“Don’t mention it.” I’m free-falling into those crystal blue eyes, and I don’t want it to end. Time stops and the only people in the world, the entire universe, are him and me.
My heart thrashes against my ribs. My pulse races. My hand is probably sweaty under his. Maybe third time is the charm? Maybe this is where I get to kiss Justin at long last. Maybe a kiss is all I need to get him out of my system.
The corners of his lips twitch, and in the moment, my inner monologue is screaming “the penis shall never get between us.”
Besties before testes is a great idea in theory, but I don’t think whoever created the Girl Code had ever come face to face with Justin Ashe before. I lick my lips, salty-sweet from my ice cream and fries. I wish it was him licking the salt from my lips. Desire laps low in my stomach.
Movement in my periphery breaks his spell as I hear my name.
“Hey, Savvyanna.” Molly Morrison is walking past our table with a couple of guys and another girl. She’s only looking at the back of Justin’s head, she can’t possibly know it’s him, can she? I flinch back and jerk my hand from his all the same, just in case. Sisters before misters. I’m itching to bolt out of my seat and throw my arms around her, but the girl she’s with is literally dragging her toward the door. Hugs will have to wait.
“See ya in the morning.” She winks at me. I could swear she’s muttering something about getting sausage under her breath.
They’re heading toward the exit, and she doesn’t stop to chat. I force out a breath as the door closes behind her group. When I turn back to Justin, he’s picked up his burger and has taken another huge bite.
His eyes swim with hurt and unspoken accusations. This guy has been nothing but amazing to me since we boarded the plane in Iowa. We’ve actually spent quite a nice day together. He chews his food in heavy silence and that’s when I realize: it’s me.
I’m the ass.
CHAPTER12
Justin
Ihave three emails from my editor. Usually, getting one email from her isn’t good. So the three unread emails staring at me from my inbox make me shiver. She’s probably pissed. I really don’t blame her. I’ve been late on my last two deadlines and haven’t confirmed whether or not I’ll be sending her my shit on time this time either.
I’m a terrible client. I mean, I pay her on time, and I thank her in all my books, but praise the stars the woman is as flexible as she is or I’d be screwed. I’m a small fish in a big literary pond right now, but when I make it big, I’m gonna give her a raise. Or buy her a koala. She loves koalas. And chocolate. I’ll buy her an entire bathtub filled with chocolate. Hell, maybe the tub will be made of chocolate too.
When I got home from my not-a-date with Savannah I locked myself in Dad’s office and wrote for hours. It didn’t matter that I have a game tomorrow, or that I was exhausted from hours of empathizing all day with the Bowens, or that I was pretty butt hurt that Savannah bolted away from me like I was on fire when she saw Molly Morrison at McDonalds. It also didn’t matter that it wasn’t what I was supposed to write. I was compelled to sit at my desk and let the words flow.
I don’t remember the last time I managed a 10,000-word day, never mind 12k, but last night felt pretty damn good. I got some sleep and am now back at my desk to go over the words I got down—just to make sure they weren’t turkey-influenced babble-crap, which is a distinct possibility. Sometimes it’s best not to let my stream of consciousness make it onto the page.
It’s not the book I’d planned to write, but I haven’t opened that manuscript since I left Iowa. Instead, I’m working on this fresh new document that came to me on the plane. Is the heroine a honey-blonde, crystal blue eyed beauty who’s afraid of flying? Maybe.
Whether or not Savannah can make up her mind about me is irrelevant. My muse made me her bitch, and I’ll write until my fingers fall off. I’m simply a vessel for the story.
A soft tap on the door draws my attention from cycling the words in my manuscript. I change the word “anal” to “a nap” and grin at how different the story would be if I just left it the way it was before I noticed the typo.
The door opens, Mom steps in with a plate of cinnamon roll French toast and bacon, and my stomach growls its thanks.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She pats my shoulder and rests her butt against the edge of my desk. “You were up late pounding those keys last night. Have you flipped your schedule? You usually write better in the morning.”
I can’t say my parents have always been supportive of my bid to be a self-employed creative. Coming from essentially poverty and a scarcity mindset has left its impact on all of us, but once they realized it was something I needed to do, something that lived and breathed in my veins, they were 100% on board. And for some reason, Mom really likes hearing about my process.
I chew on a piece of bacon before I answer. “Inspiration struck. I’m still a morning writer.” I smile. “I have to be. Between work, school, and hockey…I’m dead on my feet in the evenings these days.”
She nods like she gets it. She probably does. She and Dad have worked so hard to save us from the brink of bankruptcy more times than I can count. One time when I was in middle school she worked three jobs, kept the house, and somehow managed to still be the best mom in the world. I have a sneaking suspicion that all parents are Fae—it’s the only explanation for how they keep their heads above water.
“Savannah is certainly very pretty inspiration for your work.” She nudges me. Here it comes. “Speaking of Savannah.”
Nice, subtle segue, Mom.
“How was your date?”
Instead of answering, I cut a piece of French toast that can’t possibly fit in my mouth but I try anyway.
“That good, huh?”
