Chapter 13 #2
For her part, she wasn’t so much surprised when I told her as she was smug: “The way you two have been devouring each other with your eyes, it was bound to happen sooner or later.” But she followed it with an appraising look and asked, “How do you feel?”
I beamed, post-orgasm glow probably emanating from my pores. “Like a million fucks.”
She rolled her eyes. “But I mean, you know. The whole working-together thing.”
“Fine,” I said. “It was just one time.”
“Are you sure?” Her tone seemed to be hedging something else—a different question.
“Well, it was multiple times, but one night. And morning.”
Okay, maybe I wasn’t fully done with Ryan.
How could I be, given what he was capable of?
What was the harm in continuing this one-night thing for the duration of this trip?
Make it a one-trip thing. It made logical sense that until we got back to New York, we were “off campus,” so to speak.
Who cared if we did it once or a few times?
What happens on book tour stays on book tour.
Until we were back home and back to real life, we could enjoy this discreet physical diversion as we pleased.
I broached this with Maral. We were side by side in my bathroom, applying our makeup, and her reflection stared at me thoughtfully.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing,” she said, putting her liquid eyeliner back in her toiletry case.
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I asked. I genuinely wanted to know what she thought. It may be my modus operandi to steamroll ahead with whatever I want to do, but Maral is an insightful genius and I always want to know what she thinks.
“On the contrary,” she said. “He’s nice and seems to care about you. I think a relationship with him would be good for you.”
Whoa. “That’s not—Relationship is a stretch. You know I’m not interested in anything more than a limited-time sexathon.”
She assessed my reflection as I leaned into the mirror, dropping my chin Scream-style to apply mascara. “Are you sure that’s all he’s interested in?”
“Of course,” I said. “His job is too important—he can’t do anything to threaten it. I told you about his sister’s tuition issue.”
“You did. But being beholden to family doesn’t negate how a person feels. Life is bigger than what we owe people.”
Her tone had an unexpected weight to it. I lowered the mascara wand, giving her my full attention.
“I just think you guys have a lot in common,” she said, beautiful brown eyes imploring me, making my chest feel heavy.
“Yeah,” I said steadily, “one of which is that we know this is a casual thing.”
She opened and closed her mouth, then paused.
“I’ve dated a lot of guys. I can tell when someone’s in it for a good time and not a long time.
Ryan…doesn’t seem like that. Everything about him screams serious, and he seems to really like you.
All I’m saying is, don’t be so quick to dismiss the possibility of more. ”
I thought back on Ryan growling into my skin last night, telling me he’d been dreaming of getting me naked since I greeted him bralessly in my hotel room in Chicago.
Clearly he’s attracted to me, just as I am to him.
But that’s all it is: attraction. We’re two healthy, sexually charged people who happen to have electric chemistry.
Yeah, he respects me, and we do good conversation, and he wants to know about my life as it relates to So Proud of You’s themes, but that just means he’s a curious, attentive person—it does not mean he wants a relationship with me.
Hell, Woodsworth alone is a huge, glaring obstacle in the way of that possibility.
To say nothing of it being an absolute no for me, either way.
Still, Mar’s words come back to me now as I watch Ryan frown and swipe at his phone in the green room chair across from me. Sensing my stare, he raises his gaze to meet mine, his expression softening like a peony in bloom.
The possibility of more.
Images flash through my mind like a reel.
Toothbrushes side by side on the bathroom vanity.
Breakfast side by side at the kitchen island.
Sharing a too-small throw blanket on the couch, soft curves yielding against hard muscle.
Mistaking each other’s reading glasses for our own.
Christmas with his family, Soorp Dznoont with mine.
His big spoon to my little. Sharing plans and hopes and dreams. Bearing witness to good times and bad.
Being known. The shine in his eyes gradually dimming. Withdrawal. Deep sighs. Silence.
You’re not who I thought you were. I don’t think I can do this anymore.
Nathan’s fatal words come at me in a rush of memory, and my hands are suddenly clammy, fingers trembling as I wipe them on the wool of my pants. This is the opposite of focusing.
I recenter myself, homing in on the TV screen, where the nutritionist is blending a slice of mango with about a bushel of kale and some kind of radioactive-orange powder in a Vitamix.
Her skin is luminous, and I make a note to add the jarred smoothies to my rotation.
Can’t burn a smoothie, right? Though if anyone could, it’s me.
When Brit comes to escort me to the studio for my segment, Shanthi falls in step behind us to record my walk through the backstage area for a behind-the-scenes post, trailed by Maral and Ryan.
They stay by the cameras as I’m led to stand behind a curtain from which I’ll emerge when I’m introduced by the hosts.
They do a short introduction, showing a clip of my first viral video—which is often the prelude for my televised interviews—and elevator-pitching my book, before I’m invited out onto the set.
