing and out of breath, and the next he was just staring at her, mesmerized by the raindrops coating her long lashes, her smooth, soft skin, and the sudden serious look in her eyes. Their gazes locked, their smiles faded, and he’d kissed her. The perfect beauty of that moment had stayed with him all this time.
    Olivia looked over at the runway, as if she was eager to change the subject. “This is a magical place. Generations of brides have come through here to start their happily-ever-afters.”
    He snorted, mostly to try and push away the nostalgia that had socked him so hard in the gut. “I’m sure Alex and Meg buy into all that baloney.”
    Olivia frowned. “Wow, who soured you on love?”
    A loaded question, considering their past.
    “I’m just being realistic. Love isn’t