“Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?”
A little bit, yeah. I think it matters, anyway. Quite a lot, actually, if we’re being blunt. It’s the difference between a slow burn and an instalove. I do not subscribe toinstalove. Because that L word? It doesn’t exist in an instant. Attraction can. Physical, pathetic, and meaninglessattractioncan spur to life in a moment. Butlove?
Love takes time. Effort.More. Love is a commitment. And you can’t trust it unless you see it in practice for far, far longer than aninstant.
I say, “What…is going on right now? You cannot be serious. I knowthe way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I’ve only made you two meals. This is kind of ridiculous.”
“So what if it’s ridiculous?”
“Well, it’s also stupid.”
“Elaborate.”
“I’m putting you up in my house right now because my brother has confirmed that you’re alovely individual, which is an honor he has literally never bestowed onanyoneelse before in his twenty-seven years of life. That said, if there’s some kind of weird attraction between you—a complete stranger—and me, your position gets rocky, doesn’t it?”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Yet you’re, knowingly, being an idiot?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I blurt.
“My answer’s stupid.”
“Well, at least you’re consistent.”
Blowing out a breath, he says, “I’ve given up. I don’t think I can be what you want. It took you moments to steal my heart and my breath. In a single night, I have watched a chasm open between us. Every last thing you do is endearing or charming or unique. You’re captivating, like a character in a book. And do you think I didn’t notice the bookcase in the room where I’m staying? It’s filled with stories boasting your name. You’re an author with over a hundred titles. When you say happiness is boring, you know. You know because you’ve lived a thousand lives and explored a thousand different adventures in them. When you get bored of a character’s joy, you write the ending. Worse, when you tire of a character himself, you move on toanother male lead. I will only ever be one person. Worse than that, the person I am is fairly unremarkable. I’ve been called boring my entire life. I’ve overheard how uninteresting I am throughout my entire childhood. I have been told, on numerous occasions, that the most compelling thing about me is the fact my grandparents had to raise me because my mother was a drug addict unsuitable for childcare. That’s my perfectly common backstory, because it’s one millions of others have. That’s all I have to offer you in the way ofinteresting traits. Yet I’m not usually a defeatist. Forgive me for being boringly in character and opting to communicate instead of relying on some innate misunderstanding to propel every facet of the plot forward, but is there any hope that you could shape me into the male lead you want, August?”
I’m so, so, so,sovery sorry.
What?
What, what?
Huh?
Excuse me??
This is a full and proper confession, isn’t it? The first I have ever seen in the flesh.
Dominic searches my eyes, becoming more pitiful by the moment. Softly, he says, “I’ll do anything. Anything at all for a chance.”
Anything?
He cannot simply lookthispretty and tell a girl who writes romance like a rabid creature that he’ll doanythingto win her affections. That’s the start of a story. That’s a pen if I’ve ever been handed one. But instead of parchment to write on, he’s offering me his life.
Mouth dry, I echo, “Anything?”
I’m being charmed. Sung out to sea by a siren.
I’m doomed to get way in over my head and drown.
And drowning, everyone knows, is an awful way to go…but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the picture of tragedy that it spins in my head.
Gray skies. Dark waters. A struggle against the icy pulls and beating waves.
It’s compelling imagery.