The interview itself goes swimmingly. Predictably, as soon as I’m on, everything else goes out of my mind and I’m sharply focused on the hosts as their spotlight-worthy smiles ask me the questions I’ve already prepared answers for (Maral received them a few days ago from the show’s producers).
Our rapport is effortless and, if I hadn’t written the book myself, I’d be hooked into buying a copy.
When one of my answers garners a particularly hearty laugh from the crowd and I turn to acknowledge them, I feel a heady rush as I look out onto the studio audience.
Thinking this could be a regular occurrence very soon, assuming all goes to plan and the meeting in L.A.
is successful. This interview will only help—I’m killing it.
Afterward, Brit leads me offstage, where I’m de-micced and handed a network-themed tote bag with various swag items inside.
Maral informs me that Shanthi’s back in the green room and she’s off to grab coffee with Celine—I put them in touch and, today being our last full day in San Francisco, they’re taking the opportunity to meet up and talk all things environmental engineering.
Before she leaves, she shoots me a knowing look, raising one perfectly threaded brow toward Ryan.
For his part, Ryan’s wearing a smile that could rival the show hosts’, it’s so bright. Who would have thought this man, a total curmudgeon up until this week, could transform so completely? It’s so dazzling, I feel like I’m floating.
“You were amazing,” he says.
I shrug one shoulder mock-coyly as we head back toward the green room. “I just pictured you naked.”
He looks like he could eat me with a spoon.
“I have great news,” he says quietly. He pulls me into a nook piled high with clear bins of what looks like extension cords and lighting equipment.
His phone screen glows with an email from Meredith, the bolded subject reading BIG NEWS! !!! CONFIDENTIAL!!!!
I see my email address in the “To” field alongside his, Laura’s, and Nadia’s, but I haven’t checked my inbox in a couple of hours. I skim the body of the email, which is pretty to-the-point.
So Proud of You is a New York Times bestseller!!!!
Congratulations!!!!!!!
Then there are about five lines filled with emojis ranging from champagne bottles and clinking glasses to cartwheels to confetti. Then a line saying that the list won’t be public till this afternoon and to keep it to ourselves till then. Followed by two more lines of emojis.
Holy fuck.
“Unbelievable,” I say. It’s the only thing I can say.
“Believe it,” Ryan says. “You did it. Congratulations.”
The floor feels like rubber. The overwhelm is real.
Postcoital hormones coupled with a TV spot sure to garner Craig Waters’s attention and my book hitting the bestseller list?
I steady myself with a hand on Ryan’s forearm, and I don’t know if it’s elation or the solidness of him beneath my fingers that makes me do it, but I sway forward and kiss him hard on the lips.
He reacts immediately, his mouth opening, tongue swooping in like a conqueror.
His arm wraps around my lower back, keeping me upright and slightly bowed back, and in the headiness of the moment I forget that, while we are tucked into a recess in the wall, we’re still in a public place.
I pull back, dizzy. We’re both breathing hard, and from the glimmer in his darkened eyes, I know his thoughts are identical to mine: that if we didn’t have to be at a regional radio station in an hour for my next interview, we’d find the nearest private space—office, bathroom, janitorial closet—and tear into each other.
He exhales sharply, dropping his arms to his sides. “Let’s get through this next interview. Then we’re going to celebrate.”
“Oh yeah?” I coo. “What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner. Dancing. Champagne cruise around the bay. Anything you want.”
“Hmm. None of that is very discreet,” I say. “And what I want can’t be done in public. At least, not without breaking several indecency laws.”
Amusement twinkles in his eyes. “What kind of man would I be if the only thing I gave you to celebrate this achievement was some dick?”
My inner walls clench at that word on his lips. “Your dick is not just some dick.”
His lashes obscure his irises, amusement supplanted by desire. “Oh no?” he breathes.
“No, it’s…pretty special.” As special as it gets.
“You sure treat it that way.” His gaze roams down my body. “It’s never been so spoiled.”
I bite my lip, and his eyes zing to my mouth as though pulled by a string. “Let me spoil it again tonight.”
He swallows hard. “There is no world in which I’ll turn that offer down. But, Ana…” He pauses, his expression grave, like he’s about to drop a truth bomb that could blow the solid ground beneath us wide open.
He takes my hand, calling up the memory of him reaching for me under the blankets in his sleep. Like his body was moving on autopilot, the gesture inevitable. Essential.
Everything about him screams serious, and he seems to really like you.
My pulse speeds up, the tag in my collar suddenly itchy against my skin, words rushing up my throat to stop whatever it is he’s about to say.
“Incoming, six o’clock,” I blurt, casting a pointed look over Ryan’s shoulder at a tech hand approaching this not-so-hidden nook, an interruption so blessedly timed it’s as if the universe is conspiring to save me.
Ryan registers the crew member as he passes us and drops my hand. Presses his lips together, gesturing silently for me to precede him down the hallway.
My palm tingles all the way back to the green room.