Chapter 15 #3
He does a half-hearted shrug. “Who knows,” he says.
My shoulders curl in. “I’m sorry I put you in the position to risk your job. I know it’s why you kept…resisting when I pushed. I shouldn’t have pushed. I need to stop doing that—steamrolling. Mar’s been telling me for years.”
He takes a step forward, moving me back against the dresser.
“Ana, I love that you’re tenacious. It’s one of your hottest qualities—and there are a lot of them.
Obviously I could have done without this shitstorm, but…
I’m glad you pushed. I mean, glad is a weak word for how I feel about having the best sex of my life. Elated, maybe.”
Something warm, satisfying, spreads through my chest. Like the first sip of strong coffee in the morning. My eyes drop to his lips, and he gathers me up once more, kissing me gently. My body softens in response, half sitting on the dresser as he presses into the cradle of my splayed legs.
“How are you feeling?” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I hated seeing those ugly things said about you.”
That sting reappears in my nose, and I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress it. “I’m fine,” I say, hoping to convince us both.
His intense gaze never leaves my face. “You say that a lot.”
My pulse beats loud in my ears. “I’m fine a lot.” I’m trying for breezy, but it’s coming out cat-on-a-running-dryer. “The key is to not think about it. Focus on something else. Like packing, tidying.” I gesture limply to the room, which is only slightly less of a disaster than it was before.
He grimaces at the disheveled bed, the clothes still strewn on every surface. “I don’t think you know what tidy means.”
I point a finger at him. “That’s the last time I invite you into my room.”
A beat passes before he says, “I hope not.”
This brings a smile to my face, which seems to ease his frown a little bit.
“It’s okay to not feel fine,” he says softly, the earnestness in his face doing its best to crack my defenses. Too bad those things are ironclad.
Because I know better than to believe him.
“And it’s okay to think about your own needs for once,” I say, turning the tables.
He regards me thoughtfully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” he says slowly, “there is one option.”
“What’s that?”
“We could do this for real.”
“Real,” I repeat.
Pink sweeps across his face as he nods. “A relationship.”
My stomach drops. His pulse beats a drumline in his throat, his gaze unwavering on mine.
“You…want to be my boyfriend?” I ask dumbly, before I can think better of it. God help me, I’m at such a loss for how to navigate this land mine of a conversation—with him, and in this fraught moment—that my brain isn’t working properly.
Between my legs, where he remains pressed against me, I feel an unmistakable stiffening. I raise an eyebrow at him.
“The heart wants what it wants?” he says faintly.
“That is not your heart,” I say.
His eyes are all sincerity—he’s shot his shot and is waiting to see if it hit its target. But I can’t give it the space to land.
“It’s no wonder your dick wants me after the things I’ve done to it these past couple days,” I say, steering the ship away from the iceberg.
“You don’t have to tell me. Those memories will visit me on my deathbed,” he says. “But, Ana. I’m serious. What if we—”
“You’re hanging on to your job by a thread,” I interject. My mind kicks into gear, grasping at ways to deflect. “Don’t go saying things that could set fire to it.”
His face shutters at that. Good. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t have him going down this path any further. This is not open for discussion. I press ahead. “And it won’t help me, either—Craig Waters has already dumped me.”
The dismay that clouds his eyes would be darkly comical if I were in any laughing mood. “Who is Craig Waters?” His voice is sandpaper.
“A producer. I was being considered to host a talk show, kind of like the podcast but on TV. Was supposed to meet with Waters tomorrow in L.A., but he canceled because I no longer fit the wholesome image they want to project.”
He seems to be processing everything I just said. To be fair, there’s a lot to unpack there. “A TV show?” is what he goes with first.
“Yeah,” I say. “Probably won’t work out with this producer, but hopefully Nadia can get something else on the books.”
He’s watching my lips as I speak, the flush on his neck deepening. “In L.A.?”
“That’s the goal.” A goal I have to keep in my sights at all costs.
“You want to move to L.A.,” he says stiffly, as if he’s learning each word for the first time.
I nod. “If I get the show, I’ll move my mom out there with Maral and me.
It’s the biggest Armenian community in the country.
Maral’s parents already live there, and my mom would love living near them again.
Our parents would all be over the moon to have Mar and me close by again. It would make them so happy.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask.
“What would make you happy?”
His eyes are intense on mine, like he genuinely, desperately wants to know.
Like it’s the most important answer in the world, despite the question bordering on ridiculous—a senseless, meaningless question I’ve never been asked before.
But he’s looking at me like the sky could fall outside and he wouldn’t even glance toward the window if it meant breaking eye contact for one second.
What would make me happy?
I picture my mother’s smile, a flame only I have any hope of igniting.
A flame that’s been extinguished for years, since my father’s death.
Longer…since she had to give up everything she’s ever known to build a whole new life on the other side of the planet, so her daughter could have opportunities she never did.
For the first time, another image overlays it—advanced reader copies next to a maniacally preset alarm on a nightstand.
Twin laptops side by side on a coffee table.
The scent of a fresh pot of dark roast and pancakes as snow falls outside, dusting skyscrapers.
Warm fingers kneading tired feet. A hand reaching for mine under a blanket.
Strong arms wrapping me up tight, holding me close.
Forever, baby.
The picture is more ridiculous than the question that inspired it. The ache so profound it’s unfathomable. As in, I can’t fathom it—I won’t.
“Moving to L.A.,” I answer. “That’s what would make me happy.”
This time, my voice doesn’t falter at all.