Chapter Forty-Two
Elle
I don’t think I’d moved at all after rolling onto my side last night and curling up to take the pressure off my spine.
Stephen had left me utterly, bone-meltingly relaxed and there was definitely drool on the pillow, just to add to the sexy impression he most likely had of me after I managed to seize up from typing too much.
Weirdly, I didn’t have it in me to be embarrassed or down-hearted though.
I was a read-through away from submitting the final book of my series.
I hadn’t failed. And, I was snuggled up in sheets that were cool and just the right side of worn, full of his scent and the menthol aroma of the ointment he’d rubbed into me with his oh-so talented hands.
My body was desperate for more sleep, but if I shut my eyes again now, with a week of only getting three to four hours a night of shut-eye behind me, I wouldn’t wake up until the evening. Or possibly tomorrow. No matter how close I was to meeting it, I still had work to do to hit my deadline.
The apartment was bright and quiet, other than a very muffled rhythmic noise that I suspected was his washer.
I sat up tentatively, rolling my shoulders and yes, there was a bit of an ache still, but I could immediately tell I wasn’t in for days of pain like I’d experienced in the past after hunching over my laptop for too long.
My stomach swooped when I remembered Stephen’s firm but careful touch; the way he’d stroked my hair back and spoken softly and reassuringly to me when I’d been struggling.
My subconscious unhelpfully pointed it out as evidence that he was the kind who would talk you through it. I pressed my fingertips to my forehead, begging my brain not to go there.
As I swung my legs out of the bed, I spotted a note on the night table, alongside a fresh glass of water, a packet of ibuprofen and a banana.
Hope you are feeling better. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to and help yourself to anything. I’ve had to go into work - hopefully I didn’t disturb you. A spare key is on the kitchen counter and there is coffee in the pot.
He hadn’t bothered to sign it or put my name, which was curious.
I would have thought someone so wedded to his manners would have had particular feelings about how to correspond correctly.
For a moment, I considered the possibility that this was a generic note he kept for his one night stands.
In his profession he could use work — even on a Sunday — the same way other men used “the gym” excuse…
but no, this note was clearly for me, because he hoped I felt better.
Unless he had a kink for girls who weren’t feeling well, it was unlikely to fit every overnight visitor he had.
Shrugging off thoughts of the other women he might have had in this bed and given more than a massage, I took advantage of the enormous shower in his ensuite.
The amazing water pressure and room to move my elbows made it marginally less hideous to get back into my sweaty clothes from the day before.
As well as the fruit and anti-inflammatory breakfast he’d laid out for me, he’d also left a paper bag with a wrapped bagel in it by the coffee machine.
Like a trail of caring breadcrumbs. I swallowed over the fluttering in my chest at his level of thoughtfulness and sat at the island in the kitchen, eating the bagel and examining his temporary home, now that my work/Stephen blinkers had been removed.
It was basically one big luxurious space pointed towards a fantastic view, but with the balcony and the spiral staircase, I suspected his work probably arranged it rather than it being his choice.
And I’d been totally right about him being a neat freak.
Everything had a home, every surface wiped before he even left the apartment for work.
The clothes in the machine looked like athletic wear, so he’d been out for a run already.
Morning people were something else. I should have taken it as yet another sign that it made us totally incompatible but really…
how awesome would it be to have a partner who got up early and made breakfast?
Someone who knew how to look after himself and didn’t expect you to pick up after him.
Suddenly, I couldn’t finish the bagel. Because who was I kidding? Stephen did not want to be anyone’s partner. I gathered my stuff and went home.
Back at my apartment, I plugged in my dead cell phone and groaned at the number of messages and notifications I was going to have to trawl through once I got my book sent off. I answered one from Keisha I’d received on Wednesday though.
Keisha: How is the book shaping up? Not heard from you in days so I guess you’re working hard. Let me know if you need anything.
Me: I have indeed been hard at it. Nearly there. Any chance you’re free this morning? It would be amazing to have another set of eyes to read through it.
By the time I’d changed into some clean clothes and repacked my bag of notebooks and laptop she’d messaged me back to meet her at the library.
*
‘Oh my God, Elle, this is sooo good,’ Keisha whispered to me as we sat side by side at her usual table by the copier. She was on her laptop, reading through the manuscript I’d emailed her with track changes on and I was reading backwards through a paper version I’d printed out.
‘You’re not supposed to be looking at it for story,’ I murmured back, turning another page and adding it to the pile. ‘Just basic sense, so Patti doesn’t think I’ve been suffering from heatstroke.’
