Chapter 8
“So plan to spend the whole day after the Craig Waters meeting in Glendale, stuffing your face with boregs.”
Maral’s voice carries from the bathroom, where she’s adding soft waves to her long hair with my curling iron—she packs light, but sure makes use of the accoutrements I bring—as she tells me about her parents’ call first thing this morning.
“There are much worse ways to spend an afternoon,” I say, mouth already watering at the prospect of my horkoor’s home-cooked delicacies.
One of the many wonderful things about Armenian culture is the food, something I miss now that we live so far from our parents, given that I’m incapable of replicating even the simplest recipe.
You can find food from any culture in New York, but restaurants don’t make it like moms do.
“They know we’re only there for the day, right? ”
She puffs a humorless laugh. “You think that makes any difference? They’ll take literally every minute they can get.”
“And I’ll take every morsel of Sosi’s cooking I can get.” Maral’s mom’s boregs are second to none, not that I’d ever tell my own mom that.
“Speaking of food, greasy spoon for breakfast?”
“You know it,” I say, my stomach rumbling in anticipation of pancakes.
“Get up, then. Our train leaves in a couple hours. Why are you still in bed, anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lie down for so long when the sun’s up.” She pokes her head out of the bathroom. “Jet lag getting to you in your old age?”
She loves to make fun of me for being three years older than her, and it’s getting less funny with time. I found a single gray hair a couple of years ago and she had a field day. “Maybe it’s because you force-fed me beer.”
She nods sagely. “Alcohol tolerance deteriorates with age too.”
“Right along with cousin tolerance.”
I’m only mildly hungover this morning, which is impressive given how little sleep I got.
I couldn’t find a comfortable position, my body wound up and in desperate need of release.
Even after I went a round with my little purple friend, the tension didn’t ease, my mind replaying Ryan’s kiss like the horniest GIF of all time.
My skin warming at the memory of his touch.
Of his lips, soft but hungry as they devoured mine.
Of the determined swirl of his tongue in my mouth, promising delights my pussy was not willing to forget anytime soon.
Goddamn, when that ice cracks, he warms up. The only rigid thing about him all the more impressive for its rigidity…
I bury my face in the pillow to muffle my groan. I’m so hard up, desperate to finish what we started last night, and absolutely beside myself that we won’t be able to.
We can’t do this.
It’s not right.
Then why did it feel so fucking right?
I know the only reason I’m this wound up is that we didn’t close the deal.
If Ryan hadn’t stopped things from going any further, we would have had a good fuck—okay, an amazing fuck…
likely a hall-of-famer, if that kiss was any indication—and I’d have slept like a baby last night. Right as Seattle rain this morning.
It’s not that I don’t understand why he stopped things from going any further. Yes, we were drunk—though I would have been just as eager without a drop of alcohol in me—and yes, it would be a conflict of interest. He doesn’t want to compromise his job, which I can’t fault him for.
Even though he doesn’t even want this job. Not really. He said it himself, in not so many words. It pays the bills, but what he really wants to do is write. Surely he could find some other way to earn a living while pursuing the thing that makes him feel the most like himself…
Yeah, Ana. He’s going to quit his job so he can fuck you, strings-free.
Get over yourself.
I’m normally a reasonable person when I’m not in goddamn heat.
If only he understood that sex, for me, is not some monumental act. That I don’t get attached. That we could enjoy each other’s bodies and not get weird about it afterward. No weirder than we’re liable to be today after that kiss…
A soft knock sounds from the door.
“Doesn’t housekeeping know we’re checking out this morning?” Maral says, emerging from the bathroom to answer it. “Hey.” She sounds surprised. “Aren’t we meeting at nine?”
I can’t see the doorway from the bed, but I can guess who’s there by her question. Her tone with Shanthi is much more familiar, and Maral wouldn’t be quite so surprised to discover her knocking at my door.
Shit. I jump out of the bed, not wanting Ryan to see me in a position that might cue the unmet potential of last night, but realize too late that the thin camisole and boy shorts I slept in are no better.
What Maral is thinking, inviting him inside without checking that I’m decent first, I have no idea.
When she turns and sees me in my state of undress, she seems to remember herself, her eyes flying wide as she throws me the closest thing she can find.
