And then the stream of curses began anew, each one more colorful than the last, switching rapidly between English, Spanish, and French, three languages in which she was fluent, and knew all the dirty words.

Back at the cabin, she spit on the driveway where his motorcycle had been parked, thinking savagely that she should have slashed the tires of the beat-up bike. And then inspiration hit her as she quickly fed the dogs, gulped down another mug of heavily creamed and sugared coffee, and munched on one of the leftover brownies. With her ADHD, caffeine and sugar were two stimulants she had been warned to avoid but that she also had an admitted addiction to.

Five minutes later she was behind the wheel of her truck and tearing south along Highway One. She’d glimpsed Ben’s proposed itinerary once, knew that his next stop was at Hearst Castle. Lauren wasn’t sure exactly how long ago he’d left Big Sur, but she figured she could be in San Simeon well before lunchtime if she hustled.

But she only made it ten miles out of town before pulling over to the side of the road. While it was extremely tempting to go find that lying, manipulative bastard and give him a piece of her mind – not to mention her fists – her pride was suddenly rearing its ugly head. Did she really want to go chasing after a man who clearly didn’t want her, who hadn’t even cared enough to leave a goddamned note? Where was her sense of self-worth, for God’s sake, to go haring after a man who’d dumped her without so much as a backwards glance?

“Fuck him,” she swore vividly. “If he doesn’t appreciate me, what we could have had, then fuck Ben fucking Rafferty to hell. I’ve got better things to do with my time than think about a loser like him for even one more minute.”

She turned the truck around and headed back into town where she hung around for an hour or so – grabbing another cup of coffee which would only make her hyperactivity that much worse; buying half a dozen items at the general store that she really didn’t need; popping in to say hello to some longtime friends of her parents who owned a local art gallery.

When she arrived back at the cabin, she threw herself into tidying the place up – putting clean sheets on the bed and starting a load of laundry; scrubbing the bathroom from top to bottom; restoring some sort of order to the admittedly messy loft space.

For dinner she made one of her favorite comfort food creations – mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs – and ate until her stomach hurt. She took the dogs for their usual evening walk, blocking out the image of Ben strolling along leisurely by her side.

Back at the cabin she slipped into the hot tub sans clothing, as was her norm when she was alone – or with a gorgeous, chiseled hunk with dark blond hair and three day stubble. Ben was the only man she’d ever invited to stay here at the cabin, and she forced herself not to recall how many times over the past ten days they had kissed and cuddled and even had sex right here in the hot tub.

Lauren sat out on the deck for a long time after her soak, swaddled up in a well-worn flannel bathrobe that was riddled with holes and stains but that she loved beyond reason and always kept here at the cabin. She drank a beer, quickly switched to tequila, then sought out a bottle of single malt Scotch. Her normally cast iron stomach began to rebel at mixing alcohol, and she irritably slammed the shot glass down.

The first tear trickled down her cheek and plopped onto her lap before she was even aware that she was crying. And then the tears fell freely, the sobs wracking her slender body almost violently. It was only the feel of a cold, wet nose poking against her cheek that finally caused her brokenhearted weeping to slow down. Gracie, the lone female of the pack, had jumped up onto the settee, whimpering in distress at her mistress’s cries. Lauren cuddled the dog close, burying her face in Gracie’s soft coat, and drawing comfort from the warm, furry body.

And even though she normally banned the dogs from the bedroom, much less her bed, that night she urged all three of them to cuddle with her, unwilling to be alone for fear she’d never stop crying otherwise.

***

By the time her parents arrived home a few days after Ben’s departure, Lauren had forced her wayward emotions back beneath the surface. Robert and Natalie never suspected for a minute that during their absence their daughter had fallen deeply in love for the first time in her young life, only to have her heart and her spirit irrevocably broken. To them, she was the same carefree, outspoken Lauren she’d always been, the one who asked about their trip, updated them on the goings-on at the gallery, and discussed her class schedule for the upcoming fall semester.

Julia arrived in town for a visit towards the middle of August, and she, too, never noticed anything amiss with her twin. The girls made a quick trip north to Palo Alto to hang out with their best friend Angela for a couple of days, and it was just like old times back in high school.

And by the time early September rolled around, and with it the need to pack up her things and head back to L.A., Lauren had managed to convince herself that she was well and truly over that bastard Ben Rafferty. She shrugged off the ten days they’d spent together as nothing more than a fun, frivolous summer fling, and now she was more than ready to move on. Maybe she’d finally agree to go out with the hot, tattooed guitar player who lived across the street from her rental, the one she’d previously shunned because one of her roommates had dubbed him Manwhore of the Year. Or maybe she’d ask that cute sales clerk at R.E.I. to have coffee so they could continue their discussion on rock climbing.

Whatever she did – whoever she might date or flirt with or even fuck in the future – there were two things of which Lauren was absolutely certain. One was that never again would she put herself in a position to have her heart and her spirit crushed like Ben had managed to do this past summer. And the second was that she would never – ever – cry over a man again.

Chapter Five

Eighteen Months Later – Mozambique

“Is the fact that you’re out here all alone mean that you didn’t get lucky last night after all?”

Lauren glanced up from the French newspaper she’d been poring over while sipping coffee and eating a bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt. “Depends on your definition of lucky,” she drawled. “If you’re asking if I shagged the jerk then the answer is a very unfortunate yes. But the word lucky doesn’t figure into the conversation for even a second. I would use the phrases “gravely disappointed” and “psychotically pissed off” instead.”

The three other members of her production crew quickly took seats at the patio table where she’d set up camp nearly half an hour ago. Each one of the men looked half-asleep, more than a little hungover, but also extremely intrigued by the reply she’d just given to Chris’s question.

“So where is Loverboy this morning?” inquired Stefan cheerily. “Did you wear him out?”

Lauren snorted in derision. “Hardly. After one go-round with Two Pump Chump, I was trying to figure out exactly how much I’d had to drink last night. Because I gotta tell you guys – there is no other excuse aside from being stinking drunk for me to have tapped that. As for where he is this morning, my guess would be at the closest medical clinic.”

Karl’s face held a pained expression. “What did you do this time, Lauren?” he asked in exasperation.

She shrugged nonchalantly and reached for her second croissant of the morning. “Nothing he didn’t deserve. And believe me, when you hear what that fucker was trying to get away with, you’ll all agree he got off easy.”

Chris smirked as he helped himself to coffee from the carafe that had been left on the table. “You sent the guy to the hospital just because he turned out to be a minuteman?”