Chapter 25
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hold my breath and brace myself. A million reasons, remember? He’s going to pluck one of them out of the air and present it to me as evidence why, even as mature adults, sometimes it doesn’t matter what two people want, they still can’t be together.
“Martha.” My name on his lips is a tortured sound.
I know there’s a but coming. Maybe before some sweet words, maybe after, but it is definitely coming.
I hold up my hand a second time to stave it off.
“I should probably do the ladylike thing and demure. Fade into the background quietly, so to speak. But I think I would be ashamed of myself if I didn’t fight for what I wanted.
And as stated, what I want is you, Julien. I want a chance for there to be an us.”
He swallows thickly before asking, barely above a whisper, “Are you asking me to choose?”
“I would never do that,” I assure him, my heart breaking for him just a little at the confliction written all over his face.
“This isn’t a nonconsequential decision.
There are too many high stakes at risk here.
Your dad’s health, people’s jobs, and—although it seems to weigh significantly less stacked against those, I still think it’s worth an awful lot—my heart.
You said you liked me more than you should.
The question is, do you like me enough to try to figure out a way for us to be together, even with all that stacked against us? ”
He’s staring down at the plates between us as if he’s afraid if he looks at me, he’ll lose his resolve.
The thought buoys my spirit.
“I just don’t see how it could work,” he finally says, resigned.
I make a tsking sound. “I know you’ve got more creativity than that in you.”
A corner of his mouth twitches.
“I’m going to go ahead and dismiss the most obvious solution, which would be for Squire to contract a different author.”
His gaze finally rises to meet mine. “That was never on the table.”
“Thank you for believing in me.”
His hand curls into a fist by his coffee cup. “I’m sorry for what my dad said to you all those years ago about your writing. I don’t know what he was thinking, because it’s easy for anyone who can read to see that you’re brilliant.”
“It’s sweet that you’re getting upset for me, but you’re actually opening a separate can of worms. Let’s try to find solutions to one problem at a time, shall we?”
This time when he starts to shake his head, it’s with a soft smile on his lips. “You’re incredible, do you know that?”
Heat infuses my cheeks that has nothing to do with my sunburn.
“Thank you.” I press a hand to my stomach in an effort to get the butterflies taking flight in there to settle down.
“Now,” I say in my librarian voice, “back to the topic at hand. Do you want to figure out a way where we can both work together and be together?”
He reaches around the omelet plate and takes my hand. His thumb runs soft lines across the dips and valleys of my knuckles. He’s staring at the movement, as hypnotized by the soft touch as I am.
When he lifts his eyes, the blue of his irises turns from the calmness of a clear sky to the burning of a hot flame. “I can’t think of anything that I have ever wanted more.”
I try to swallow past the thickness in my throat and hang on to that maturity I’d been flaunting not too long ago instead of succumbing to the giddy girl inside me screaming he likes me, he really likes me.
“Good.” The word comes out like a croak, so I clear my throat and try again. “Good.” I take a sip of water, then lick my lips. “What about filing a statement with HR?”
He tilts his chin as he considers my suggestion, his thumb still lighting a path across the back of my hand. “Disclosing a personal relationship would be a necessary first step. In fact, I believe I heard rumor of at least one interoffice romance, so I’m sure there’s a protocol already in place.”
“Good.”
You’re claiming to be an author, Martha. Surely you can think of another word besides that one.
But the thing is, Julien’s touch is kind of scattering my brain at the moment.
“Oh, sorry.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “You probably need your hand to finish breakfast.” He gives my fingers a squeeze before letting go.
I honestly couldn’t care less about breakfast at the moment, but I pick up my fork and take a bite anyway. He does the same, chewing thoughtfully.
“You know,” he says after he swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin, “the editorial and marketing teams are the people who’ll be working the closest with you after contracts are signed. I’ll mostly be in the background.”
“And even then,” I continue with his train of thought, “my work is going to be done remotely. Communication through emails and Track Changes in the Word document. It wouldn’t be anything like an office romance, because I’ll rarely, if ever, be in the offices of King Publishing.”
His grin is broad and triumphant. “Exactly.” He stabs a piece of French toast with his fork and brings it up to his mouth.
A cry pierces the air right before a seagull dive-bombs out of the sky and swoops between us.
The bird’s wings spread and flap as he slows his momentum, and before I know what’s happening, I’m being slapped in the face with feathers.
