Chapter 26 #2
“Like potting soil?” he clarifies. He’s not wrong. It does have a rather…earthy aftertaste.
I gobble it down like a hyena anyway, because eating myself into intestinal distress is my go-to coping mechanism when I’m tense (or in this case, an unbearably horny mess). “Good thing it’s Gretchen’s opinion that matters.”
“At least we can say we tried,” he says with a shrug, helping me pop the rest of the cookies into an old Christmas cookie container before I can do any more damage.
I pull myself onto the one free space on the counter, relishing the feeling of the cool laminate against my thighs.
“Thanks for all your help. I feel bad that you spent your whole Saturday baking cookies with me.” It took four hours, but we’ve made and labeled them all, except for the last batch of devil’s chocolate chip, which is still in the oven.
“Nah. If anything, you helped me. I was having a crappy couple days. It was just nice to get out of the house and do something.”
I consider asking him to elaborate on his bad days, but I don’t want to pry. It doesn’t feel like my place. “Seriously, though, I have no idea what I would have done baking these all by myself.”
“You would have pulled it off. You’re self-sufficient,” he teases, leaning back against the counter next to me, hands planted on either side of him. It’s not lost on me that his pinky is grazing my thigh, ever so slightly.
I force down a swallow at the contact. “When you’ve been single as long as I have, you don’t really have a choice.”
“Do you ever feel lonely?” he asks, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. That was rude. I’ve been spending too much time with my mom lately.”
“No, it’s okay. I do. Sometimes. When Hunter and I broke up, it was the small things I missed, more so than him.
Like doing mundane things together. Errands, chores, even getting up in the morning, drinking coffee, all those small things that suck when you’re by yourself.
” I still remember shuffling around the grocery store with my cart with that thickness in my throat, the deep ache I felt in my bones in those first few weeks after Hunter.
“It’s nice to have someone to do those things with.
Someone to make the boring things tolerable, maybe even fun.
” Like shopping with you at Costco, I want to say.
“What about you? Do you feel lonely?” I ask instead.
He tilts his head in thought. “I guess I probably am lonely, but usually too busy to notice until I’m in between assignments. I don’t know if being lonely is enough of a reason to get into a relationship with someone.”
“Right? Is it worth the stress? The potential heartbreak? All the emotional demands of being in a relationship? The independence is nice, too, once you’re used to it.
My mom was always so reliant on my dad or stepdad to do things for her.
I like knowing I can figure things out for myself.
Except building my IKEA desk,” I add wryly.
He swings me a knowing look. “Or getting your patio door lock fixed.”
“It’s not that big a deal, though. I mean, I’m on the top floor.” Truthfully, it’s one of those pesky tasks I’ve always had on my to-do list but never gotten around to dealing with because other things always end up taking priority.
I try not to stare too long as he strides over to the living room to assess. “You don’t think someone could climb the fire escape to the balcony? It’s only six floors.”
“The average person definitely can’t,” I say, following him.
He looks out the window and peers down. “They could. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Maybe you could. If you really tried,” I wager, trying to avoid the mental image. Too late.
“I wouldn’t really have to try.” He gifts me with a confident smirk over his shoulder. “Seriously, though, what if a crazed fan of yours finds out where you live?”
I snort. “Crazed fan?”
“You’re a bestselling author, Andi,” he points out. I wait a beat for him to laugh or crack a smile, but it doesn’t come. He’s dead serious.
“Under a pen name.”
“Who’s been doxed,” he adds.
“Fair. But I still don’t think I’m at the point where fans are going to come to my house and hold me hostage and demand I write, Misery style,” I say, laughing at the mere thought that anyone could ever be so invested in my work that they’d bother to find out my personal information.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re seriously talented. Have you ever thought of quitting your job? Writing full-time?”
I head to the kitchen to fetch the tin of leftover burned cookies again (because I’m weak and I never claimed to have an iota of self-control).
“Oh, hell no. That was always a pipe dream of mine, to write full-time. I barely made enough money to cover the expenses of self-publishing. Before, at least.”
