Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
maya
A cold, wet nudge to my cheek wakes me from a delicious dream where Cole and I—
Oh shit.
Breath held, I take in the warm arm banded around my waist, the hard chest pressed to my back, and the scratchy stubble brushing against my shoulder. Okaaay. So apparently my comfy, cozy dream, where the two of us were snuggling on my couch, wasn’t exactly a dream.
I force my eyes open, finding Goose’s nose an inch from my face.
He practically smiles when he notices that he’s gained my attention and lets out a little yip, his wagging tail knocking a book off my coffee table.
The thump of the hardcover hitting the floor paired with the whoosh of my upstairs neighbor’s vacuum rouses Cole from sleep.
He grumbles into my neck, his hot breath hitting my skin, causing a wave of goose bumps to rise along my spine.
“What time is it?” he mumbles, his voice scratchy from sleep. Because he definitely needs one more thing to add to his insane sex appeal.
Without looking at my phone, I confidently answer. “A minute or two after nine.”
Cole grunts. “Can you tell time using the sun’s placement in the sky or something? How do you know that without looking at a clock?”
I point toward the ceiling, and as if on cue, a loud thump and bang fill the relative quiet of my apartment. “My upstairs neighbor vacuums every Sunday morning from 9:02 to 9:54 on the dot.”
“That’s annoying.”
“Trust me, I know. Mary Poppins makes it very difficult to sleep in.”
“I’m usually up by now to take Goose out and—fuck.” He sits straight up, and my body immediately misses the heat of his. Noticing Goose beside me, he relaxes. “You okay, buddy? We usually don’t sleep this late.”
“He woke me up by rubbing his nose against my cheek,” I say. “So I think he slept in, too.”
Cole releases a deep breath. “Yeah, that’s how he wakes me up when he has to go outside.”
At the word outside, Goose’s ears perk up and he wags his tail again, batting another book and the remote off the coffee table.
Cole rubs a hand over his face and clambers off the couch. It’s the first time I’ve seen him be anything but graceful.
Figuring this position can’t be flattering, I sit up, only to come eye-to-eye with his crotch. I usually need a minimum of one cup of coffee to wake up in the morning, but I suppose an eyeful of Cole’s prominently outlined cock will have to do.
“Um, Cole…” I chuckle, trying not to look directly at the very impressive dick in his pants. “You may want to take care of that before heading outside. Or at least charge my neighbors for the show.”
He tucks his chin, frowning, as if noticing his morning wood for the first time.
How could he have missed it? Though we’re still struggling to rouse ourselves, his dick is already out and about this morning.
So many romances I read glorify the image of men in gray sweatpants, but damn, there’s no way even the hottest of book boyfriends has anything on Cole Berrett in black joggers.
“This is technically your fault,” he says nonchalantly, “since you ground your ass against me like a pole dancer last night.”
I gasp and a throw pillow at him. “Take it back.”
He laughs while easily dodging the terrible throw. “I said what I said, baby.” He clips Goose’s collar onto his leash. “I’ll be back in a few.”
As the door snicks shut behind him, I flop back onto the couch and sigh.
I’m going to need more than a few to get my libido in check.
It’s very rare that I fall asleep on the couch.
I blame the concussion and how surprisingly snuggly Cole’s muscular body is.
He wouldn’t let me turn on a movie because “watching television after a hit to the head is breaking the cardinal rule of having a concussion,” so we spent the night giving one another scene-by-scene breakdowns of our top sports movies.
I started off strong with She’s the Man, Bend it Like Beckham, and Stick It—all phenomenal—before Cole butted in with a very long-winded description of Miracle.
It must have been during his recap of The Mighty Ducks that I fell asleep.
I make two cups of coffee in my very high-end Keurig and am adding a splash of milk to mine when Cole and Goose make their way back inside.
With an appreciative groan, Cole wraps his large hands around the steaming mug. “Thank you.”
“Mm-hmm. What’s on your agenda for the day? Did sleeping in put you behind schedule?”
“Nah. I’ll probably go on a run with Goose and then rest and read about aliens for the rest of the day.” He throws me a smirk over the top of his mug, which, embarrassingly, says Buy Me a Book and Call Me a Good Girl. “What about you?”
“I, um…” Heat creeps up into my cheeks. “I actually have a creative writing class this afternoon.”
I expect him to be pleasantly surprised. Instead, he responds with a look of horror. “You can’t go to a writing class today. You’re concussed.”
Laughter bubbles up and escapes me. “I said writing class, Cole, not gymnastics class.”
“Dr. Greenbaum said to take it easy,” he continues, tapping his fingers against his ceramic mug at an increasingly aggressive pace. “That means physically and mentally.”
Poking my tongue into my cheek, I inhale a long breath. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not taking the SAT, isn’t it?”
“I really don’t think you should go.”
I rear back, clutching my coffee tighter. “And I really think you should mind your own business.”
He doesn’t back down. In fact, he stands taller. “I’ve had plenty of concussions and—”
“Great. Good for you. Congrats. I’ve had plenty of practice taking care of myself. If I didn’t feel good or was experiencing any lingering symptoms, I wouldn’t go.”
He places his mug on the counter with forced gentleness and approaches me slowly, like I’m a wild animal and he’s at risk of being attacked if he makes one wrong move.
“I know that, Maya. I wasn’t insinuating that you can’t take care of yourself.
” He drops his head and roughs a hand through his messy hair.
“I’m just worried and want to make sure you’re not overdoing it, okay?
But if you think you can go, then you should go. ”
I pull my shoulders back. “I am going.”
He sighs and rubs his brow. “I’m trying to apologize here, bean.”
“There’s technically been no apology.”
