Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mo
Once Wes and Mo got settled on the couch—wine poured and cheese sliced thinly with one of those wire cheese cutters—they started reading from the chapters of their books, alternating back and forth.
Mo liked the way he edged to the other side of the couch and watched while she read, not interrupting until she’d gotten to the end of a chapter.
She was less patient, interrupting him to ask where he’d drawn material from and trying to peer into his brain, the brain under the curling brown hair he had that she knew from experience was fun to comb through with her fingers.
Was it surreal to sit across the couch from someone she’d had very good orgasms with and not be touching them?
Yes. But after the weirdness of how things ended on Sunday, it was a relief to pretend it had never happened.
Almost. Still, he didn’t kiss her cheek when she got to his house.
Even in the kitchen, after she threw the cheese—not at his head, as he had accusingly stated, but near his head—he hadn’t touched her. No playful shoving.
It wasn’t like the electricity was gone between them, but something was off.
She hadn’t gone over to his place with any unstated hope that they would pick back up where they left off Saturday night.
Or maybe she had hoped that but was adult enough to understand that flings happened.
Normal people could be friends afterward.
It just hadn’t happened to her yet, this fling-then-friend thing that she guessed they were walking into.
Or, more accurately, this LinkedIn-connection-then-rival-fling-now-friend thing.
She finally allowed him to finish his second chapter, and he refilled her wineglass. As she nibbled on the cheese, she held a hand below her chin to catch the crumbs. “I do have plates,” he said, looking amused. “As long as you promise not to throw those at me too.”
She reached out, intending to wiggle her cheesy fingers in his direction, but he caught her hand in his and held her palm up for inspection.
“What?” she asked.
He wiped her palm, then smiled and released it. “Getting the crumbs off.”
“I thought you were going to lick them off or something.” She meant the tone to be joking, but her breath caught when she imagined his perfect tongue and what it had done between her thighs.
He lay the manuscript down on the table and inched closer on the couch. His gaze tracked her expression. “You’re a good distraction, you know that? And I am not easily distracted.”
His tone, almost sad, surprised her. A glass of wine in, stomach buffered comfortably with good cheddar and thirty pages further in his book, Mo felt happier than she had been an hour ago. But he didn’t look similarly content. “What do you need distracting from?”
He lay his head back and rubbed his chin gently.
She tried not to remember how nice that scruff had felt scraping against her belly as he kissed down her body.
He must use oil to keep it soft. No, she would focus on the moment, on this man who obviously had something on his mind.
After a second, he said, “My parents are splitting up.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“No, I know. Is that what your mom was talking to you about this weekend?” Mo felt even worse for tagging along to what had probably become an intense family moment.
“Sort of. She told me they were separating, but I guess they are filing for divorce. Ulla: queen of the understatement. She said, meeting Beyonc é in the late nineties, that she thought she would ‘do well for herself.’ ”
Mo laughed at that. “She wasn’t wrong.”
He refilled the wineglasses, then took a sip. “I know it’s dumb to think this has anything to do with me. I don’t live at home, and it’s not like I won’t see them. Ultimately, they’re adults and they have to live their own lives, not the life I wish they could live.”
“Which would have them stay together?” she asked.
“Right, which would have them stay together. I guess I always found hope in their marriage lasting so long, despite her getting famous and him barely tolerating the limelight. I loved being able to point to them as an example of very different people making a relationship work.”
“Ha, well, my parents are a good example of that, if you still want hope,” Mo said.
“My mom was a farm kid–turned– Democratic organizer and fell in love with a construction worker who’d never traveled.
They met in high school, dated, then before they settled down and had kids, they went around the world together.
I think they’ve brought that love of exploration to everything they’ve done since. Even when it’s owning pigs.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he said.
“They’re going on thirty-eight years. I’ll get to celebrate with them when I go home next weekend for my sister’s wedding shower.”
“What are her colors?”
“Daffodil and gray. I’m not used to having a guy friend ask, to be honest.”
“Ha, I’ve sat in on enough of the layout and editorial meetings for Ulla . If I get married someday, I’d have opinions.”
“I think grooms should .”