“And now?” he asks as I pass over the tin. Realistically, I’ve made more money in the last month than a year’s worth of salary. But it’s hard to say how long it’ll last.
“Technically I could quit and be okay for the next year. Though it would be a leap of faith. And I worry that if writing was my only source of income, it would feel more like an obligation. Something I have to do rather than something I love. That could change everything,” I say, biting into a particularly burned oatmeal raisin.
“Do you ever feel like a fraud in your job?” I ask, immediately regretting the overshare.
He shrugs, braving a bite of burned cookie. It’s so incinerated, it crumbles immediately in his hands. “Maybe in the beginning. But the nature of my job makes it easy to measure my skills. I always knew I deserved my place, if that makes sense. Why? Do you feel like a fraud?”
“Not as a PA. As a romance writer.”
His eyes rivet to me as he forces down a bite. “Why is that?”
I swallow a clump of raisin, finally coming out with it. “I haven’t done any of the things my characters do in my books.”
“What things are you referring to?”
I meet his gaze for a hot millisecond before I say it, eyes to the ceiling. “Sex.”
“You haven’t had sex?” His brows shoot up to his hairline; he’s apparently startled by my admission.
“I have. Just not…good sex. Not that my books are only about sex. I know it’s a small part of them, but still.”
His hands tense at his sides, and he shifts slightly on the couch.
I feel guilty that I’ve made him uncomfortable with my overshare.
He pauses for a couple beats, collecting his thoughts.
“For the record, it’s not the sex that drew me into Prime Minister.
It’s the story, the tension between the characters.
You do an amazing job writing people to root for.
To care about. And also, murder mystery writers don’t go around killing people to make the murder in their books more authentic.
Doesn’t make them frauds. You’d never know you were inexperienced to read your work. ”
“Really? I always feel like people can read right through it. Like they know I’m just some weird, nerdy girl who’s barely done anything aside from…”
His jaw ticks. “Aside from…?”
“Missionary.”
“Just missionary?” His jaw goes slack. He looks alarmed. Offended. Aghast. Not that I blame him.
I cover my face with my fingers. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. You must think I’m a weirdo pervert.”
“The only thing that’s weird is that you only did missionary with your exes. I mean, did you even get off?”
“No,” I admit. It was always so quick, there was never even a chance I could get there. “But that’s common. Seventy percent of women don’t come from penetration.”
He sits forward, mouth shaped into a grimace. “That doesn’t mean you should never come. There are many other ways.”
“It’s okay, honestly—”
“You don’t know how amazing you are. Any guy lucky enough to have a chance with you would be an absolute tool not to learn what you like and get you off. Bare minimum. If I were your boyfriend, I’d…” He trails off without finishing that statement. His hand flexes at his side.
“You’d what?” I dare to ask, leaning forward to meet his fiery gaze in a challenge, his knees just barely pressing into mine. It’s the smallest brush of skin, but it’s enough to set me ablaze.
He’s so close, I can make out the little rings of gold around his irises, the soft mossy hue that blends seamlessly into brilliant blue. I can smell the cinnamon on his breath as it feathers over my jaw, exploding in little shock waves over my skin.
I shift, crossing and uncrossing my legs, all too aware of the heaviness growing between them.
Maybe it’s all the sex talk, but my brain has left the station.
It’s long gone to a traitorous place. A place where all I can think about is what his lips would feel like.
How the rough pads of his fingers would feel digging into my hips, skating up my thighs.
How it would feel to be touched like no one has ever touched me.
Something has shifted between us, like it did that night in the Squamish hotel room. It’s something in the added millisecond of a glance. I wonder if he notices, or if it’s all in my head.
That’s when he clears his throat and pulls his knees back, ending the contact. “Oh shit. I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m supposed to get back to my mom by midnight. I should probably get going.”
“Right. Of course,” I say, blinking from the whiplash of the conversation. My entire body is on fire as he stands and heads to the door.
“See you at work tomorrow? Lunch?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Lunch.”