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, 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.’ Maybe looking up what different styles of male facial hair were called too. Not a subject I’d paid much attention to before but there was something so precise andappealingabout Stephen’s…the line that perfectly bisected his cheek, highlighting his cheekbone above and the angle of his jaw…the way it tapered off at just the right point of his throat so it would still feel like he was allowing you access to a vulnerable spot if you pressed your lips there.
‘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 witness 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 boxer shorts?
I put a brutal end to those thoughts and forced myself to rejoin the conversation. ‘Look, I don’t make the rules, this is just my process, OK?’
‘…notworking is your process?’
‘It’s a delicate balance of communing with my subconscious mind and then frenzied writing to get the stuff that’s in there onto a page.’
‘Hmm…sounds like a fancy way to say you’re slacking off to me.’
I prickled, even though I knew that he was teasing and I was the one who’d started it by purposefully exaggerating. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed my first waspish response, giving him my second one instead: ‘That’s because you’re not creative. Stop judging and get on with that coffee, you heartless banker.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He gave me a little salute, filled the pot and set it to percolate.
I opened a cupboard to grab a couple of clean mugs, going up onto my tiptoes to reach. His warmth flooded my back as he saw what I was doing and reached easily over my shoulder. He smelt of warm cotton and aftershave, and he was sosolid; I wanted to turn and nuzzle into his chest, feel that latent heat from the sun layered up over his soft shirt and firm muscles.
Instead, I planted my hands on the counter as he pulled down the mugs, thinking that would keep me out of trouble. But all it did was keep us standing extremely close together in my little kitchenette. I don’t know if his mind was turning somersaults working out all the places where we lined up and where we didn’t, like mine was, but the lull in conversation made the tension between us obvious. We were both acting our little hearts out, pretending everything was normal. Or as normal for us as it ever was.
I should be the one backing away, though. I was the one who had friend-zoned him, and he was respecting that, so I should do the right thing.
‘I think you should take that one.’ I shifted to the side and pointed to the mug in his left hand.
He lifted it and read the words out loud. ‘”A woman’s place is in control?”’ His mouth ticked up at the corner and he glanced at me, the speculation in his dark eyes making my bones turn to lava. ‘Fine with me, if that’s your preference.’
Would it be fine with him? We both seemed to like control but how would that work between us —
‘Which leaves me with “boss lady”,’ I announced unnecessarily loudly, as though trying to drown out my own thoughts.
‘Perfect,’ he agreed and turned away to finish making the coffee.
If only. If only I was in control of this, if only I was the ‘boss’, but I couldn’t undo the kissI’dinstigated or the way it had left me craving more. I just had to hope that today he reminded me of all the reasons it wouldnotbe smart to kiss him again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Stephen
The address was in Brooklyn Heights at a grey tower block that wouldn’t have looked out of place around where I’d grown up. Inside the building was echoey and smelt of bleach. We took the stairs as it was only four floors up and I suppressed my ingrained habit to let Elle go first. That way I wouldn’t be tempted to watch her behind, or the way her summer dress floated around her thighs, as she climbed in front of me.
Best behaviour. Best behaviour. That had to be my mantra now. I was not here to notice the dizzying curve of her hips or the way her hair smelt of citrus fruit or read into that moment in the kitchen when we’d stood ridiculously close and still, like we needed a breather from pulling against the forces urging us together. Or maybe she’d just been waiting to see if I was going to keep to my word or pounce on her. Christ,howI had wanted to pounce on her, press my mouth to her exposed neck, press my –
Best behaviour, Stephen.
When we reached the apartment, Elle was breathing heavily from chasing me up the stairs, her chest rising and falling in a very distracting way. God help me, it was like I’d never been attracted to a woman before.
My desperation to distract myself had me ringing the buzzer without a moment of hesitation. We could hear the TV coming through the door, but no one was answering. ‘Shall we write a note?’
‘Maybe. Let’s try once more,’ Elle said. She was so good at keeping me going. That pep talk at Coney Island, when I was tired of traipsing around after the man who’d abandoned me, had been just what I needed. And it was the reason I’d broughther with me for this, too. Or part of the reason. The other parts being made up of needing her inquisitive brain and…just wanting to be around her, I had to admit. It’d barely been a day after Coney Island when I realised that I was impatient to get to Saturday. Not to continue the search, but to see Elle. To be sure that things were going to be OK between us and…well…get my fix of her company, for what good it would do me.
I banged on the wooden door this time, the blue paint tacky in the heat. Finally, the volume of the TV dipped, and a woman appeared. Her hair was faded blonde, cut in a wiry bob around her face. She wore a tank top and long shorts and a pissed-off expression.
‘Yeah?’ If this was the woman my father had lived with, I had a feeling that she wasn’t going to be terribly helpful.
