22. Cat #2
“Nothing’s impossible. That’s the whole point of romance novels. Hope against evidence.”
“I like that. Hope against evidence.” He stands, collecting the lunch tray. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Wait.”
He pauses, looking at me expectantly.
“If you’ve read all my books, you’ve probably figured out some of my patterns. The beats I keep returning to, the way I structure reveals.” I cross my arms. “You know some of my tricks.”
“Some of them, maybe.”
“Then you should try writing something yourself.”
“Me?”
He looks at the blank page like I’ve handed him a loaded weapon he doesn’t know how to hold.
“You. Write me a scene. One page, that’s all. Just to see what you come up with.”
“I’m not a writer, Cat.”
“Neither was I, before I started. Come on. You’ve read enough romance novels to know the beats. Give it a shot.”
He looks genuinely uncertain, which is not an expression I’m used to seeing on his face. “This feels like a trap.”
“It’s not a trap. It’s an invitation.”
“To humiliate myself?”
“To try something new. Unless you’re scared.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not scared.”
“Then prove it. One page. You have until dinner.”
He brings me the page at 6 p.m.
I’m still in the kitchen, having given up on my own writing in favor of watching videos about newborn care. My laptop is open to a tutorial about swaddling when Max appears in the doorway, a single sheet of paper clutched in his hand like a confession.
“I did it,” he says.
“You actually wrote something?”
“I wrote something. I’m not sure it qualifies as literature.”
“Let me see.”
He hands over the paper reluctantly, and I start reading.
Scene: Interior, bedroom, night. The operative enters the room where the target is waiting. She has been briefed on his arrival. Tension is present.
“You came,” she says. (Dialogue indicates surprise and underlying attraction.)
“I said I would,” he responds. (His tone is professional but with subtext.)
They look at each other for approximately 3.5 seconds. The looking conveys emotional significance.
He crosses the room in four efficient strides (distance: approximately twelve feet based on standard bedroom dimensions). She does not retreat. This indicates willingness.
“I’ve thought about this,” he says, executing a tactical approach. “The risks are acceptable.”
“Are they?” she asks. (Rhetorical question suggesting she has also calculated the risks.)
His hand moves to her face with precision targeting. Contact is established. Her pupils dilate (estimated 15% increase), indicating positive response to stimulus.
The kiss that follows is strategically deployed and mutually satisfactory.
[End of scene. Estimated duration: 2.4 minutes. Outcome: successful romantic engagement.]
I start laughing.
I can’t help it. The careful tactical language, the precise measurements, the “pupils dilate (estimated 15% increase)”, it’s so perfectly, absurdly Max that I can barely breathe.
“It’s not that funny,” he says, but he’s smiling too.
“It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my entire life.”
“I followed the structure. Beginning, middle, end.”
“You calculated the bedroom dimensions!”
I wave the page at him, wheezing, while he watches me with the wounded dignity of a man who took the assignment very seriously.
“Spatial awareness is important!”
“You used the phrase ‘strategically deployed’ to describe a kiss!”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything! Everything is wrong with that!” I’m wiping tears from my eyes now. “Oh my God. ‘Approximately 3.5 seconds of looking.’ Who measures eye contact in decimal points?”
“I was trying to be precise.”
“Romance isn’t about precision! It’s about feeling!”
“I felt things while writing it.”
“Did you feel like you were filing an operations report? Because that’s what it reads like.”
He sits down across from me, clearly enjoying my reaction even as he pretends to be offended. “I put effort into that.”
“I can tell. The effort is the problem.” I read through it again, giggling at new details I missed. “‘Contact is established.’ Max, this is the worst piece of writing I have ever encountered.”
“You said to try.”
“I didn’t say to commit literary war crimes.”
“I think you’re being dramatic.”
“I think you should never write again.”
He reaches for the paper. “Then give it back.”
“Absolutely not.” I clutch it to my chest. “This is a treasure. I’m keeping it forever.”
“Cat.”
“I’m going to frame it.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I’m going to put it on my wall and look at it every time I’m struggling with a scene. ‘At least I’m not calculating bedroom dimensions,’ I’ll say. ‘At least I’ve never described a kiss as strategically deployed.’”
He’s laughing now too, shaking his head. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best. You married me.”
