Chapter 24
How do I sleep? Horribly, if you want to know the truth.
First, there’s the guest bedroom. If I’d thought I’d find pieces of Ryan in here, I was mistaken. This isn’t his home. It’s professor Henry’s, art collector extraordinaire.
This morning, I wake to a large, framed piece of multimedia art.
It’s an abstract, with different shapes and Jackson Pollock–inspired swirls of paint.
There’s a rabbit clearly cut from a greeting card, and a soldier peeking out from another corner behind swirls of paint.
It’s the kind of art you could study for days and still find more things the artist hid.
And there’s a text from Chris:
Thanks a lot! My parents had to pick me up. I had a two-hour lecture on all the mistakes I’ve made since birth. When can I see you? I said we would talk when I got back. I really miss you.
I don’t even know if I should dignify this with a response.
He misses the old Luci, the one who will roll over and beg for his scraps.
News flash: that Luci doesn’t live here anymore.
I pull the warm blanket around me tighter.
The guest room smells like Ryan. Sandalwood and beachy fresh.
Sunshine. An undetermined and pleasant light musky scent lingers that is all male.
A few minutes later, I hear sounds coming from the kitchen, sit up straight, and smack my forehead.
What did I do? I kissed my boss! I kissed the professor and he kissed me back.
This is the man who hired me as a research assistant even after listening to me word vomit my interview and qualifications.
This is the man who’s changed my career, breathing new life into it.
Sure, I think we decently recovered from the kiss and the moment we shared.
Except I’m not sure I will recover. I’ve never been kissed like that before.
His fingers were threading through my hair, pulling me closer with intent, and it was glorious.
The whole thing was hotter than I would have ever imagined.
That single kiss was better than most of the sex I’ve had.
I thought Ryan was hot, but holy guacamole, he’s so much more.
Luci, I’m not a saint.
No, not a saint. Pretty sure a saint wouldn’t kiss the way he did.
Damn it, now I’m picturing all manner of other unsaintly things.
I only hope I haven’t made things incredibly awkward between us.
I’m going to try and behave like we’re back to being friends and colleagues, and the kiss never happened.
That seems the best approach. I’m pretty good at pretending, which is part of my problem.
But screw it, I can’t fix everything overnight.
I would ask Sofia what to do but I don’t want to hear her sexualize this relationship when I give her ammunition.
Because Ryan and I kissed, oh boy we kissed, and going farther than that isn’t as unlikely anymore.
I did hear Ryan when he mentioned even playing fields.
Maybe I could quit this job and then technically I’m only working for the publisher.
Right? But I’m not sure if it works that way.
Besides, now we’re writing the sequel together.
I finger-comb my hair, change into my now dry clothes, and visit the bathroom.
I need my toothbrush. I need my face soap.
Forced to brush my teeth with my finger, I do my best with his toothpaste, a minty flavor.
When I snoop in Ryan’s toiletries, I find the soap he uses and vow to order some so I can smell him all the time.
He’s obviously a low-maintenance guy, given the lack of hair gel, spray, and other metrosexual detritus used by men like my ex.
I find an electric shaver and have to wonder why he suddenly seems to have stopped shaving.
I didn’t want to go home last night, but this morning I don’t know what possessed me. He kissed me—correction, I kissed him—and everything changed. Maybe I should have left. I don’t know if I’m skilled enough to fake my disinterest despite all my experience faking.
When I find Ryan in the kitchen, he offers me coffee and our hands touch, reminding me of last night.
“Oh, so you can make coffee?” I go hand on hip. “You don’t need my daily delivery?”
“That was your idea,” he says with a smirk.
“Which you definitely leaned into,” I say, and now I feel a warm flush creeping up my neck. “Um, yeah. I guess I will have a cup. Thanks.”
Note to self: Don’t use the word lean in his presence.
I take a few sips and sneak looks at Ryan, who is dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and a shirt over a tee. He’s not wearing his glasses, which is a different look for him. I resist my impulse to go into his arms again.
“Are you trying to grow a beard again?” I study him because he’s still got beard stubble and it looks a bit thicker today.
He runs a hand along his chin and I swear I hear it from where I’m standing two feet away. I felt those bristles last night against my skin.
“My razor broke and I haven’t ordered a new one.”
