Chapter Seventeen #3
I’m still struggling not to laugh at all of this, but Dylan only looks mildly amused, a faint twitch dancing at the corner of his lips while he tries to suppress his obvious embarrassment.
His discomfort surprises me. I was sure between the two of us, I’d be the one turning red when we got to our first sex scene.
I’m the one who lies in bed at night, fantasizing about him on the other side of the wall.
He’s enacted some of these moments while posing for the covers, and he’s written scenes like this before.
I’ve also seen the way women look at him. Surely, he’s had plenty of—
Dylan halts my thoughts with a look, one that wills me to understand something without his having to spell it out. My amusement fades, too sharp a contrast with his earnestness.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to devolve into adolescent humor.” I spin toward the laptop, straightening up and attempting to look professional. “I can be technical, too. I swear.”
“Yeah. Um . . .” Dylan shifts behind me. “That won’t solve the problem.”
I turn his way again, waiting for him to explain.
He gives me another don’t make me say it look, pleading with his eyes while his jaw clenches and he locks his arms across his chest, like he’s trying not to fidget.
I can’t help it. I check for a straining erection, wondering if that’s the problem.
It doesn’t appear to be the problem, especially since he’s making no effort to hide that area of his body, but we can’t exactly dive back into the scene right now.
“Should we break for truth or dare?” I ask.
“We should definitely not break for truth or dare.”
“Pretty sure it’s my turn. You can make me do something really embarrassing if it helps.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”
“Don’t you have a dare saved up already?”
He looks to the ceiling again, like he’s begging it to reveal something other than cracks, cobwebs, and water damage.
The last time I saw him this flustered, he was returning from his run the morning after the storm, wide-eyed, panting from exertion, and like whatever he was about to say would burst out of him if he didn’t release it the instant he could form the words.
Although . . . he never did form the words.
Recalling that moment leads me to others. His thumb caressing my hand the day we assessed his old mattress, the night we slept together, tightly entwined, and the embrace in the wicker chair. Moments when I wasn’t the only one reaching for him. He reached for me, too.
I mean, it’s not impossible . . .
And if we really want something . . .
As his gaze drops to meet mine, I swear he can read my thoughts. He knows that whatever walls I’ve erected over these last few months, I’m ready to smash them down. What he’s ready for, I can only guess. And pray I’m not guessing wrong.
He uncrosses his arms.
I push myself to standing from the desk chair.
He sucks in a breath as his hands curl into fists at his sides.
I take three steps toward him, my heart pounding louder with each one.
He swallows hard, but his gaze remains steady.
“Dylan?” I say.
“Philippa?” he parrots back.
Another step forward, bringing me within arm’s reach.
His chest rises and falls jackrabbit fast as his eyes dart around my face. His beautiful dark eyes with their impossible lashes and bottomless depths. I could swim in them forever.
I let my tongue skim my lower lip. His eyes track the movement.
Dare me, I think. Dare me, dare me, dare me.
And then my phone rings. Not the quick ping of a text but an actual ring.
I ignore it at first, but it’s loud and persistent, so on the fourth or fifth ring, I glance at the screen where it’s lighting up on the desk.
It’s Dr. Weingarten, the head of the search committee from the college in Idaho.
My best interview and best chance for a job.
The heady rush of want drains out of me, replaced by a sharp sting of irritation.
“I should probably take this,” I say.
Dylan nods, offering me a painfully tight smile.
I grab my phone, head into the hall, and answer the call.
It’s good news. The committee was impressed with my interview and publication record.
I made their short list, and they’d like to schedule an on-campus visit in January.
I respond with enthusiasm, even though I want to reach through the phone and strangle Dr. Weingarten for calling at the worst possible time.
We work out the details, and I hang up in a weird muddle of uncertainty.
Despite my reservations about returning to academia, I genuinely liked the people I talked with last month.
They seemed sincere about creating a healthy work environment, the faculty isn’t all middle-aged white men, and while the position is tenure-track and not one of the shorter-term contract lines I applied for, I’m only agreeing to an interview, not a lifetime on the opposite side of the country.
One way or another, the visit will provide information that’ll help me make choices about the next step of my academic career, even if the next step is to abandon it entirely.
When I return to the office, Dylan is gone. A Post-it note is on the laptop screen. Draft what you can. I’ll take a turn after.
Well, fuck.