Chapter 4 #2
He sits down on his long, black sofa and tosses a handful of popcorn into his mouth, chewing it up and chasing it with a sip of his virgin strawberry margarita before setting the drink down on the table end beside him. He responds. “And pray tell, dear Emma Jane, what do I have to apologize for?”
Sometimes I think he just likes the way my name sounds coming from his condescending mouth.
“Putting down my business, mocking me for the whole Frank Weston thing, always being an absolute turd to me.”
He raises his auburn eyebrows, the perfect match to his styled hair. “Turd?”
“Yes!” My voice is a little too loud and a little too flustered. Bringing it down, I snap. “You are so nice to everyone else, but you are a turd to me.”
“Then why did you agree to watch this movie with me, Emma Jane?”
“Because I thought it was an apology movie,” I hiss under my breath.
He pats the plump cushion next to him—my usual spot when we watch movies or shows together—and I reluctantly sit down, crossing my arms like a petulant child.
Next thing I know, Knightley’s breath is tickling my ear. “What if this actually is an apology movie? What if I chose horror instead of romance just so I could watch you need me for two and half hours?”
I blink once. Twice. A million times. “Excuse me, Squire? Are you a sadist?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not in the slightest, but I do so enjoy getting under your tanned skin.”
My cheeks heat, and I turn my head away so he can’t see my blush.
Why in the heavens is Knightley George Austen making me blush? I guess if anyone would have said something like that to me it would stir the butterflies in my stomach to take flight.
After a breather, I turn toward his smug face.
Smug… everything.
His arms are crossed against his chest, pulling the thin fabric of his pastel blue button down shirt taut across admittedly defined muscles. His dark blue eyes are narrowed as his expression rivals those Matt Rife memes floating around the internet. Smug and confident and oh so superior looking…
What’s the best way to take him down a notch or two? And make him blush harder than he made me?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, King.” He snaps his head to look down at me. Good. “You couldn't handle being under me.”
Someone behind us clears their throat, and I snap my head behind me as Knightley mutters a curse under his breath.
“I let myself in as I usually do,” Marcus says with suspicion dripping in his voice. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me at Knightley’s side plenty of times, but we’ve never given off the vibe that’s clearly suffocating everyone in the vicinity.
As Knightley stands to address Marcus, I fly off of the couch and announce to the world I’m going to go pee.
Real classy, I know.
Once I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I splay my hands on the marbled counters and stare at my pinkened reflection in the large mirror above the sink. What is wrong with me?
Knightley knows how to get under my skin, sure, but it’s never been like this. Flirty. Charged. A touch of forbidden.
In fact, I’ve never felt the feelings he’s curating in me before. Not even with the two guys I dated momentarily in college just to experience the hype. Spoiler alert: Both relationships tanked quickly when I told the guys I wasn’t sexually inclined.
I’m second guessing that now. What’s with the tingles and flush and butterflies? It’s throwing me off my game, and I need to toss these ridiculous notions out of that double-paned window by the porcelain bathtub.
After cooling my face and ridding myself of nonsensical thoughts (like Knightley is intentionally flirting with me and is not just trying to tease me in a different manner than he usually does), I make my way back to the living room just as the front door shuts.
“Marcus left,” he says, stating the obvious and acting like nothing happened. “Ready to watch the movie? Here,” he grabs a box of Whoppers from the end table, “mix these with the popcorn.”
“But this is my apology movie. I shouldn’t have to get butter hands,” I state, crossing my arms. If he wants to act like we didn’t flirt with each other moments ago, then so be it. Probably because he didn’t mean anything by it and I’m being a twit.
“Not an apology movie, but think what you want to. It’s still your turn to mix the goods.” He sits down on the couch, man-splaying in his khaki pants, as he opens the box of candies.
I huff and roll my eyes, but I sit down and grab the popcorn from the brown coffee table in front of us, then he dumps the Whoppers into the bowl. I slip my hand inside and gently coax the popped kernels of corn out of the way so the candy can fall to the center and bottom of the batch.
“If this isn’t an apology movie, then what are we doing here?” He gives me a napkin to wipe my hands off with, but I will most definitely be making a bathroom trip to wash my hands in a moment.
Knightley shrugs, pressing play on the movie. “I wanted to see this.”
“And you couldn’t have watched it with Marcus or some other friend?”
He looks at me with a cheeky smile, his blue eyes stark in the dim room as the bright screen reflects within them. “You are my friend, Janie.” Then he does the unthinkable and ruffles the top of my head. “And I should treat you to horror films occasionally.”
It’s on the edge of my tongue to ask, “Then why in a million lifetimes would you say you want me to need you and then say you like getting under my skin? My tanned skin?” But I don’t ask.
Instead, I click my tongue at him for messing up my perfectly curated Hollywood waves and head back to the bathroom to wash my hands.
Who cares if I miss the beginning of this atrocious movie.
Once I’m in the bathroom, I allow myself one more itsy bitsy moment to fall to pieces over Knightley’s unprecedented attention.
It’s… new. I don’t know where it’s coming from.
Maybe it was all in my head. Lord knows he jokes with me, but where did the flirtiness come from?
Is it because I am currently surrounding myself in the study of romance and love for my matchmaking business?
Yes, that must be it. My head is full of nonsensical ideas that only work for other people and not me.
I’m projecting, and I need to take Taylor Swift’s advice and calm down.
And then I remember what I said back to him, and I slap myself on the forehead with my freshly washed hands.
“Way to go, Emma Jane. No wonder he messed with my hair and spoke to me like I’m a little kid.
He was reminding me of a clear boundary that I danced right over with my comment about him being…
“Oh, God. Why, why, why did I say that? It was completely inappropriate in the first place, not to mention I said it to Knightley!” My thoughts continue spewing out of my mouth in a prayerful plea.
“He can’t handle being underneath me? Gah!
What was I thinking? Please, if You can give him amnesia, I’d be eternally grateful. ”
I take a steadying breath and then walk with confidence like all is well in the world.
Knightley doesn’t say anything to me, only hands me the popcorn so I can try some.
We continue in silence, and when a grotesque creature pops up on the screen, I pull my knees to my chest, thankful I wore jeans to work today instead of a skirt, and mentally prepare myself for the nightmares that are sure to follow based on the sounds from the movie alone.
Yeah, I’ve officially shut my eyes, and they will remain squeezed shut through this entire thing.
Which begs the question: Why didn’t I just go home once I realized what movie he wanted to watch tonight?
I don’t know the answer, but as a loud, screeching sound sends me jumping over into his body for protection that’s not necessarily needed, and he holds me tight against him for the remainder of the film, only releasing me once the credits roll, I have suspicions I stayed because bickering with him is my favorite thing to do.
Even more fun than barista-ing.
Even more stimulating than matchmaking…