Chapter 8 #2
He averts his eyes. “Because I’m thinking of what your family did to you. This place, your relationship with Runzhou—it not only deserves respect, but it deserves celebration. And instead you were chastised.”
Someone else would only be able to tell he’s put off by the tense line of his shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw.
But I know he’s enraged. Just like he was back at the science museum when I described shutting down my social media.
Just like he was on the curb when I said the church stage made me feel lonely.
I let some of that righteous anger flow through me too. “It would be so much easier,” I start, my voice low, “to just go along with my family. To not question everything. To keep myself buried under the performances and the shame.”
I look up at Danny across the island, and his simmering eyes are setting sparks off my skin, his every muscle deathly still.
“It’s like …” I continue. “No matter how much I grow and learn and come into myself, everything around me wants to pull me back and punish me. When I’m already doing the hardest thing. ”
He stares at me. Stares and stares. And just when I think I might actually burst into flames beneath his scorching gaze, he says, “I’m so proud of you, Christina.”
I start as if slapped. My family, my university, even my inherited ideologies—they all have fought against me. Told me I was bad and wrong and damned.
And I may know that I’m not bad and wrong and damned; I may have spent hours and hours in trauma therapy deconstructing those toxic beliefs.
But fuck, does it feel good for someone to say they are proud of me.
For Danny to say he is proud of me.
I round the island and throw my arms around his neck.
He tenses for a moment, most likely in shock, but then his hands slowly ease up my back as I squeeze him tighter to me, my face smooshed into his unyielding chest. I breathe in a great lungful of his woodsy, masculine scent just as his nose grazes the top of my hair.
And I’m suddenly very aware of the way my body is pressed against him. How warm and solid he is. The way my breasts give way to the hard lines of him.
I’ve tried to ignore how it felt for him to hook his fingers on my shirt and pull it down, down, down to situate that mic. I’ve tried to ignore the heat that flooded my veins, the embarrassing noise that escaped me.
Full-on sex with my ex-boyfriend had me vibrating less than when Danny’s thumb swept across the edge of my bra cup. Which is utterly unfair to Danny, who was just trying to do his job.
But the rules of professionalism don’t totally apply here. This project requires a little too much trust. And it just feels natural with him. It feels natural to draw out his laughter, to touch his arm to better communicate. For him to touch me in turn.
Although, I’d be a fool to lie to myself and say that touching Danny feels the same as touching Runzhou or Ally. Because it doesn’t feel the same. Not at all.
As soon as that thought hits me, I pull back, but he doesn’t drop his arms immediately, so my hands fall flush against his chest, which seems to be heaving as much as mine. I finally dare to peek up at his face.
The burning man is staring at my mouth, causing my lips to involuntarily part under his searing gaze.
But I blink, and he releases me. I almost stagger back at the sudden change, but Danny is already busying himself with the grocery bags on the island.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks, voice relatively steady.
This sexual tension may be one hundred percent in my own head.
All the more reason for me to get on that Have a one-night stand item from TJL.
Maybe I’ll stop salivating over this man who is just trying to make a documentary and be a caring friend to me.
And hopefully he won’t use that footage of me in the final cut.
I take a steadying breath. “Lay it on me.”
He plops each item on the bar as if unveiling game show prizes: two cans of Hormel chili, a jar of cheese dip, and a bag of Fritos.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Does Gordon Ramsay know about you?”
Now he bursts out laughing, and it’s such a breathtakingly wonderful sound that I fall over the bar in laughter too.
I help him locate bowls and watch him carefully prepare one for each of us. When he pops the chili and cheese concoction in the microwave, I say, “So give me the story.”
He leans back against the counter and crosses a foot over an ankle.
He knows exactly what I mean. “One weekend my parents were out of town, but they had prepared a ton of lovely, healthy food for Charlie and me. We went to our neighborhood pool one day, and the girl who had agreed to be Charlie’s girlfriend the week before was there—cuddled up with some other guy in a unicorn floatie. ”
“Nooo …”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“I was thirteen and he was twelve.”
I try to suppress my grin. “Devastating.”
