Thirteen
Mia
Gavin and I burst out of the door like we really did just escape from the center of the earth. They weren’t kidding about
authenticity. The game master presses flyers into our hands and asks us to leave a review, but mine would be along the lines
of: Headlamp malfunctioned, resulting in almost kissing the friend I swore never to get involved with. Two and a half stars rounded up for realism. Because things almost got very real in that cave, and I’m not sure what to do
about it.
“New guideline for these tests,” I announce, when we’re finally out of the fake spelunking gear and back in the mall. My heart
is still racing from the moments I spent on top of Gavin. Oh lord, on top of him . “We don’t do anything that makes us uncomfortable.”
He runs a hand over his golden-brown hair, tidying the strands that were rumpled by the helmet. “I thought getting out of
your comfort zone was the whole point of this.”
“ My comfort zone,” I correct. “Not yours. You don’t need to be knight-in-shining-armoring scary situations for my sake.”
He smirks. Smolders, really. Is this a new thing or a lingering effect of our unintended embrace? “Trust a romance author to turn knight in shining armor into a verb.”
“That’s what you got from what I said?”
“You’re right.” He stops, leaning against one of the pillars, hands in his pockets. A romance hero move if I ever saw one,
and to my dismay, it sends my heart fluttering. “I should’ve told you that I don’t like small spaces. But that goes both ways.
Are you scared of the dark?” His blue eyes have turned watchful, intense.
I cross my arms, defense against his casually attentive pose and his handsome face and the disarming way he never seems to
get enough of knowing me. “A little.”
“You never mentioned it.”
“I thought we were going to be in a Victorian library, not a cave. And it’s super embarrassing to be a grown woman who sleeps
with the light on.” I was hoping to gloss over it, but no such luck.
His brow furrows. “Every night?”
“Only a little light.”
“Like a night-light?”
I shrug, twitchy. “A small lamp.”
He’s eyeing me contemplatively, like he’s taking in this new information and comparing it with what he knows about me. “How
small?”
“About this tall.” I make a space with my hands.
“Like a desk lamp?”
“Yeah, a bedside lamp.”
He’s still got that look of deep focus, and I can tell he’s not judging me, he’s intent on discovering me. It gives me a thrill
to be the object of his concentration, like we’re learning each other for the first time. “You sleep with an actual lamp on.
Every night.” It’s a statement, but I feel compelled to answer him.
“Only when I’m alone.” I don’t want him to think I’m forcing my boyfriends to adopt my weird habits. “I’m not scared with
someone else around.”
“But you haven’t had a boyfriend since...” He trails off.
“Yeah, since the series premiered.” Two years ago. Saying it aloud is more embarrassing than running from the dark like a
child, but Gavin knows what happened with every guy I’ve gone out with since then. Either they acted threatened by my small
measure of fame, or I didn’t fit their idea of a romance novelist—I’m a regular girl who likes staying in and bingeing shows.
“I get it. You’ve had a lot on your plate.”
“It’s not like I’m undatable.”
“Mia.” The rumble of his voice stills me. “I know.” His gaze sinks into my skin like summer heat. “I’m just picturing you
turning on a full-fledged lamp to chase away the shadows and I...” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it all over
again. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.”
That makes two of us. I almost kissed him, and now I’m trying to fit my feelings for him back into the friendship box, but
the lid won’t close. Or maybe what I feel for him is too big to be contained. “Anyway, you can’t judge, since you didn’t tell
me your fear, either.” I go on the offensive, but he doesn’t bite.
With a hitch of his shoulders, he says, “I wanted to do this with you.”
“You mean for me.”
He steps forward until the toes of his sneakers brush against my sandals. “No more of that.” The words are a growl, a rasp
of delicious friction. I forget to breathe as his fingertip slides along my jaw—soft, slow—then gently hooks under my chin
and tips up my face. “You’re not the only one who wants this, Mia.”
His eyes hold mine, blue rimmed with gray, and a millisecond later, drop to my mouth. He’s going to kiss me. He wants to kiss me. And I want it so badly that I freeze, as if a single movement would shatter the moment. My whole being is fixated
on one request. Kiss me.
He doesn’t.
With a deep inhale—and oh, I feel the tension in him, tightly leashed—he drops his hand.