I cough and sputter and raise my arms in defense against the attack.
The bird cries again, and it’s a thing of nightmares.
I’m whacked in the head with a wing. A feather jams itself in my mouth.
There’s a scream of my own crawling up my throat.
I’m pretty sure my hands are batting at the air in front of my face like I’m shadow-boxing in a cat fight.
Everything is feathers, a horrible stench, and utter chaos.
Then, as quickly as the seagull appeared, it’s flying away into the wide-open sky with a fork full of French toast clutched in its feet like a trophy.
My eyes are wide in disbelief as I stare across the table at Julien.
His hair is a wild mess on top of his head, and he looks like he’s just gotten out of a scrap in a back alley somewhere.
A goop of white bird feces drips down the shoulder of his tailored suit jacket, while a fluffy down feather dances a tauntingly slow descent in front of his face.
He has such a horrified, dazed expression on his face that I’m snapped out of my shock and have to choke back from laughing out loud.
“Did you see that? That seagull just flew in from nowhere. Swoop. One minute I’m eating breakfast, and the next minute there’s a giant bird in my face.” He makes a hand motion that’s supposed to portray the seagull diving in kamikaze style, but his gaze is unfocused.
I get the impression that he’s not necessarily talking to me. More like verbally trying to work out what just happened.
“Its beady little eyes looked into my soul. And then it screamed in my face. And stole my fork.” He blinks, coming back to himself, then looks at me. “What in the world was that?”
I shake my head, clamping my lips shut, but my shoulders are shaking from silent laughter.
“It was this close!” He holds his palm in front of his face, only about two inches from his nose.
“And it left you a present.” I point to the white stain on his coat.
His lips curl in disgust. “I would like to know,” he says as he slips his arms out of the jacket, “what I did to the avian community for them to despise me so much. I’m starting to think they have a personal vendetta against me.”
I pretend to consider his comment seriously, but it’s getting really hard to keep the laughter inside. “First the little bird in the mud and now this. Did you do something to upset the Godfeather?”
“The Godfeather?” He quirks a brow at me as he tries to suppress his own smile.
“Yeah. Did you leave the gun and take the birdseed?”
He snorts a bark of laughter. “They made me an offer that I refused.”
I’m smiling wide now. “What offer was that?”
“A cracker. But in my defense, I thought they’d gotten the wrong guy. They’d called me Polly.”
I laugh out loud, and he lets his grin emerge unrestrained.
A second later, his body does a little shiver. “Okay, I just remembered some Alfred Hitchcock scenes. Don’t think any less of my manhood, but how about we finish this conversation inside?”
I laugh again and gather the plates. “After you.”
Once we’re back inside the room, he takes the plates from me and places them outside the door for the cleaning service to pick up.
When he turns back around, there’s a shift in the atmosphere.
The levity from the thieving seagull and our Godfather/Godfeather jokes has been erased, replaced with a tension I can feel behind my naval.
We sort of just stand and stare at each other for a moment.
Everything we’ve said and have yet to say hangs in the space between us.
The desire for a physical connection, a grounding touch, propels my feet forward.
I stop in front of Julien and raise my gaze, my eyes snagging on an excuse to brush the pads of my fingers across his skin.
I lift my hand but pause and hover near his head.
“May I?” I ask in a whisper.
He nods silently, his gaze intent on my face.
It’s a guise, me running my fingers through his hair to fix the dishevelment the seagull caused. The truth is, I’ve wanted to do this for a while. I just haven’t felt like I had the right. I’m still not sure that I do, hence the need for an excuse.
I pay particular attention to each strand of hair, never allowing my gaze to slip lower than the small cowlick that causes a wave of silver hair to rise and dip to his forehead.
If I look any lower, then I’ll be confronted by whatever expression is on Julien’s face.
And no matter how mature I claim to be, I’m not sure I’d know what to do with that sort of information at the moment.
“There,” I finally say when his hair is back into a semblance of style. I take a step back and fill my lungs. “That’s better.”
He clears his throat. “Good.”
There’s that word again. Though I’m glad I’m not the one saying it this time. I’m also glad it seems that Julien has been as similarly affected as I’ve been.
“Now, what were we saying before we were so rudely interrupted?”
I smile up at him. “I think you were just about to ask me out on a date.”