Chapter Ten
Nick
The moment Jess leaves the room, the door shutting solidly behind her, I breathe for the first time this morning.
Fuck.
I can’t believe what I did to her this morning, even if it was merely my subconscious that was being a total dick. Stroking her soft skin, nuzzling into her neck. Thrusting my rock-hard cock against the sweet curve of her ass.
Nope.
No need to visualize that one.
I push out of the armchair and grab my laptop, needing to turn my attention to anything but the memory of waking up with her in my arms. There isn’t a great writing space here in the room, but I don’t want to venture into the lobby. If I see her, it will only lead to distraction, and I need to get some words on the page before I lose this spark. I haven’t felt this inspired for at least a week; the rush of my new story has been a temperamental beast.
I climb onto the bed, resting my back against the headboard and creating a pseudo desk with a stack of pillows. I ignore everything I’ve written so far—I don’t reread any of my writing until I completely finish the first draft—and dive in. My characters have taken shape, in my head at least, over the past twenty-four hours, and I know exactly where I want them to go.
I still don’t know what broke them up in the first place, and it’s unlike me to draft without fully understanding my characters’ backstory, but I can’t seem to find a good reason for their original breakup. They’re so clearly suited for each other, there doesn’t seem to be anything that could reasonably tear them apart. And if I can’t settle on a reason for their breakup that seems reasonable and realistic, the readers will never go for it.
But I’m not going to worry about that now. There’s one scene in particular that has been living in the forefront of my mind, and after this morning’s events I can see it so clearly, I know I need to get it out on the page before I lose it.
I’ve always hated writing sex scenes, and it’s one of the things that hasn’t gotten any easier with time and experience. I know that romance novels don’t need them; there are plenty of amazing closed-door books out there.
But when I was writing with Jess, well, a lot of times I would present her with a hypothetical—would this position work or what would happen if I did this to you?—and that hypothetical would lead to some of the best sex I’ve ever had, before or since. So I wasn’t exactly shying away from putting as many sex scenes as I could think of into my books, not when it meant I would get to live them myself.
And now my readers expect sex to be there on the page. I still have to write it, only now it’s without the benefit of a partner willing to act out the scenarios with me.
Today I don’t really need to act anything out, the vision’s so vivid in my mind that my characters’ first time together comes pouring out of me. I type as fast as I can, the words barely keeping up with my train of thought.
I don’t pause for a break, even though my throat has gone dry and my cheeks are flushed.
Jess barrels in, a wild expression on her face, and I’m so surprised to see her, am so wrapped up in what was happening on the page, I almost throw my computer across the room. Luckily, I have the foresight to save my work before slamming my laptop shut, as if there was some chance of her seeing what I was writing.
I wonder if I look as disheveled as she does as my breathing recovers from the shock of her walking in on me while I was consummating my characters’ relationship. Her chocolate-brown hair, which she’d thrown up in a messy bun this morning, is now well beyond messy, like she’s been raking her fingers through it.
I used to love raking my fingers through her hair.
I sit up, swinging my legs to the side of the bed. I take a deep breath so my tone is even and measured—the exact opposite of how I feel in the moment. “Everything okay?”
She opens and closes her mouth a few times, like she is struggling to make the thoughts in her brain connect with her mouth. Finally, after a few awkward pauses, she shakes her head. “Everything’s fine.” She stashes her own laptop back in her bag and collapses into the armchair.
I check the time. “It’s going to be time for dinner soon. Should we go down to the restaurant and get something to eat?”
Her eyes widen. “Should we be seen together? There’s still a ton of SVP people here.”
My brow furrows with genuine confusion. “So? We’re just two colleagues who happen to be trapped in a hotel during a snowstorm. We all need to eat.”
She nods, her teeth pulling on her bottom lip. A sure sign she’s got a million thoughts running through her mind that she can’t quite untangle. “Right. Totally normal then, for us to go to dinner together.”