The amusement blazes across his face. “Indeed. When we got home from the pool, the idea of eating the prepared salmon just wasn’t cutting it. I dug into the recesses of the pantry and found some cans of chili that were god knows how old. The cheese dip and Fritos were left over from some friends.”
I extract two spoons from a drawer. “So you’re a maestro in the kitchen too?”
He turns when the microwave dings, but I catch his brief smile. “I think they call those chefs.” He pulls the bowls out with the tips of his fingers around the rim to keep from burning himself and then shakes a generous amount of Fritos into each one.
“Bon appétit, my muse,” he croons as he pushes one bowl toward me.
I carefully retrieve my spoon and he mirrors my movement. Synchronized and staring at one another, we dig our spoons into our bowls, blow on the hot chili, and bring the enormous first bites to our mouths—both of us barely able to open wide enough given our intrusive smiles.
I think a moan escapes me at the explosion of rich, salty goodness on my tongue. It’s hearty and heavy and textured: truly the perfect comfort food.
We’re still staring at each other as we chew, and he watches me sink so obviously into a happy caloric heaven.
He smirks at me when he swallows. “You really think I’d give my muse anything less than the best?”
My heart races—no doubt because of the euphoric rise of my blood sugars, yes? Either way, the horribleness of my earlier church stage flashback is fading with every passing minute.
I lead him to the couch—he quickly double-checks the camera framing on the way—and we both sink into the cloudlike cushions, clutching our bowls and curling our legs underneath us.
“I don’t ever see you during the week,” I say around a mouthful. “Tell me what your weekdays are like.”
Danny is apparently a very busy person. He tells me about all of the documentary projects he’s currently working on; each one takes so much time to film, edit, and script that he usually has three or four in rotation at any given time.
His advertisers, subscribers, and donors keep him with a steady stream of income as long as he has a new doc release every 4–6 months.
His family has dinner together every Friday night, and Charlie is apparently always delivering snacks and 5-Hour ENERGY drinks to help him through long nights of editing.
Hearing about his usual weekdays makes me realize what a big deal it was for him to drop everything and come to my rescue today.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask.
“For fun?” he echoes.
“You know.” I wave my spoon. “Activities that are social or relaxing or non-work-related.”
He taps his chin as if deep in thought. “I’ve heard tell of the concept.”
I snort.
“Oh!” His face brightens. “I recently went to the science museum.”
I roll my eyes. “That was work, Danny.”
He studies me. “It didn’t feel like it.”
My stomach clenches, and I have to avert my eyes, but I suspect I’m smiling.
And even as I try to move past what that comment did to me, I do feel a twinge of unease.
I don’t think Danny has very much fun in his life, especially on the heels of his confession about his documentaries: They are all I am and all I have to offer.
“Tell me about your weekdays,” he says, carefully extracting my empty bowl from my lap and setting both of our bowls on the coffee table.
Tucking away my unease, I tell him all about my classes and my friends and my remote PR work.
Danny listens intently and asks follow-up questions.
The light illuminating the apartment through the front windows has been slowly fading; we’ve been talking for longer than I realized.
And it doesn’t feel like enough. I really, really like learning more about Danny’s life and having him learn about me.
It’s as if we’re completing paint-by-number pictures for each other, the scenes becoming richer and clearer with every added color.
The camera on the other side of the coffee table may as well be regular apartment decor.
“And for fun?” he finally asks, his lips edging into that little smirk of his.
I slap my thigh. “I actually have an answer for that!”
He grins. “Do tell.”
“I love to read.”
“That feels …” He tsks. “… nonspecific.”
“Mmm, yes, but I actually love to read. I don’t just say that because I think it makes me sound interesting. I have a special reading chair and everything.”
He presses his lips together tightly for a moment. “Can I see it?”
I open my mouth, close it. Clear my throat. “It’s in my bedroom.”
He just regards me patiently with those big, drowning eyes.
Why is my heart racing at the thought of Danny in my bedroom?
Okay, I know why. And yet I can’t pass up the opportunity to share this huge piece of myself with him.
So I unfold my legs and stand, holding out a hand to haul him up after me. The smile that blazes across his face when he grabs my hand and launches off the couch has my heart somersaulting. He snatches up a whole-ass tripod on the way.
I open the door to my bedroom and step aside for him.
He gasps quietly.