‘I can’t help it.’ She deleted a word on the screen, eyes still glued to the page. ‘I’m actually a little upset with you for making out it was in such bad shape. There’s no way it was as awful as you were saying, and it got this good in a few weeks.’
I wrinkled my nose, trying to contain a smile. ‘Cut it out. D’you mean it?’ My heart lifted with hope. ‘Does it work now?’
‘Work? The love story, Miss-Noelle-Kingston-who-isn’t-a-romance-author — ‘ she grabbed my elbows ‘— is the most delicious slow burn. The yearning. The tension. Oh my days.’ She sighed. ‘I mean the mystery is great but my heart. I’m falling in love with Kit. If Patti doesn’t think he is a million-billion times better than that sleazy James, I think she has issues. ’
‘You have no idea what that means to me.’ Tears of relief touched my eyes and I hugged her.
I felt like I’d hit a groove with the story once the inspiration came to me that night in my sister’s garden when we’d been babysitting.
But I made all the changes in such a frenzied blur, I had no distance from it to figure out whether it was genuinely an improvement.
Keisha was only one reader, but she was an experienced author and a fan of cosy mysteries and romance and thank God, thank God. ‘Thank you.’
‘You don’t need to thank me. I didn’t do anything.’
‘You’ve helped me loads, Keesh. Can I take you out for drinks tonight to celebrate?’
‘Did you not see the message from Caitlin? She’s back in the city with Donall and they’re playing at the bar. Boyd and I are going. It’ll be perfect.’ She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. ‘You could invite Stephen. He’s been a part of this too, right?’
At the sound of his name a wave of nervous excitement crashed over me, as though he was about to walk around the corner.
Shit. This was becoming less of a crush and more of a maceration.
Every thought I had about him was tantamount to pouring lava over my internal organs.
I was one big molten bag of limerence. This wasn’t healthy.
‘Elle?’
‘Oh.’ I forced a smile. ‘He definitely has…’
‘But…?’
‘I don’t know. We’ve only ever seen each other when we’ve been on our missing persons mission.’
‘Other than when you spent the last day at his house?’
‘Sure but…that was more because Beth had sent him over to check I was OK, and then he just offered me a place to work because my place is an inferno at present and he’s irrepressibly polite.’
She raised an eyebrow as she regarded me, but then shrugged. ‘If you say so…’
‘OK, your turn. But…?’
‘You clearly like spending time with him, Elle. Maybe don’t over-think it?’
Don’t over think it? The idea was so absurd I had to laugh. She looked at me quizzically for a second and then nodded, and started laughing too. ‘Yeah, OK, I just heard that back to myself. Telling a fellow writer not to over-think. Going to go tell some fish to try not to get wet next.’
*
After we both finished our read-throughs, I practically bounced home.
Or I would have done if the stack of A4 held together with elastic bands that I was carrying wasn’t so heavy.
It took me another few hours to correct the errors we’d both found, sitting at my desk in the suffocating heat but I finally hit send at around six-thirty in the evening.
‘Woohoo!’ I flicked on one of the songs from the playlist Beth sent me and did a dance around my living room.
Perfect timing to get changed — if I could find any suitable clean clothes — and head over to the bar to celebrate with my friends.
As I rummaged through my closet, Keisha’s suggestion about inviting Stephen rose to the forefront of my mind.
It wouldn’t really be that big of a deal to ask him.
I was the one who said I wanted us to be friends, and he had helped me get this book to the line.
It wouldn’t be broadcasting my desperation for his company, would it?
The way I was already feeling itchy, not knowing when I would see him next, or obsessing about how brief the text exchange we’d had this morning had been, when I sent a quick message to thank him and let him know I was leaving his apartment and he’d responded simply that it was “his pleasure”.
Skirt and top selected, I chewed on the end of my hair.
The real issue was not whether asking him out like this would signal something to him; it was that if he accepted and was there, within touching distance, once I’d had enough alcohol to shut the sensible part of my brain up, there was an enormously high likelihood that I would make a move on him.
None of the facts I’d been listing before my back seized up last night had changed.
They were just getting underscored in heavy marker.
In the time honoured tradition of writers everywhere, rather than deal with a difficult decision, I procrastinated by turning the volume down on my music and checking out some of the other messages I’d received.
There were the ones from my family group chat asking if I was coming to the picnic.
Oops. I sent off a flurry of apologies to them.
There were the ones from the writers group too about drinks this evening.
No real need to answer that one as Keisha now knew I would be there, with or without a sexy-Brit.
And there…oh shit….there was one directly from my dad.
Dad: I have a current address for Trevor Moorcroft.
I bit my lip. I guess I was going to be calling Stephen after all.