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She looks at me for another beat, eyes narrowed as they bounce between mine.
My face warms. A familiar tightness gathering in my groin at her nearness.
She smells good. Always has. She never let me kiss her mouth, so I’d always focus on her neck and chest. The scent of her skin there—equal parts sweet and sexy—drove me fucking wild.
Still does, if my heavy cock is any indication.
Do.
Not.
Jesus, I want to though.
Just when I’m about to fling myself out the nearest window, Julia slides into the chair. I tuck it underneath the table.
“Oh!” she says, reaching for her phone. “Before I forget.”
A second later, the opening beats of “Under Pressure” fill the kitchen.
“Just in case Satan doesn’t show,” she says, flashing me a grin.
My heart skips a beat. I look away. Focus on the food.
“I always thought this was a Queen song,” I say as I fix her a full plate.
“The guys in Queen and Bowie wrote it together. And then obviously Bowie performs it with them, too.”
“I take it you’re a Bowie fan, then.”
“Oh yeah. I love to dance. And David Bowie’s music is compulsively danceable, you know?”
I wouldn’t, actually. I haven’t danced in I don’t know how long.
I also haven’t listened to music over dinner. Unless you count the theme song from “Paw Patrol”—Bryce demands that show is on day and night over at Ford’s place.
I haven’t sat down to dinner with someone who wasn’t an investor or potential partner in forever. We have Sunday supper at my parents’ house, and I eat with Bryce and Ford every so often. But other than that, I usually eat dinner out with work people or in front of my laptop at the office, or at the kitchen counter at home. Shove food in my face while I catch up on emails or research.
It’s not glamorous. And it gets boring. But it’s a great way to get shit done.
“Thank you.” Julia looks up at me as I set her plate in front of her. Her eyes are serious. “For doing this. Bringing dinner. Totally unexpected, but I really appreciate it.”
I settle into the seat across from hers and fix myself a plate of steak and collards. I try to ignore the rush of satisfaction I feel knowing I made her day better.
“I’m sorry you’re feeling so shitty,” I say, slicing into the steak.
“My doctor warned me all this stuff would peak around eight or nine weeks. But nothing can really prepare you for the reality of just how sucky it can get sometimes.” She dips the tines of her fork in the grits and takes a bite. “Especially when you’re used to being in charge of your life. Like your moods and your ability to get stuff done. I like to be busy, but this baby is kind of forcing me to slow down. Which I’m sure can be a good thing. But right now, it just feels kind of depressing, to be honest. Doesn’t help that I can’t really tell anyone that I’m pregnant yet. You’re going through some pretty heavy shit, but you can’t say anything to anyone about it. I’ve had to turn down a bunch of invites. The second my friends and colleagues see me not drinking, they’ll know something’s up. I’m too tired to go out anyway. When I am done for the day, I am done. It all combines to create this kind of shit storm of self-imposed isolation and endless nausea. I’m just not enjoying the things I usually love.”
“Like?”
“Arguing with you, for one thing.”
I scoff. She’s egging me on, and I like it.
She’s also being real. Honest. Holding nothing back, not even the tough stuff. The vulnerable stuff.
I like that. Like always, I’m drawn to it. Not to her hurt. But to her authenticity. Her bravery in admitting things are less than perfect. In my world—the one I used to inhabit, anyway—you don’t see that all too often.
“I’m pretty good at asshole,” I say.
“The best. You really think you should be so proud of that, though?”
I lift a shoulder. “Probably not.”
Julia takes another bite, this time of collards. “I usually love my job—well, both my jobs. At C of C, I adore my students and my colleagues. I’m good at what I do. But these days, teaching feels like a chore. I’m even struggling with my romance class, which has always been my favorite.”
“A class on romance?” I sip my water. “That sounds cool.”
Julia tilts her head. She won’t stop looking at me like this—like she’s never seen me before.
She picks up her water, eyes still trained on mine as she drains her glass.
“It is cool. Really cool. I’ve taught it for three semesters now, and it’s become one of the most popular classes in College of Charleston’s catalogue. Olivia teaches a creative writing class on romance too, focusing primarily on craft. Together we’re creating this romance-based curriculum that’s the first of its kind. I’m really proud of it. But being on campus recently has felt like a drag. Same with design, and reading, and walking. Basically I hate everything right now except TV and food.”