The bop of pop music and the squeak of shoppers’ shoes filters in where a moment ago only the sounds of our intermingled breathing reached my ears.
We’re in the middle of a mall in the afternoon.
This is my friend Gavin. And I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more.
I wanted him to press his lips against mine with an ache that’s throbbing in my chest, even though nothing about this setting
is romantic. Nothing about this moment is right. Not the fluorescent lighting or the fact that he might be moving and leaving
me behind. Nothing else matters but the person standing in front of me. Maybe my other relationships haven’t worked out because
he’s what I’ve been looking for all along.
That thought jolts me out of my lust-induced haze, propels me backward, putting more distance between us. “So you’re saying
I shouldn’t doubt your commitment again?” It’s meant to be a joke, but I wince at the weight of the word commitment . Commitments can be broken.
“Never.” Instead of letting the moment pass, he catches it, holds on to this new thread of connection between us. “I’m in
this with you until you tell me we’re done.”
I believe him, but I suspect I’ll never be done. Not with him.
Word Count Goal: 85,000
Current Word Count: 24,901
Backspace, backspace. 24,899.
Fictionally, I’m back on track. My real life is in shambles—rogue feelings for a bestie who might be moving hours away and
a deadline that’s now only four weeks away, but hey, at least my muse has returned.
Maybe I’m writing to escape. That’s how I got my start, after all. Bored with classes that left no room for imagination. Needing a place to let my mind play. Maybe in the last few years, between the success of my career and all my close friendships, I’d stopped feeling like I was missing something.
But when I found out Gavin might be leaving, the illusion that we’d keep up this perfect existence was shattered. What better
way to forget that looming possibility than burying myself in the book where I can write the ending and make sure it’s happy.
The past three days I haven’t left my condo. I’ve survived on a bag of stale popcorn and the raisins and peanuts leftover
in a package of trail mix after scavenging the M the way she commits to the scenes has him wondering if there’s more to this than acting. Now my dilemma isn’t
getting them to notice each other, but to make them do something about it.
Every time they’re done acting, they go back to their old routines. I could send them on vacation, but this isn’t a destination
romance. What readers and the show’s fans alike love about Victor and Sydney is their easygoing bond, the cozy familiarity
of evenings on the couch and favorite booths at restaurants.
Their relationship isn’t far-off travels and a whirlwind fling. It’s nights in and GIF-filled text conversations. How will
they ever hurry up and kiss already when she opens her texts and finds a picture of him flexing by the pool with a temporary
tattoo of a grinning starfish that he got at his niece’s birthday party along with the text, Next tattoo, or nah?
Even the goofy photo has Sydney swooning, which is a testament to exactly how far gone she is. I’m typing Sydney’s thoughts
about Victor’s toned chest and a peek of nipple when something solid nudges my shoulder. Since Frank is the only other living
thing in here and he’s not capable of sentient motion, I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Nipples, huh?” Not something. Some one . My sister.
Heart racing, I don’t dignify her with a response. Mostly because I’m breathless from the scare. Sneaking up on me while I’m
deep in the writing zone has been one of her favorite pastimes since we were kids. She has a key, and this isn’t the first
time she’s barged in unannounced.
She bends down to get a better look at the screen. Her short curls are glossy, and I catch the hint of lime from the leave-in
she got me hooked on. “About time our girl Syd finally woke up to the hotness that is Victor Lark.”
If Sydney’s anything like me, she probably wishes she could go back to blissful ignorance of his sex appeal. “Yeah, she’s
noticing, but instead of doing something about it, all she’s done so far is wax eloquent—internally—about how attractive he
is.”
Kim sets down the bags she brought and takes a seat on the chaise lounge I found at an antique shop with Sera. It’s the perfect
spot to collapse in a dramatic swoon when I receive bad publishing news. Nothing hurts as much when you pretend you’re on
a fainting couch in a regency romance, poised to reprimand a handsome rogue who dares assume you need rescuing.
My sister shifts around, crossing and uncrossing her legs like she’s trying to find a comfortable position, and if she hadn’t
stopped by unannounced, I’d tell her it works best if you embrace your inner duchess. “Can’t you just make them kiss?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes because she loves to claim that being the older sister means she’s more mature. “They’re not
Barbie and Ken. I can’t just smush their faces together without good reason.”