“Two truths and a lie,” he said.
I bit the inside of my cheek, then crossed my arms. I didn’t like the odds. “How about two lies and one truth?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. A dimple appeared. Dammit.
“Fine. Why are you here, Nora?”
I mulled over the question. “I wanted to see where you lived for...research purposes. I wanted to snoop around until I figured out what your story’s about.” I inhaled, then added, “And obviously, I came to rescue the poor ghostwriter you’ve got shackled in your basement.”
He crossed one ankle over the other. “Right. You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”
I scowled. I liked to be an enigma and usually, for most others, I was. “It was a misstep in judgment, okay?”
“And what led to that?” He sipped from his mug.
I leaned my head back on the sofa, closing my eyes to block out the mortification. “Isn’t it obvious? I panicked. Jeremy and May teamed up, and you’re…you.” I waved vaguely toward the bookshelf. “Polished. Published. Perfectly alphabetized. I just wanted to see what I’m up against.”
Silence.
I opened one eye, bracing for laughter. A cutting remark. Disappointment.
Instead, he stood and grabbed his phone. “Let’s get pizzas.”
My brain short-circuited. “What?”
“Stuffy French food never fills me up. Veggie?” he asked without looking up.
“You’re serious.”
“I can get you meat-lovers instead? Extra spicy?” He glanced at me, one brow raised. Totally serious.
He waited—not pushing, not prying. Just...letting me breathe.
And that made me like him way too much.
Suddenly, something furry launched into my lap. Black. Heavy. Purring.
My first thought wasrat—PTSD from my late night swim—but then I looked down and met the unimpressed eyes of one very fat cat.
Queequeg.
“I think Queequeg wants you to stay and have pizza with us,” John said, casually scratching the cat behind the ears.
The fat cat started to make biscuits on my lap. Did I really have a choice? I exhaled, letting myself melt into the sofa.
“Extra spicy, please.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Someone’s turned the radiator up. It’s positively hot in here.
‘Viv’ is an Oatcake.
He doesn’t want “it”.
The sofa was technically roomy—but John was a giant, so we kept brushing elbows, knees, pinkies. Accidentally. Mostly. I popped open the beer bottle and settled deeper under the blanket. My stomach was filled to bursting, but luckily his boxer shorts left room for the full aftermath of my pizza-baby.
My head felt heavy, pleasantly drowsy. I waswaytoo comfortable to consider leaving. Also, the thought of staying the night sent a thrill up my spine I had no business entertaining.
