He’s been the most supportive person I could ever dream of. He’s been checking in but also giving me time to get into a flow without interruptions.
“It’s a nightmare,” I say, snagging the caprese panini he made me and taking a bite.
“Anything I can do to help?” I see his arm reach under the table before I feel his warm palm on my thigh. He gives me a little squeeze of support, and I realize maybe he is exactly what I need to get this damn book done.
“Can I stay after close?” I ask before taking a sip of my latte.
“You can always stay; you never need to ask, you know that.”
“I know, I just feel so fucking awkward right now and I don’t even know why. This book is kicking my ass. I thought staying home in my writing cave would help me figure it all out, but it all just feels wrong. And I missed you. So damn much.” I suck in a deep breath, wondering if my brand of manic is going to eventually run him off. All my anxious thoughts are spewing out, and I feel like a fucking mess right now.
“Okay, well, I close up in twenty minutes. How about you just relax, don’t think about writing or anything book related, and when I’m done cleaning, we can head upstairs and you can tell me everything you feel like you’re hung up on.”
I nod and feel my throat constrict with just how understanding he is.
He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and the fact that he just lets me be me makes me think this could be the real deal.
He stands up, leaning toward me to press a kiss to my cheek before standing to his full height and heading back to the counter. He wastes no time and starts cleaning, giving me plenty of arm candy to watch as he does.
An orgasm. Maybe that’s what I need to unblock my brain.
I shake my head, making a pact with myself that I can only have sex with Oakley if I hit my word count for the day. I need to keep my priorities, or I’ll end up in his bed all night and really miss my deadline.
God, I’m a disaster. I roll my eyes at myself and continue to watch Oakley close down the shop. Before I know it, he’s done and kicking out the teens before locking the front door.
“Ready?” I look down at the table and realize—sometime in my mindless thoughts—I finished my sandwich and coffee, and he somehow already cleaned it up. Which makes me sad because I didn’t even get to savor it, didn’t get to enjoy how freaking good it was. I can’t wait until this book is done and I’m able to get out of this damn funk.
“Ready?”
I take the hand he’s holding out, and he leads me to the stairs.
I sit on his couch once we’re inside and watch him as he fusses around, picking up things, getting me water, and overall being adorable.
“James,” I say.
His eyes lift to mine, and I pat the seat next to me.
“Sorry, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I lean into him, cuddling into his chest and breathing him in. Instantly, my head is calmer and my racing thoughts mellow.
“I hate everything I’ve been writing,” I murmur.
“How can I help?” I love that he doesn’t offer immediate solutions; he just asks me what I need.
“I have no clue. I wrote a shit-ton after you— After we— After the time we were together that kind of sucked.” I wince.
“That’s a very nice way to put what happened. Continue.”
“I wrote all night. I had so many emotions to get out that I just threw them into the book. The next couple of days, I realized none of it worked with what I usually write, so I moved it into a separate document and moved on. Well, attempted to move on.”
“Why don’t you think it would work within the book?” he asks as his fingertips trail up and down my arm.
“It feels more … romantic. It no longer became about him killing and hiding it; it became a love story between him and his informant.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
I smile at his innocent question. Maybe I am just stuck in my ways and not being open to what the story could be. Too hung up on what works and not pushing myself to do something new.
