Chapter 38 George
GEORGE
The wind sweeps across the moors. A field of heather ripples in the breeze. James appears, cresting the hill on a sturdy horse, galloping at speed toward Sir Henry’s stables. Toward destiny.
It’s too cheesy, and it’s not. I’m caught between fully giving myself over to the work and my inner schmaltz detector. Maybe I should take a break. Have a coffee. Or some alcohol. Or some alcohol in coffee. Now, that sounds more like I—
Hands settle on my shoulders. Warmth hits my ear before any sound. Then a low whisper that echoes through me.
“Did you get that scene you were working on?”
He works his thumbs into the tight muscles of my shoulders, and I close my eyes, lean into it. Groan.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I can’t tell if you’re answering me or just enjoying the massage.”
His voice is deep, resonant. A little cowboy-like, I guess, but more just him.
“Mmm. Can’t it be both?”
He chuckles, now. It’s honey-warm and sunshine and just a little bit dirty, all at the same time.
His breath ghosts the shell of my ear again as he leans back in close.
“Can you take a break? Or are you too wrapped up in it?”
“I can stop any time I want,” I tease. I turn my head, my lips brushing across his as I do. But he doesn’t take my mouth, doesn’t really kiss me. Not yet. He likes to make me wait.
“Prove it,” he breathes. So I do.
I stand, turn fully toward him, and he presses me against the edge of the kitchen table, sweeping his tongue into my mouth.
I half climb, he half lifts me onto the table. He smells like pine and some kind of heady cologne. My laptop clatters off the edge. I think it might have landed on a chair. It’s probably okay. I don’t care either way.
“George,” he moans against my neck as he steps in between my knees.
He leans in, and I lean in, and everything is hard and hot and friction and—
I wake up.
I am not perched on the kitchen table being debauched by a carpenter/lumberjack.
I am sitting, alone, on the sunporch, laptop open to the last scene I was working on—Steele, not Sir Henry’s stables—and so turned on, I can’t see straight.
I can’t help it. I undo my buckle and zipper and shimmy my way out of my pants just enough that I can take hold and bring myself to a fast, messy orgasm right there in front of the full-length windows and whatever wildlife happens to be passing by.
When it’s over, I sit there panting, still only halfway awake, as reality seeps in, followed closely on its heels by utter and total shame.
What. The ever-loving hell. Was that?
Okay, I know what that was. That was a sex dream. About Owen.
Topped off by an appalling lack of self-control.
I groan and drop my head into my hands, at which point I can’t help but notice that I am just still hanging out there, alfresco. I quickly put myself back together, note with embarrassment that my button-down now needs to be laundered, and strip down to my t-shirt.
Okay, okay. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s about the book. Yes! Yes, actually, that makes perfect sense. In the dream, I was working on the romance book, and Owen is reading the romance book, so of course I got them all mixed up together.
Although that doesn’t entirely explain why I just came harder than I have in years at the mere thought of him.
Or how vividly intimate the dream felt. Because if I’m honest, it wasn’t just the physical. His voice, his touch—it felt as if we were deeply, personally, irrevocably connected.
Jesus Christ, I cannot have a thing for Owen.
Goddamn it, I know better than this. I do. I know better than to wish for things I cannot have. And I know that I cannot have some magical romance novel relationship. Hell, if history proves one thing, it’s that I can’t even have a regular relationship. I will always find a way to screw it up.
And I sure as fuck know better than to drag someone like Owen into my mess.
Kind, generous, genuine Owen. Owen, who, as Allie said, has been through enough. Owen, who, against all odds, has become a real friend.
Fuck. I don’t even want to think about how much this could mess with the first real, new friendship I’ve found in a very long time.
Why? Why did I have to have that dream?
I can’t sit still. I get up. I pace, running my hands through my hair, desperate to come up with some other explanation besides that I have developed some kind of fantasy romantic feelings for—
Wait, that’s it.
It’s a fantasy.
It’s not real. I don’t have actual feelings for actual Owen. I have fantasy feelings for fantasy Owen.
And that only makes sense because for all our back-and-forth this week, I don’t really have a lot of basic, real-world information about him. Case in point, I realize: in the dream, I didn’t have a clear image of what he looked like.
Because I don’t actually know what he looks like.
In fact…
I’m onto something now. I grab my phone. If I could picture the real Owen, it would neutralize my runaway imagination. I’m certain of it. And then surely that would quash whatever misguided feelings my subconscious thinks it’s having about him.
I text Zoe.
George
Hey sweetie, Merry Christmas! I heard you’re out on a big adventure!
Zoe
You did? How?
Whoops. Shit.
I had to ask Owen where his can opener was. And he told me you guys went out.
You’ve been up there a week without a can opener?
I have no answer for that, so I just blow past it.
Listen, Zo, this is going to sound weird, but could you send me a picture of Owen?
Yeah, that does sound weird. Shit. Also, exactly the kind of thing she likes to glom on to.
She starts typing. Okay, nope.
For character research!
I want to base a character on him.
Oh my God, what am I doing?
As a thank you for letting me use his cabin.
There. Except…
Just a minor character!
Anyway, it helps to have a visual.
Jesus Christ, I’m going to give myself a coronary here.
Ooh, sexual conquest or master villain?
Uh…
I haven’t decided yet.
I am expecting another text calling me on my bullshit, which frankly would be completely fair. But the next thing that comes through, a minute later, is a snapshot of… dammit. This was a bad idea.
He’s beautiful. He’s perfect. Or maybe perfectly imperfect.
Sandy blond hair, square jaw, crooked smile.
There’s a birthmark above his right eyebrow and a tiny, crescent-shaped scar on his chin.
Zoe seems to have snapped the picture somewhere on a sidewalk in the city, Owen squeezing in against a storefront to let an elderly couple pass.
His jacket is zipped all the way up, and he’s got a scarf wound around his neck.
His cheeks are flushed from the cold. His green eyes sparkle with laughter.
I can’t stop staring at him. And my insides are doing some complicated and unsubtle acrobatics.
He’s real, and that is so much worse than some sort of vague abstract fantasy.
I’m completely fucked.
Later, when I’m lying in bed, not even pretending to sleep, my phone lights up with a text.
Owen
So sorry. Zoe kept me out all night! Did you know there’s a Holiday Lights bus tour?
You ride on top and there’s hot chocolate and caroling!
And elves! Anyway, I’m beat, so I’m turning in.
I’m yours all day tomorrow. Or I’m your book’s?
Or something. There may have been some festive drinks as part of our adventure.
Anyway, you’re probably already asleep. So… Nighty-night, George Knight.
If I want not to want things, answering a drunk Owen—flirting with a drunk Owen, let’s be real—is not a good idea. I know this. So I don’t answer.
But I read it over again. Twice.