Chapter 22 #2
I creep forward and perch on the edge of the bed. Picking at a thread on my jeans, I clear my throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
He glances up from his screen, his face solemn. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and is running a thumb over the gold watch.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, ‘About your grandparents. And for ruining your return home.’
He sighs, a sad smile tugging at his lips. ‘They would’ve thought how we met was hilarious.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
I nod and gather up my pyjamas. Sitting beside them is a brown paper bag with some supplies I asked Betty to find for me. Clutching the bag, I turn back to Adam.
‘I haven’t been able to write since…’ his voice trails off as his thumb continues to sweep over his watch. ‘My grandfather was the reason I fell in love with thrillers.’
The brown paper bag rustles as my fist tightens around it. ‘Yeah?’
‘We’d go to the local library together every weekend and he’d sit and read one while I studied. And when he noticed I liked writing stories he asked me to write him a thriller.’
That makes me smile because it’s something Dad would do.
Did do. When he noticed I liked to bake he’d ask me to attempt something new every weekend, exclaiming over how wonderful it was even when it came out with burnt edges or flat as a pancake.
It’s what dads and I guess granddads do. ‘So you wrote him a thriller.’
‘I did. And it was awful,’ he says with a sad laugh. ‘But he loved it and asked for another. And then another. Eventually I wrote the one that got me a book deal.’
‘But now you’re stuck.’
‘I’m stuck.’ He frowns at his screen. ‘I really thought being back where it all began would magically fix things. The longer I sat in that apartment though, the more stuck I got. And then I tried to change my location because that’s worked in the past, but even that…
’ he trails off and tips his head back, resting it on the sofa.
‘It probably didn’t help that you had a cafe owner trying to force baked goods on you,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood because in this very moment I feel like an utter fool.
There I was, telling him to stop writing for other people and just write what he wanted.
Oh, I’m a moron. I was basically telling him to stop writing for his grandfather.
The person who inspired him to write in the first place.
Someone dig me a hole to bury myself in. I’ll even bring the shovel.
‘She is certainly one very persistent cafe owner,’ he says.
I stand up and take a tentative step towards him, holding the paper bag in a death grip.
I don’t know whether I should give it to him.
My last attempt at helping him has left me wanting to find a shovel.
This could very well be disastrous. Sucking in a breath, I place the bag on the coffee table and wring my hands together, my heart hammering.
‘What’s that?’ he asks, leaning forward to pick it up.
‘I thought it might help. But you don’t have to…’ I trail off as he peers into the bag.
He doesn’t say anything and the silence is like a knife to my soul. He hates it. I knew it. I shouldn’t have given it to him, it was stupid, what was I thinking?
I’m about to tell him just how stupid it is when he looks up at me.
‘Sabrina,’ he starts and then falls silent again as though he’s not sure what else to say. The expression on his face is one I haven’t seen yet so I have no idea what is running through his mind right now. My hands itch to snatch the bag away from him and pretend none of this happened.
Instead, I scurry into the bathroom and shut myself in.
Why did I do that? We have one pleasant conversation and I go out and get him a gift.
Well, I asked Betty to pick up some brushes and paints and leave them in the cottage for me to give to Adam, which is basically the same thing.
And of course he doesn’t know what to say because who in their right mind gives someone they bicker with on a daily basis a present? A moron, that’s who.
I get ready for bed and then lie awake for what feels like hours, waiting for Adam to call it a night, but he stays where he is and I keep berating myself until I eventually fall asleep.
When I wake, it’s to the clacking of keys. Rolling over, I find Adam sitting up in bed, his laptop resting on one of the pillows he’s swiped from our barrier. His hair is mussed, his eyes a little bleary.
‘You look like you haven’t slept,’ I mumble around a yawn.
His fingers move quickly over the keyboard. ‘I got a couple of hours.’
Fighting another yawn, I stumble to the coffee machine. It whirs to life and I watch the beautiful trickle of caffeine hit the mug. When it’s finished, my hand hovers over the power button before I reach for another mug and hand him the coffee I just made.
He looks surprised, but he takes it eagerly, his lips on the rim in an instant. ‘I took your advice.’
‘What?’
‘I’m writing for fun instead of forcing something that wasn’t working, and it feels good.’ He rolls his shoulders, rubbing his neck with a sigh.
He took my advice. Bestselling author Adam Whittaker took writing advice from me. I need to pinch myself.
I cup my hands around my coffee and lean against the counter, entranced by the smile spreading across his face. ‘So, what did you write?’
His eyes dart to his notebook.
‘I should’ve given in to the all-consuming thoughts I had about it sooner. I guess I was just too scared to commit to it.’
‘What’s it about?’
He shrugs, a soft blush creeping down his neck that is so adorable I have to bite down on my lip to stop myself from grinning like a lovesick teenager.
‘Come on, tell me,’ I say.
‘It’s too soon. I only just emailed the pitch to my agent. She may tell me it’s the worst idea I’ve ever had.’
I roll my eyes, making a scoffing sound. ‘You’re Adam Whittaker. Surely that gives you a pass to write whatever you want.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘You have to at least tell me something about it.’
‘Let’s just say that there’s more to it than lengthy descriptions and a broody main character. My main character still broods because, well, I have to give the people what they want. But the characters around him are so full of life that he snaps out of his brooding fairly quickly.’
‘Oh, my gosh,’ I gasp and spin to where the pale morning light floats through the window. ‘Did you see that?’
‘See what?’
‘A pig just flew by.’
Adam rolls his eyes, fighting a laugh as he flings the covers off and gets up.
I’m far too aware of the complete lack of sleepwear, again, and I struggle to keep my eyes from roaming the plains of his chest and down to the slope of his hip, his boxers the only thing standing between me and… take a breath, Sabrina.
He pauses on his way to the bathroom, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder.
I inhale sharply, holding it in, my entire body locking in place.
‘Your advice is as good as your coffee, Sabrina.’
He’s standing close enough that one whisper of movement and his bare chest will brush across my arm.
Or his…my eyes dart down to those boxers and I’m flooded with a desperate urge to fling myself at him.
He squeezes my shoulder and I meet his gaze, the blues of his irises spectacularly bright.
He blinks. I bite down on my lip. If I don’t there are no guarantees I won’t stand on my toes and press a kiss to those gloriously long lashes.
Just to see if they’re as soft as they look.
‘And thank you for the paints,’ he says. He sways, his chest touching my arm. I wait for the violent jerk away from me, for him to crash into yet another piece of furniture.
‘That was really thoughtful,’ he says. His chest rises and falls against my arm.
His thumb sweeps over the bare skin on my shoulder.
It’s a fleeting touch, and yet it’s doing unspeakable things to me.
All I need to do is step one inch to my right and our bodies will be flush against one another. One inch.
I swallow.
One inch and there’s no going back. One inch and that cage I’ve kept locked around my heart for the past four years might break open.
I stay rooted in place, unable to think, breathe.
He squeezes my shoulder once more and then he’s gone, shut away in the bathroom with the shower running. All I can do is stare and think about joining him in there. The steam engulfing us as I run my hands down his wet skin, exploring every muscle, every freckle, all of him.
My stomach plummets and I shuffle back, my legs hitting the bed.
I want him. I want him in a way that I’ve never wanted anyone ever, in a way that would leave me open and vulnerable, ripe for being broken.
I want to throw myself into his arms and feel his lips on mine.
But I also want more than that. I want the laughs that he dishes out so rarely.
And the smiles that come infrequently and stop my heart.
I want the words that often have to be dragged out of him, and can be super infuriating, but make me think.
I want…shit…I want Adam Whittaker.
This is not good.