Chapter 5
GEORGE
I’m still not sure how I let Zoe talk me into this.
I should have told her I was going home for the holidays.
Except then I would have to go home for the holidays, and I wouldn’t get anything done.
Anyway, it’s too late now. Her cousin is heading down to the city later today, and if I don’t vacate, we’ll be fighting over who gets the bed and who gets the sofa.
Of course, that would at least save me the train ride to Vermont. But Zoe would kill me. And I can’t imagine having a houseguest would do anything good for my writing woes.
Besides, I doubt this Owen would be excited about having me there on top of him either.
Metaphorically, obviously. Although more than likely the other way, either.
I am no kind of catch. Even in my best days, I still can’t fathom how I’d attracted a man like Luca.
And I am far, far from my best days now.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Unruly dark curls way overdue for a trim. Dark circles under my dark eyes. Wire-frame glasses slightly bent and slightly askew. Bestselling author George Knight, ladies and gentlemen. The Spy Spinner. Ugh. I am going to puke.
I open the medicine cabinet and pull out my razor, shaving cream, and other things I need, and place them into my carrying case.
Out of some combination of hospitality and the desire not to look like a complete mess, I continue around the apartment, setting things in order for Owen’s visit.
I empty the dishwasher, clear several weeks of the New York Times off my dining table, hang clean towels in the bathrooms.
I strip the bed and put fresh sheets on it, the high-count Egyptian cotton ones, because he is a guest, after all.
It’s strange to be making the bed for another man.
It probably should be strange that this is the first time anyone other than me has slept in my bed since Luca left.
It isn’t that I’ve been a total monk. I’ve had… a tryst or two. Hookups. Ugh.
It isn’t that I’m not trying, but… well, I’m not really trying.
What is the point? If I could have the kind of long-term, high-profile, dream relationship I’d had with Luca and have it end with pity invites to the guy’s Happily Ever After, that is pretty strong evidence a grand romance with my own HEA just isn’t in the cards for me.
Anyway, I’ve had good things in my life. More than my share of good things. How many writers sell a hit novel right out of college? How many writers get to put a bisexual hero on the bestseller list? Multiple times. Me, that’s how many. And I am truly grateful. I refuse to be greedy.
So I am going to finish my damn manuscript and engage in my occasional hookups, and that will just goddamn have to be good enough.
I sigh and turn to the closet.
Zoe managed to pack much of what I need in her frenzy, but now I try to round it out.
I do not, in fact, have any flannel or wool socks.
I make due with what I have. My warmest coat is a cashmere trench that seems a bit much for, well, the woods, so I pack a slightly lighter one instead.
Good enough. I’m not planning to leave the cabin anyway.
I have nearly thirty thousand words to go before the second week of January, or Anabel really will have my head.
I close up my suitcases and make a pass through the living room.
Magazines in the rack, remotes on the coffee table, radiator dialed down.
I come to the Christmas tree and pause. It is a tiny little artificial thing, stationed on a side table in front of the window.
It is… a little pathetic? I’m not sure. It definitely screams “single man’s tree—no one giving gifts here.
” It is like the holiday equivalent of a freezer full of Lean Cuisines.
I stash it in the back of the hall closet, then go into my office.
I keep the space pretty neat, and I doubt Owen will have much interest in it, but just in case he wants to use the desk, I clear off the various notebooks and papers I have there, stashing them in a drawer.
At the bottom of the pile is my printout of, well, of the other book.
The one I shouldn’t have been working on.
That I stash in a box, in the hall closet, under some old shopping bags, behind the Christmas tree.
There. Then I go back and throw some scarves on top of the whole thing for good measure.
I am leaving town to write. I am not going to think about Luca, I am not going to think about my own pathetic love life, and I am most definitely not going to think about any books that aren’t Steele Trap.
Back in the kitchen, I arrange a selection of takeout menus, pleased with myself for the little display. I prop the envelope Zoe gave me with Owen’s name on it against a mug, then scribble out a quick note myself, just as the reminder on my phone sounds.
I slide on my coat, grab my laptop and notes, wheel my suitcases to the door, and leave to catch my train. Lord help me.