“Are you sure everything is okay?” She’s even more flustered than I am. I wonder what kind of scene she was writing before she burst back into the room.
She flashes me her fake smile. “Totally okay.” She stands and heads for the bathroom. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up, and we can head down.”
“Sure thing.” My response gets swallowed up by the sound of the door clicking shut behind her.
While I wait for her, my eye catches on the gift bottle of whiskey. I find a glass and pour myself a finger’s worth. I toss the whole thing back before Jess emerges from the bathroom, hair smoothed and tucked back into place. I focus on the burn of the alcohol sliding down my throat rather than how stunning she looks barefaced, her hair swept away from her cheekbones.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, not wanting to open my mouth and blurt out something inappropriate, like how when her red sweater slips off her shoulder, I want to lick her collarbone.
Because we are two colleagues, going out for a professional dinner.
I repeat it like a mantra in my mind, especially when the doors of the elevator close, and her winter jasmine perfume tickles my nose. It would be entirely unprofessional to hit the emergency stop button and press her up against the wall of the elevator.
Luckily, we’re joined by two other guests as we hit the next floor, two people I don’t recognize, thankfully.
We head directly for the restaurant, and the door opens right as we approach it. Two women emerge and their faces both light up when they spot me.
Scratch that. They’re not looking at me, they’re looking at Jess.
“Oh my god, Emily! Farah! It’s so good to see you!” Jess’s voice rises in pitch, as it always does when she’s really excited.
The three of them huddle together in a group hug while I stand awkwardly next to them, clearly not included.
When they break apart, the blond one looks between me and Jess. “Are you two going in to eat? Together?” She says this like I’m the Grinch and Jess is Santa, like the idea of the two of us enjoying a meal together is near impossible.
“We are.” Jess rolls her eyes as she leans in closer to them. “There was a whole mix-up with my room so I’m a little bit trapped.”
“Oh no!” the brunette exclaims. “We would totally offer you a spot in our room, but instead of giving us two queens, they gave us one king, so we’re already crowded.”
Jess shrugs, and it’s not lost on me that she doesn’t bother to introduce me or attempt to include me in this conversation in any way. “Hopefully I’ll be on my way home soon. Fingers crossed this weather clears!” She pulls the two of them in for another hug.
“Are you okay?” I hear one of them whisper to her. “We can squish you in with us if you need us to. I can’t imagine.” She shoots me a glare over Jess’s shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Jess whispers back. I note she doesn’t bother to defend my character. “Maybe we can all do a writing session tomorrow if we’re still trapped.”
Emily and Farah—I still don’t know which is which—agree cheerfully before wishing Jess a good night, ignoring me, and striding toward the lobby.
Neither of us says anything as we put our name in with the hostess.
We wait in silence for a few minutes for a table at the cabin-themed restaurant. The place is full of wood beams and plaid and even some antique-looking wooden skis mounted on the walls. A giant Christmas tree stands in the center of the dining area, and holiday music pipes through the speakers. The fire is roaring in the huge stone fireplace, and the air smells like cinnamon and nutmeg.
It’s awful.
One look at Jess and it’s clear how much she loves it here. This place is exactly her kind of holiday vibe.
“So how long have you known Emily and Farah?” I finally ask, when the silence becomes too much.
She shoots me an odd look. “They debuted with us. I met them in the romance debut support group. We’ve been friends ever since.”
Right. I was initially a part of that same group, but I stopped participating once it became clear to me that I could no longer write traditional romance. But even still, I should probably have a general idea of who the other authors published by SVP are, especially the ones who debuted the same year I did.
“I don’t ever see you in any of the SVP or romance groups…”
I purse my lips. “I’ve never really felt welcome.”
“Maybe because it seems like you think you’re too good for us.” Jess drops the bomb right as the hostess calls our name.
If anything, I think it’s the opposite. Emily and Farah and so many other romance authors have made it obvious that I’m not welcome in their circle, that I’m not good enough for them . The truly frustrating part is they’re right. I know that I’ve brought their disdain upon myself.
