He watched her slide her black silk, floor length dress up her body, pulling the straps over her shoulders, reaching behind her to zip it up. She stood at the foot of the bed while he lay in the sheets, propped up on two pillows, watching her.

"Don't look at me like that, Logan," she snapped.

"I'm not looking at you like that, whatever like that is," he retorted.

"Well, whatever it is, stop." She tilted her head to put back in her diamond earrings which were sitting on top of the TV of the hotel room, and he simply watched her.

She had an elegant way of changing herself from a lover back into an icy business woman, something he found captivating. Her years in New York and her experiences had hardened her, making her numb to feelings and even more stubborn.

He found he missed the way she was in college, but found this new Rory enchanting and a mystery, two things he still loved about her.

She flipped her brunette locks over her shoulders and moved to grab her shoes from the spot she had wiggled out of them an hour and a half before. He took the time to remember how their paths had even crossed again.

He hadn't seen her since the elevator door closed at their apartment in New Haven. He left for London, ended up spending three years there. She believed, by what Honor had told her during lunch one afternoon that Logan was cheating on her. She ended the relationship in a bitter message, left to taunt him on his answering machine.

She graduated, with honors, naturally. It was amazing what she could do when she was trying to get over an ex. She didn't go out, didn't enjoy her senior year. Right after graduation, or so he heard, she went straight to New York and was hired as an editor of a small magazine right off the bat. Not what she wanted, but good enough. She also made sure it was in no way affiliated with Huntzberger Media.

They had run into each other, literally, at some convention, to this day he doesn't even remember what it was for. The next thing he knew, she was laying beside him in his dark penthouse master suite, wearing only his 500 thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets.

And this is how they were. They didn't go out, they didn't meet, hell, they didn't even contact each other, ever. They only met at these functions, sneaking into bathrooms or closets, or they checks into a hotel room for a few hours only to go back down to the party, and she returns to the room with him again later.

They had been going at this for a few months now, not seeing it going anywhere. They didn't discuss the past, what had happened. It was a rule. Tonight was no different.

Tonight was the annual Media Gala, where editors and big-time reporters from all over New York City meet at a designated spot, this time, a high-class hotel, to receive awards, or in other words, brag.

He had seen her almost float into the hotel ballroom, a vintage black silk dress, flowing past her feet and trailing slightly behind her. A curved, almost v-neck, an empire waist, and thick straps that left her whole back bare and fell to a V at the small of her back.

He had lost all conscious thoughts then and there.

He was torn from his thoughts when her foot dropped back to the floor from where it was propped on the bed to adjust the strap of her heel.

"We should be getting back down there."

"It's almost over; it's nearly eleven. Just stay here."

"I need to get home."

"Why? Your apartment needs dusting after never being there? I personally don't think it'll make a difference."

"Go to hell." He got out of the bed and pulled on his boxers, walking to where she was standing.

"You really want to leave?"

"Yes," she said, her voice wavering.

"Why?" His lips moved to her neck, trailing to her collar bone in light kisses, barely brushing her skin. Her neck automatically tilted to give him more access, more skin to tease. She pressed her open palms flat on the wall behind her for support, and struggled for response.

"I left a date down there," she lied. He pulled back, his eyes darkened. With anger? She couldn't help but wonder.

"Well, you should get back." He moved to find his tuxedo slacks, pulling them on quickly.

"No." He chuckled and shook his head.

"I don't have time for your games tonight, Ace."

"Don't call me that."

"Bad memories?" he taunted.

"I don't know. How about I leave a message on your answering machine and get your thoughts on that?"

Before she knew it, he had her pressed against the wall, his shirt only half buttoned. He was mad, she was mad. They would kill each other, the other was sure of it.

He pressed his lips to hers forcefully and she rested her hands on his shoulders. He reached behind her and unzipped her dress, sliding it down her body, moving down with it so he stopped to slide her feet out of her shoes. "I just put that on," she whined when he took off her dress.

He kissed his way up her body, lingering on her stomach and between her breasts. "You don't care."

"I do care," she said, her fingers struggling with the buttons before she gave up and he lifted his arms and she pulled it up over his head, her arms coming to rest on his chest. She moved her mouth to follow her hands, trailing shapes around his chest muscles, down his abs. "It's you that doesn't care," she murmured against his bellybutton.

"Well, that too." He turned her around and backed her up to the bed, not caring if she tripped over her own shoe, which she did. He simply picked her up honeymoon style and laid her down roughly before moving atop her.

Downstairs, they were competitors in the media business, ex-lovers from college, both equally unhappy with their lives.

In this strange, unfamiliar hotel bed, they were still lovers, disregarding the past, not caring about their business, fervently trying to make their lives happy for just a night, if the other would let them.