“Anyone involved in a marriage should have an opinion about a wedding. I helped Ulla realize that she was missing a lot of engaged couples who might not have seen themselves covered before,” Wes said, visibly relaxing as they steered further from the topic of his parents.
“A few years ago, my friends Ajay and Loris got married, and she covered it for the magazine. Not only do they have style and a sense of humor—Ajay is the painter who made that Winnie the Pooh painting—but Ajay was a broom; they’re nonbinary and loved that term.
Representation is important in the media.
When magazines only talk about brides and grooms and ignore the brooms, marriers, and partners, you miss out on a whole chunk of people trying to celebrate their love. ”
They each finished a second glass of wine, and Mo was halfway through a third when she said, “I turned down a wedding proposal last year.”
He put his glass down on the table and raised his eyebrow at her. “Really?”
“For someone who should be great at reading, I totally misread the whole situation, and he thought it was more serious than it was. I mean, he hadn’t even met my family yet.”
“See, I always make all my friends meet my family at random coffee shops and used-clothing stores with no preparation,” Wes said.
Mo laughed. “Definitely preferable to the alternative. Plus, he surprised me at work. It was not a good surprise.”
“He probably didn’t even bring the customary engagement casserole,” Wes deadpanned.
“For your cultural edification, if I had been Minnesotan, it would be the Proposal Hotdish. Absolutely written into law.” She was glad to joke rather than linger on one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. “No matter what state, a potato is essential. Tater Tots are customary.”
“Do the Tater Tots go on top, or is it a mixed-through thing?”
“Oh, on top. There’s also a multilayer cheese throughout, then on-top situation.”
“Sounds pretty kinky,” he said, then picked his glass up and noticed it was empty. “Wow, I’ve had enough to drink.”
Mo snorted into hers. They had been so busy talking and laughing that she hadn’t even thought about nestling under his arm.
Now, more than tipsy, she didn’t want to make a move.
He seemed to see her hesitation as she drew her hand from the place between them on the couch. “Let me call you an Uber. It’s late.”
“Oh, sure,” Mo said. “Thank you.”
He held her gaze and said, “About my parents—we need to keep that between us.”
How weird it must be to have your family’s personal business of interest to the world. She was used to how fast rumors spread in a small town, but New York felt so huge that it was easy to be anonymous—unless you were rich and famous. “Of course.”
Maureen gathered her manuscript and bag while he cleaned up the living room.
He held the neck of his wineglasses between his fingers on one hand, then carried the cheese board and cutter with the other.
She surveyed the room when he went into the kitchen, suddenly worried that she might not be back.
She hadn’t even seen his full book collection, and she imagined it was huge.
Even that adjective made her feel a little weak at the knees, remembering the weight of him on top of her, his broad back, the sensation of him between her hands under the sheets.
She prayed he would chalk up any blushing to the wine and not her dirty brain.
She didn’t know what he wanted from her.
They were still competitors, at least she assumed so.
Estelle was hospitalized and Wes was stressed by this new separation.
Timing wasn’t great, but being so close to him and laughing like they had tonight made her realize she wanted more eventually.
This friendship was great, but also, she wanted the kissing again. She wanted his body on hers.
“Ready?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
He waited with her on the stoop until the Uber came, double-checking the car type against what was listed in the app. As she was about to get into the blue Focus with the driver, Abraham, Wes caught her hand. “Thanks for coming over. This was nice.”
“I want to hear more,” she said. Her voice came out more demure than she felt, weaving through the dark spring air to become something furtive. “More of your book, I mean. It’s kind of a tease to leave me wanting more like this.”
“I’ve never been called a tease before,” he said. He ran a finger over her cheek, then stepped back over the threshold. “Thursday?”
They made plans, and she got into the back of the Focus with cheeks burning and a smile on her face.
If Mo had worried that she had friend-zoned herself, that light touch, that gentle caress, told her everything she needed to know.
She didn’t need to worry—at least not about him wanting her.
Everything else, including her feelings getting hurt, the chance at publishing the book of her dreams, and not ruining her sister’s wedding somehow?
Well, that was a different set of problems altogether.