Lips quirking up, he places his hands on my hips and rests his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” I nod. “And I’m sorry for getting defensive.”
“It’s kind of hot when you get all aggressive like that.”
I roll my eyes. “Today’s class is an introductory more than anything. I won’t be mentally exerting myself too much.”
He nods, though based on his frown, he’s only slightly mollified by this information.
It’s weird to have someone looking out for me.
To be challenged by this man because he’s worried.
To not be the recipient of an eye roll when I dig my feet in.
To be met with a valid argument rather than be labeled as dramatic.
It’s uncomfortable. Like trying on a new cut of jeans that I swore would never look good on me, only to find that they’re not as bad as I expected.
In fact, the jeans make me look kick-ass.
“What’re you thinking about?” Cole murmurs.
I look up at him through my lashes.
He’s beautiful. Breathtakingly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful.
And he’s here. In my kitchen. Drinking coffee out of an embarrassing mug.
Making sure I’m okay. Nope. Not going to cry.
How pathetic would that be? Someone outside of my siblings and Kennedy does a decent thing by showing care and affection, and I get all emotional?
“That I’m really hungry,” I half lie. “And I want toast.”
He steps back and smiles warmly. “Then I’ll make toast while you tell me about the class.”
I hop onto the counter as he moves around my kitchen, looking for a loaf of bread. His large frame takes up most of the space and dwarfs my appliances. The ridiculous scene, blessedly, keeps me from looking at his sweatpants.
“It’s called Creative Writing—”
“Very creative name.”
I stick my tongue out. “Anyway, the course is taught by a retired English professor.”
“How’d you choose this one?” he asks over his shoulder. “Over the million tabs you had open?”
There’s no way in hell I’m telling him that I drunkenly signed up for the class at Sophie and Kennedy’s urging at three a.m. on New Year’s Day. And that I chose it after Sophie said the professor had “kind eyes.” Whatever the hell that means.
Regardless, it’d probably have been in my top three if I had decided while sober rather than five tequila shots deep.
“Good reviews. Their website described it as ‘a creative space with tutorial-style teaching,’ which I’m almost positive means it’s interactive. I assume I’ll learn about things like plot development and point-of-view, and then put pen to paper in a workshop.”
“Will you let me read the stuff you write?”
My heart lurches. “Um, you play hockey, but you don’t see me asking to put on your skates and go out there and play a game, do you?” I stammer.
“No, but that’s because you’d probably get concussed.” He leans against the opposite counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “And that also doesn’t answer my question.”
Nerves skitter through me at the thought. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? Just maybe?”
I take a sip of my coffee. “You’re lucky you didn’t get a flat-out no.”
“Hmm. I’ll just have to turn that maybe into a yes.” He shifts, the move making his biceps ripple against the sleeves of his shirt. “And I can be very persuasive.”
Throwing him a sweet smile—and fighting to keep my focus off his arms or his crotch—I point to the toaster. “Breakfast’s ready.”
The rest of the morning passes by in a blur of domesticity.
Though I’m hesitant to admit it, even to myself, it’s the best Sunday morning I’ve had in a while.
Being as independent as I am, I’m often alone with my books.
I never realized how lonely that could be until now.
Until I’m laughing as Cole lounges at my kitchen table, slyly feeding Goose a piece of turkey bacon under the table.
“Honey, we’re here!” Kennedy calls as I open the passenger door. “Did you pack your lunch? Do you want me to walk you to the door?”
I level her with a glare. “You’re seriously making me regret not paying for an Uber.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood.” She lifts one shoulder and lets it fall, unbothered. “Because whether you admit it or not, you’re nervous.”
She’s right about that. I’m so nervous that I considered emailing the instructor to explain that I had a concussion and couldn’t make it.
But then I recalled the expression on Cole’s face when he told me he was proud of me for taking the leap, and it unlocked some praise kink I didn’t know I have, so here I am.
I open the door and step out of the car before I chicken out. “I’ll text you after. Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re going to do great,” Kennedy reassures me with a smile. “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”
Blowing out a breath, I take in the scene before me. The snow-covered lawn is crisscrossed with sidewalks and surrounded by tall buildings and decorative archways. Overlooking it all is a large clock tower, giving the quad a dark academia vibe.
The cold air encourages me to hasten my pace along the uneven pathway to the building’s entrance.
Inside, it’s eerily quiet, since there’re no regular classes on Sunday.
Following the directions from the welcome email I received when I signed up, I make a left and then two rights.
When I find auditorium 111, I silently open one of the double doors, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and slip in like a ninja.
There are already a few people scattered throughout the tiered seating, so there are plenty of available spots to choose from.
Not wanting to be too close or too far, I find a seat in the middle row and make myself comfortable.
At four p.m. on the dot, our professor waltzes into the room. Their midnight-colored hair is cropped close to their head, and their glasses have lenses the size of a drink coaster. I honestly can’t tell if they’re closer to thirty or fifty.
“Good evening, fellow writers! I’m Jaden and welcome to your creative writing safe space.
” They sit on the edge of the oak desk at the front of the class, gripping the edge on either side of their legs.
“Now, you’re all here for one reason. Because you’ve read the first chapter of a book and found it nearly impossible to put down.
And you want to craft a story like that.
” They scan the group slowly, expression open.
“To evoke emotion so strongly that a reader would rather remain in the world you’ve created than return to real life.
And the good news? Soon, it’ll be a reality for you.
I’m here to teach you the methods and principles that all the great writers use to create your own masterpiece. ”
For the next two hours, I listen with rapt attention as Jaden outlines the course guidelines and schedules and then dives into our first topic: storytelling with a theme. As I scribble down notes like I’m Moses receiving the Ten Commandments, a strange feeling of rightness floods through me.
This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.