I sank into the cushions. The leather gave a soft sigh as I pulled a plush blanket over my legs.
“You write at night?” he asked. Yes, there was definitely a lull to his voice.
“I’m a write-whenever-I-can writer,” I said, setting my cup on a coffee table that looked like it had been sliced from an ancient tree.
I opened my laptop.
John nodded and shut his. The blue glare was replaced by amber, softening his face. It caught the curve of the heavy silver watch on his wrist. I wondered if I’d ever be able to buy frivolous things.
Not that I wanted to wear a watch like that. I had no outfit to match.
Still, the idea ofthatkind of money—no rent stress, no late notices, no worrying about the shop’s future—was thrilling.
My chest tightened at the thought of the bills waiting for me at home.
He shifted, halfway out of his chair, then sank back, rubbing his face again. He looked… tired. Maybe even a little sad.
Something in John’s face made me do a thing normal-Nora would never do. Strike up a conversation with an almost-stranger.?
“This house is too quiet,” I said, peeking out the window. The forest was thick, black, and still. “It’s unnerving. I can’t sleep.”
“You do look exhausted. Maybe you’re still sick,” he said, voice lighter now.
I flipped him off.
He laughed. Really laughed. Not one of his curated chuckles.
A dark, surprised sound.
I looked up over the edge of my screen. He was still sitting there, still in the dark.
“I thought you wanted to leave.”
“So impatient. Do I unnerve you?”
“Your watch is ticking too loud. It’s the size of a baby’s head. You compensating for something?”
Hedidunnerve me. A little. Who wouldn’t be, sitting across from someone who had everything you wanted? Who carried himself like the world bent in his favor? A tall, wealthy, generally-attractive middle-aged man—not that I cared.
John twisted the oversized watch on his wrist, his expression unreadable. “I don’t think you’ve ever seen a baby. And…it was a graduation gift from my father.”
He rolled his shoulders, the cashmere stretching across his collarbones. His hand brushed his chest, slipping casually into the neckline of his shirt. The fabric pulled, revealing the start of pectoral muscles. A lock of dark hair dropped over his brow. He tilted his head and smiled—crooked, dimpled, maddening.
“YourFlynn Riderbullshit doesn’t work on me.”
A beat passed.
Another.
“I have no idea what that means,” he said finally. But his voice held a trace of amusement.
“If you’re trying to charm me, you’re wasting your time. You’re not my type. Not even a little.”
“What reason would I have to charm you?”
To annoy me. To fluster me so I’d lose my will to win. To prove you could. But I didn’t say any of that. I just shrugged.
After a beat of silence, he said, “What’s your type then?”