Doesn’t make it feel any better though.
The hostess seats us at a table right across from the tree, handing us menus and promising our server will be right with us. I already know I’m ordering the cheeseburger and a beer. Jess is going to get the grilled cheese with tomato soup and a glass of white wine.
I hide my triumphant smile when the waiter appears and she orders exactly that.
Food and drinks ordered and menus swept away, there isn’t much left to focus on. Other than her.
“You look beautiful.” It slips out before I can think of all the reasons I shouldn’t say it.
Her full lips pull down in a frown. “I’m just in my hanging-out clothes with no makeup on. No need to try to flatter me.”
I shrug, gratefully accepting the beer the server delivers. “I’m not. You just do, and I thought you should know.”
She studies me for an uncomfortable minute before swigging from her glass of sauvignon blanc. “Thanks, I guess.”
There’s something new hidden in the depths of her brown eyes. Something different from disdain and lust, the only two emotions she’s shown me since she arrived in a flurry the evening before. There’s a whirlpool of emotion circling there, clouding her whiskey-colored eyes as she studies me.
Has it really been only twenty-four hours since she exploded back into my life?
Knowing I can wait her out, I drain half my beer.
“Did you ask SVP to have me introduce you last night at the awards ceremony?”
There’s no judgment or anger in her question, just a genuine curiosity.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Jess. I know it can’t have been easy to get up onstage and say nice things about me, but I also know it probably felt impossible to say no. I would never dream of putting you in that position.”
“To be fair, I mostly said nice things about your books. Not that that’s any easier than saying nice things about you.”
I fight a smile as we slide into more familiar territory. “What’s wrong with my books?”
She grimaces and finishes her glass of wine. “You claim to write romance, and yet, you completely disrespect one of the founding rules of the genre.”
I sit back in my chair, ready for the debate I’ve had to engage in many times over the years. “And yet, millions of readers don’t seem to mind.”
“It’s not that your books are bad, Nick, or even that people are wrong for reading and enjoying them, it’s that they shouldn’t be marketed as romance.”
I raise one eyebrow. “So you’ve read my books?”
She rolls her eyes and signals to the server for another round of drinks. “Obviously, I’ve read them, or I wouldn’t know that you’re incapable of writing a happy ending.”
“How can I write a happy ending when my own blew up in my face?”
The shot of whiskey and the beer must have caught up with me because I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth. Shit.
“Blew up in your face?” Jess repeats, her voice incredulous. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I seem to recall, vividly and explicitly, you being the one who ended our relationship. Unless…” Her eyes widen and she sits back in her chair, a humorless laugh caught in the back of her throat. “You’re not talking about me. Of course, there was someone else.”
My hand darts across the table, grasping onto hers. “There was no one else, Jess. There wasn’t before you, and there hasn’t been since.”
She yanks her hand from mine. “Then why are you pretending like you’re not at fault? Like someone else was responsible for the way we ended? Like you weren’t the one who destroyed us?”
The server chooses this completely inopportune moment to deliver our second round of drinks, along with our food.
Jess glares at me for a second before pushing back her chair. “I think I’d prefer to enjoy dinner in my room.” She takes her plate and the glass of wine and stomps out of the dining room.
Leaving me alone, the eyes of everyone in the restaurant watching me with either pity, or curiosity, or both.
I ignore the eyes and the hollow feeling in my chest, and eat my dinner. I text Hilary in total desperation, asking if she can work her assistant magic and find an extra available room in this fully booked hotel. It takes her an hour to respond, which means she really tried to work the system, but I’m not surprised when she tells me it’s impossible. When I get back to the room, Jess is already tucked into her side of the bed. And she’s left a mound of pillows down the middle of the mattress, making sure there won’t be a repeat of this morning’s groping session.
That mound of pillows might as well be a brick wall. Jess is never going to be able to forgive me. Our second-chance romance is over before it’s really begun.