Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elle
Ididn’t know what version of Stephen to expect on Saturday when he called at my apartment.
Once my raging libido had calmed the other night, I’d felt pretty rotten.
Maybe even like I was gas-lighting him a bit?
I needed to stop giving him the wrong impression and then slapping his wrist when he flirted back.
It wasn’t fair. So, I’d texted him an apology with a hope that we could be friends.
I did enjoy his company. When he wasn’t being a jerk.
And I’d noticed the non-jerk moments were stacking up.
Like apologising to me in return, even though I really didn’t think he needed to.
And I know he’d wanted to insist on paying for the drinks but he’d seemed torn between chivalry and respecting my decision.
He was also the kind of man that stepped in when his work colleague was being a pest to women, that helped moms on the subway, tipped generously, didn’t think twice before putting himself between me and a threatening pool cue, paid off his mom’s mortgage, and insisted on walking me home or coming to pick me up.
For a banker and a player, he did a good impression of being a decent human being.
Was the bar that low or was he going the extra mile?
He really needn’t have come all the way over to me, when we were heading in the opposite direction to get to Brooklyn, but he said he didn’t mind and I appreciated the gesture.
Even if he did turn up at an ungodly hour.
I opened my door to him, wondering if he was going to be friendly, or closed off, or flirtatious and found that, for the most part, he looked worn out. Dark smudges beneath his eyes.
‘You look tired. You should get more sleep, try a lie-in once in a while,’ I joked, letting him in.
‘Why, thank you. You look like you got plenty of sleep; do you have your own hedge or did you travel somewhere special?’
I laughed. Banter it was. The relief that he had genuinely put the incident at Coney Island behind us made my smile linger.
‘Miaow. Put those claws back in, kitty; all I need is a hairbrush.’ I rumpled my unbrushed hair and caught his eyes tracking the movement before he snapped them away.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ he offered.
‘You didn’t bring any with you?’
‘Sadly, the bakery I usually get my coffee from was shut today. Think you’ll be able to survive the extra ten minutes it’ll take for me to get some home-brewed into your veins?’
‘I will do my best.’ I went into my bedroom and shut the door over, the noise of his rummaging in my kitchen while I stripped out of my pyjamas with only one wall between us, making my hands shaky.
I changed into a bright floral dress – because straight after going on our manhunt in Brooklyn Heights, I would be heading over to my parents in Flatbush for the family barbecue – and went back out, pulling my hair up into a high ponytail.
Stephen glanced over at me, dark eyes dancing from my hair to my dress, to my face and quickly averting again.
Maybe things weren’t going to be quite so normal for us again.
‘What’s got you so tuckered out, then? You stay up all night working or were you entertaining some lucky lady?
’ Why, Elle, why? I immediately screamed at myself internally.
Did I really want to know if he’d spent the night using those lips on another woman?
The memory of how they felt had been haunting me.
The tease of their minty taste, the brush of his beard, I had a glimpse of the sensations a full-on lip lock with him could potentially unleash and it had been tantalising.
I knew I had to continue pretending I didn’t want it, but that didn’t mean I had to go asking for information that was going to make me jealous.
Yes. Jealous. It was about time I admitted to myself that I wanted him to kiss me properly. That I wanted to feel his hands in my hair, on my waist, sliding down to my ass to pull me closer…
‘Just work. Politicians will insist on making decisions that send the markets into a tailspin. How about you? How’s the book going?’
The worst words in the world for a writer to hear.
I mean, it was nice that he was interested, but there was no easy answer to that question.
I had been making progress but usually there was a moment when things just clicked, and this book was still not clicking.
I had one week left to get it to my editor on time and frankly, it was looking impossible.
I joined him in the kitchen with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Oh great. And by great, I mean I’ve been eating takeout and playing RollerCoaster Tycoon for hours on end.
’ Maybe looking up what different styles of male facial hair were called too.
Not a subject I’d paid much attention to before but there was something so precise and appealing about Stephen’s…
the line that perfectly bisected his cheek, highlighting his cheekbone above and the angle of his jaw…
the way it tapered off at just the right point of his throat so it would still feel like he was allowing you access to a vulnerable spot if you pressed your lips there.
‘I’m confused. Don’t you have a deadline?
’ He found my packet of coffee and was searching for a spoon, looking mildly distressed by the mess.
I bet he was one of those people who cleaned everything immediately and it all lived in a specific home.
A desire to see his apartment filled me.
I wanted to witness him in his own domain.
What was it like in his kitchen when he made coffee in the morning?
Did he have a special pot for his spoons?
Did he do it wearing just his boxer shorts?
I put a brutal end to those thoughts and forced myself to rejoin the conversation. ‘Look, I don’t make the rules, this is just my process, OK?’
‘…not working is your process?’
‘It’s a delicate balance of communing with my subconscious mind and then frenzied writing to get the stuff that’s in there onto a page.’
‘Hmm…sounds like a fancy way to say you’re slacking off to me.’
I prickled, even though I knew that he was teasing and I was the one who’d started it by purposefully exaggerating.
Taking a deep breath, I swallowed my first waspish response, giving him my second one instead: ‘That’s because you’re not creative.
Stop judging and get on with that coffee, you heartless banker. ’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He gave me a little salute, filled the pot and set it to percolate.
I opened a cupboard to grab a couple of clean mugs, going up onto my tiptoes to reach.
His warmth flooded my back as he saw what I was doing and reached easily over my shoulder.
He smelt of warm cotton and aftershave, and he was so solid; I wanted to turn and nuzzle into his chest, feel that latent heat from the sun layered up over his soft shirt and firm muscles.
Instead, I planted my hands on the counter as he pulled down the mugs, thinking that would keep me out of trouble.
But all it did was keep us standing extremely close together in my little kitchenette.
I don’t know if his mind was turning somersaults working out all the places where we lined up and where we didn’t, like mine was, but the lull in conversation made the tension between us obvious.
We were both acting our little hearts out, pretending everything was normal. Or as normal for us as it ever was.
I should be the one backing away, though. I was the one who had friend-zoned him, and he was respecting that, so I should do the right thing.
‘I think you should take that one.’ I shifted to the side and pointed to the mug in his left hand.
He lifted it and read the words out loud. ‘”A woman’s place is in control?”’ His mouth ticked up at the corner and he glanced at me, the speculation in his dark eyes making my bones turn to lava. ‘Fine with me, if that’s your preference.’
Would it be fine with him? We both seemed to like control but how would that work between us —
‘Which leaves me with “boss lady”,’ I announced unnecessarily loudly, as though trying to drown out my own thoughts.
‘Perfect,’ he agreed and turned away to finish making the coffee.
If only. If only I was in control of this, if only I was the ‘boss’, but I couldn’t undo the kiss I’d instigated or the way it had left me craving more. I just had to hope that today he reminded me of all the reasons it would not be smart to kiss him again.