“I did. Worst decision of my life.”
“Excuse me?”
“Best decision. I meant best decision.”
“That’s what I thought.” I lean across the table and kiss him, still laughing against his mouth. “Thank you for trying. It was terrible, but I love that you tried.”
“You’re welcome. I think.”
“And Max?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m keeping this forever. Just so you know. When we’re old and gray and you’re still following me around with lunch trays, I’m going to pull this out and remind you of the time you wrote the world’s worst romance scene.”
“You’re never going to let me forget this, are you?”
“Not a chance.” I fold the paper carefully and tuck it into my pocket. “But I might let you try again sometime. With supervision.”
“Is that an offer?”
“It’s a threat. My editorial standards are brutal.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping. “I spent every night of those six months dreaming of you. Dreaming of this. Of you looking at me like you’re looking at me now.”
My own words, thrown back at me. Heat rises in my cheeks.
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s research.” He kisses me, filthy and grinning.
The kiss deepens, and I stop thinking about manuscripts and stolen sentences. His hands slide into my hair, and I’m pulling him toward the hallway, toward the bathroom with its old claw-foot tub and door that actually locks.
“The bedroom’s closer,” he murmurs against my lips.
“The bathroom has a lock. And I’m not waiting.”
The door closes behind us.
I twist the lock myself. The click is obscenely satisfying.
The bathroom is farmhouse-old, claw-foot tub with chipped enamel, a window gone soft with steam ghosts from a hundred baths, a mirror that makes everyone look like a painting left in the rain.
Max stands with his back to the door, watching me like I might vanish if he blinks, and the terrible tactical romance page is still folded in my pocket, warm from my body heat.
“You dragged me in here,” he says, voice low. “What’s the mission objective, commander?”
“Filthy. Immediate. Belly-conscious.” I step into his space and fist his shirt. “You wrote the world’s worst romance scene. Now you’re going to fuck me like you meant the good parts.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His mouth crashes into mine, playful heat, not the careful tenderness of the medical room, not wedding-night caution. I laugh into the kiss when he steers me back and my hip bumps the sink. Toothbrush cup rattles. He boosts me to sit on the counter edge, then freezes, hands flying to my belly.
“Too much? Counter height okay? I can-”
“Counter is fine. You’re fine. Stop narrating the risk assessment and take my shirt off.”
“Bossy pregnant women are my favorite demographic.”
“I’m your only demographic. Focus.”
He peels my shirt up and off with exaggerated care, then spends a full thirty seconds just looking at me in the bathroom light, breasts heavier, belly round and proud at this stage, the faint linea nigra he likes to trace like a treasure map. His expression goes soft and filthy at the same time.
“Studying me again?”
“I’m conducting research for my next terrible manuscript page.” He drops to his knees on the bath mat. “Chapter one: the heroine’s husband worships her stomach like a heathen and then eats her out until she forgets his prose sins.”
“Editorial note: acceptable premise. Execute.”
He kisses my belly first, left side, right side, just below my navel, murmuring nonsense praise that makes me feel like a goddess and a punchline simultaneously.
Then he tugs my leggings and underwear down together.
I lift my hips to help. Cool porcelain kisses the backs of my thighs.
He spreads my knees gently, checks my face, and dives in with a filthy enthusiasm that has nothing to do with farmhouse manners.
“Fuck, Max-”
“Mm.” He licks a broad stripe through me, then spears his tongue inside, then flattens it against my clit in a rhythm that suggests he has, in fact, been dreaming about this for six months of cold sheets.
One hand stays splayed on my belly, steadying; the other hooks my thigh over his shoulder.
I brace on the mirror behind me and fog it with my panting.
“You’re dripping on the counter,” he observes, muffled.
“Your fault. Lick it up.”
He does. Literally. Then goes back to my clit like a man with a deadline. I come embarrassingly fast, farmhouse bathroom, pants around one ankle, laughing and cursing while he hums approval into my pussy. My heel kicks the cabinet door. Something ceramic inside clinks.
“One,” he counts, wiping his mouth on the inside of my thigh. “Want two before I get my cock involved, or are we improvising?”
“Improvising. Tub. Now. I want you behind me so I can hold the rim and be disgusting.”
“Romantic.”