Unfortunately, it’s my blazer from last night.
I can’t decide if it would look stupider to stand there in skivvies and a blazer or to just let the partial nudity ride.
Before I can decide, Ryan is in the room, a coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
His eyes find mine, then flicker to my barely-clothed body, heating instantly.
My nipples salute him, at full attention, which seems to be their resting state when he’s around.
He casts his eyes up to the ceiling, like a plea.
“Sorry,” he says, turning around for long enough that Maral can hand me the complimentary robe from the closet. “I texted, but didn’t hear back.”
I silenced my phone last night, knowing Mom would be Good Morning–memeing me at the crack of East Coast dawn.
I try to keep my tone light, as if nothing is amiss. “It’s fine,” I say. “We’re all adults here. Well, Maral’s maturity is questionable.”
He sets the cup and bag on the dresser. “I brought you coffee and a muffin,” he says, then adds more quietly, “and some Advil.”
Something inside me swells and recedes, an ocean wave lapping softly at a sunbaked shore. “That was really nice of you. The coffee smells delicious,” I say.
He nods. “I found the nearest airplane and had them make it fresh for you.”
I laugh, and am rewarded with a heart-stopping smile.
Maral’s eyes move from him to me, then back to him. There are a thousand questions tucked behind her glossed lips, but she’s too polite to ask them. She’ll wait till about one nanosecond after he’s gone and then fire them at me like a machine gun.
“We’re going to get some breakfast before the train,” she tells him. “You should join us.”
Maybe she plans to ambush me later, then.
“Thanks, but I’m going to catch up on a few things. I’ll meet you in the lobby at nine.”
I try to ignore the notch in my throat, which is not disappointment. It can’t be. I shouldn’t be surprised that he wants to keep his distance. All the better to avoid any potential weirdness—or maybe further temptation? Although he did come to my room with thoughtful morning-after offerings…
My heart squeezes at his instinct to nurse me. To take care of me. Something nobody’s ever done.
But he’s just going above and beyond—author care at its best. Doing his job. The job he’s so hell-bent on not jeopardizing.
I kick myself for being uncharitable. Of course he won’t risk his career for the sake of a fuck. He’s a responsible, considerate, quality person. Only a shortsighted idiot would throw away a long-term career for a night’s worth of fun. No matter how fun that night would be.
Don’t think about the fact that he looks like a certified snack in that sweater and smells like freshly showered heaven.
I just have to come to terms with the fact that things between Ryan and me are professional. Maybe a little friendly too, but that’s it. The line has been drawn in the sand.
I’ll have to work out my sexual frustration alone for the time being, until I can find someone to do it with.
There’s a chance I could meet someone on tour.
It’s happened before—the fact that there’s a clear end in sight, with no possibility of commitment, makes travel trysts that much more enticing (it’s why I always travel with condoms).
And I’ll text Jacob, line him up to come over the night I get home from tour.
Or maybe Malcolm’s available. Plenty of options.
Not that I can remember ever being as turned on as I’ve been in the eight hours since Ryan’s lips first touched mine.
I’ve only ever slept with men I’ve been attracted to, and I’ll only keep a man on the roster if the sex is good, but I can’t recall ever feeling like I’ll explode if I can’t rip someone’s clothes off in the next second. Or still feeling that way the next day.
“Suit yourself,” Maral says, leading him back to the door. He follows with a final glance at me, an expression on his face that I can’t quite parse.
When the latch clicks shut behind him, Mar whirls on me. “Tea. Spill. Now.”
“You don’t waste time,” I say, shedding the robe and clothes from my overheating skin.
Maral follows me into the bathroom, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet as I turn on the shower.
“Don’t test me,” she says, indignant. “I’m this close to killing you for not telling me the second I walked in here. Did you guys fuck?”
“Jesus, Mar.” I pin my hair up before stepping into the cool stream.
“Don’t dodge—did you?”
I scrub at my face. “No. We kissed, but he stopped it going any further.”
She makes an incredulous sound. “So what did it for you—the cloak or the scythe?”
I sigh. “I’ve come a long way these past few days.” As if she didn’t know—she’s partly to blame, or thank, for what happened last night.