“Just so long as you don’t go all Grizzly Adams again like in the video.”
“Not a good look for me.” He shakes his head. “But that’s how I usually look after I finish a book. When I’m immersed in a book, I barely eat or sleep, much less bother shaving.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy.”
He shrugs. “It works for me.”
I sit my cup on the counter after only a few sips. “I figured I’d go home and change before I come back to work.”
He heads to the dining table with his coffee and stops between the two rooms. “If you want to work from home today, that’s not a problem.”
“Do you want me to work from home?”
He pinches the back of his neck. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s like I make him nervous, but in a good way.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in any way.”
“Because of last night? I don’t,” I lie. “I’m the opposite of uncomfortable because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not saying you did. Or we did.” He waves his arms. “No one in this room should feel uncomfortable because…yeah…I just meant those clothes of yours are probably not comfortable.”
It’s hard not to chuckle when I realize he might be more nervous than I am. “You’re right about that. Plus, my toothbrush. You look all clean and snappy and presentable while I look like…like I had a sleepover without my toothbrush.”
At this, he gives me half a smile. “You always look good to me.”
Oh. That’s nice of him to say. I should accept the compliment, but I can’t resist.
“Just so you know, this is the worst I ever look.” I hesitate. “Except when I’m sick.”
After I say this, I regret the words and want to take them back.
I think it’s somehow wired into my DNA, which has infected me with the idea I must be presentable and attractive to men at all times.
This is something I can thank Geneva for.
I’ve fought this attitude for years, but it’s deeply ingrained and not just by my mother but society as a whole.
Like the worst thing a woman can be is invisible to men.
Newsflash: I don’t care anymore. My looks are the least important part of me.
Ryan grabs his keys. “I’ll drive you.”
As we drive to my neighborhood, I notice Ryan isn’t wearing his glasses but a pair of shades he pulled out of the glove compartment.
“Don’t you wear prescription glasses?” I say.
“Yeah but just for reading.”
This is interesting because I’ve never seen him not wearing a pair of glasses until today and I’ve seen him in plenty of situations when he’s not reading.
“Are we not going to talk about the kiss?” I say.
“Not unless you want to,” Ryan says and I notice his knuckles go white on the steering wheel.
“If we don’t talk about it, it’s going to be awkward.”
“I would hate that.”
He sounds the way most guys do when they’d prefer to talk about the splitting of the atom, space exploration, or conspiracy theories. Anything else. Literally.
“We’ve come a long way from the day you asked me to be Elizabeth.”
“I’m with you so far.”
Now for the tough part. “I guess you know by now I’m attracted to you.”
“Yes.”
While I sincerely wish he’d admit he feels the same way, I suppose I don’t need him to confess the obvious.
I was there when he kissed me back like he wanted to inhale me.
I’m not going to do this “does he like me” thing I always do.
Who was it that said we’re all basically sixteen when we fall in love?
I refuse to act like a teenager again crushing on someone. I’m thirty, for crying out loud.
“I never planned for this. You know I hated you after I saw the video.”
“Sure.”
“Everything is different now but naturally we’re not going to do anything about this”—I wave my hand between us—“thing between us.”
“Exactly.”
I cross my arms and tuck them under my armpits so I’m not temped to smack him. So much for talking things out.
I did all the talking.
“So glad we had this talk.”
“Same here.”
Woohoo, two whole words. I’m going to punish his lack of vocabulary by pressing to hear more about the real Elizabeth.
“So. Ryan, would you tell me more about Elizabeth Brogan? It’s a family name, but who’s in the family? A grandmother? Aunt? Is it your mother’s maiden name?”
Ryan freezes, his lips pressed together, and he’s absolutely white-knuckling that steering wheel.
“I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, but why?”
Maybe I shouldn’t press, but we kissed, and I’m Elizabeth now. And maybe I have a small right to know.
“Just trust me. You won’t think of me the same way if I tell you.”
That’s a loaded statement. I can’t imagine why I would think of him differently.
“You do know what I’m making up right now is probably worse than it actually is.”
“Don’t let you imagination get carried away.”
“Ha! Fat chance. But you’ll tell me someday.”
He doesn’t respond but gives me a non-committal “uh-huh.”
“Just pull over here.” I point to the sidewalk in front of the house.
Ryan parks and then says, “I’ll walk you.”