Me: Let’s leave it until the weekend. Saturday
morning if you’re free?
Noelle: Actually, that’s perfect for me. I’ll be
over there anyway. Goodnight.
Me: Night.
Maybe if I couldn’t do romantic relationships, at least I could try to do this.
Chapter Nine
I didn’t know what version of Stephen to expect on Saturday when he called at my apartment. Once my raging libido had calmed the other night, I’d felt pretty rotten. Maybe even like I was gas-lighting him a bit? I needed to stop giving him the wrong impression and then slapping his wrist when he flirted back. It wasn’t fair. So, I’d texted him an apology with a hope that we could be friends. I did enjoy his company. When he wasn’t being a jerk. And I’d noticed the non-jerk moments were stacking up.
Like insisting on walking me home or coming to pick me up. The man had these ingrained manners that I had to admit were nice to be around. He really needn’t have come all the way over to me, when we were heading in the opposite direction to get to Brooklyn, but he said he didn’t mind and I appreciated the gesture. Even if he did turn up at an ungodly hour.
I opened my door to him, wondering if he was going to be friendly, or closed off, or flirtatious and found that, for the most part, he looked worn out. Dark smudges beneath his eyes.
‘You look tired. You should get more sleep, try a lie-in once in a while,’ I joked, letting him in.
‘Why, thank you.Youlook like you got plenty of sleep – in a hedge.’
I laughed. Friendly banter it was. The relief that he had genuinely put the incident at Coney Island behind us made my smile linger.
‘Miaow. Put those claws back in, kitty; all I need is a hairbrush.’ I rumpled my fingers through my unbrushed hair and caught his eyes tracking the movement before he snapped them away.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ he offered.
‘You didn’t bring any with you?’
‘I’ll go bankrupt if I have to keep you caffeinated on franchise coffee all day.’
‘Occupational hazard.’
‘I don’t think being addicted to coffee is unique to writers.’
‘You’re probably right there.’ I went into my bedroom and shut the door over, the noise of his rummaging in my kitchen while I stripped out of my pyjamas with only one wall between us, making my hands shaky. I went back out, pulling my hair up into a high ponytail. I was wearing a bright floral dress, because straight after going on our manhunt in Brooklyn Heights, I would be heading over to my parents in Flatbush for the family barbecue.
Stephen glanced over at me, dark eyes dancing quickly and then averting again.
Maybe things weren’t going to bequiteso normal for us again.
‘What’s got you all tuckered out then? You stay up all night working or were you entertaining some lucky lady?’ I wanted to kick myself for asking the latter. Did I really want to know if he’d spent the night using those lips on another woman? The memory of how they felt had been haunting me. The tease of their minty taste, the glimpse of the sensations a full-on lip lock with him could potentially unleash… I knew I had to continue pretending I didn’t want it, but that didn’t mean I had to go asking for information that was going to make me jealous.
Yes. Jealous. It was about time I admitted to myself that I wanted him to kiss me properly. That I wanted to feel his hands in my hair, on my waist, maybe sliding down to my ass to pull me closer…
‘Just work. Politicians will insist on making decisions that send the markets into a tailspin. How about you? How’s the book going?’
The worst words in the world for a writer to hear. I mean, it was nice that he was interested, but there was no easy answer to that question. I had been making progress but usually there was a moment when things just clicked, and this book was still not clicking. I had one week left to get it to my editor on time and frankly, it was looking impossible. I joined him in the kitchen with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Oh great. And by great, I mean I’ve been eating takeout and playing RollerCoaster Tycoon for hours on end.’
‘I’m confused. Don’t you have a deadline?’ He found my packet of coffee and was searching for a spoon, looking mildly distressed by the mess. I bet he was one of those people who cleaned everything immediately and it all lived in a specific home. A desire to see his apartment filled me. I wanted to see him in his own domain. What was it like in his kitchen when he made coffee in the morning? Did he have a special pot for his spoons? Did he do it wearing just his jockey shorts?
‘Look, I don’t make the rules, this is just my process okay?’
‘…notworking is your process?’
