Page 21 of All For You

I followed her up the stairs to the bedrooms to change, trying not to focus on how her wet clothes hugged her curves.

As she paused at the doorway of her room, I asked, “Are you going down after this for coffee?”

“Yes.” She looked a bit surprised and even suspicious of my question.

“See you down there.”

“Okay.”

My gaze locked with hers, and my blood heated at the spark in her eyes.

Good God, man, she has sparkly eyes. They weren’t lighting up for you.Still, I changed my wet and muddied clothes hurriedly, not even knowing why I was racing. At this rate, I was going to run out of clothes this weekend. WhywasI hurrying? So I could see her again more quickly? If anything, I should hangback or stay far away from her altogether. Maybe I was feeling this way because I had to show myself better when filmed—redeem myself. Because I was eager to improve my impression so that my clubhouse donors would see me in a more positive light. Still, I found myself buttoning my shirt and pulling on my sweater as I bounced down the stairs, I was so keen to get back down there.

I joined her in the kitchen for coffee. She’d dressed even more quickly than me, in a long, flower-print dress that drifted around her like a late summer meadow.

“Hello there again,” I said, my voice raspy. What was making me so nervous about this woman? I felt like a schoolboy.

“Hello there again,” she replied, teasing me a bit about my formal greeting.

Her ringlets were damp, and it looked like she only had on lip gloss. Her soft, natural prettiness made her even more attractive to me.

My ex, Sophia, had kept an overflowing makeup cart in the bathroom, and I once watched as she applied five different eye shadows on her lids for a walk through the forest. At the time, I’d been in awe of her commitment to her appearance. I’d assumed she prettied herself as self-care to feel good. I realized now those textured eyelids had not been created formyviewing pleasure, and all the muss and fuss detracted from her natural beauty.

Next to the coffee machine, Lizzy showed me a note from Trystan saying he was fetching supplies from his van outside and to help ourselves to hot drinks. He’d left a book propped open next to the blue AGA stove, as though he was mid-read. The cover featured a colorful illustration of a couple in Regency clothing, looking annoyed at each other. But what stood out was Lizzy’s name in bright pink as the author.

I nodded toward Lizzy’s book. “A lot of people last night were saying you’re a good writer.”

I poured coffee into two cups and pushed the jug of milk and bowl of sugar toward her. She shook her head. Turned out we both drank our coffee black. That didn’t surprise me, as she seemed to gravitate toward simplicity.

“Yes. That was nice of them,” she said modestly. Her dimples came out of hiding again.

Keep them there, Wainwright. That’s your only job today, man. Show those people on social media that you’re actually a good, fun guy to be around.

“Have you ever considered trying to write a serious book?” I asked. “If you’re such a good writer, maybe you should write something less trivial?”

The dimples retreated, and she pressed her lips together. I’d messed up already.

“Have you even read a romance?” she asked.

“You know I haven’t.”

“I challenge you to read the first three chapters of a romance.” Her tone was defensive and aggressive. “Then come back and tell me it’s trivial.”

“But it’s not life-and-death.”

My tone was brusque, nothing out of the ordinary for me, my usual work tone, but not what I should be aiming for here. Why was I digging myself in deeper like this? I was always honest, and now I couldn’t beat the knee-jerk habit.

“It actually is,” she said. “Because if you’re in love and you can’t see how it will work out, itislike dying.”

Lizzy’s words reminded me of Wills. Losing love last time flattened him. Life or death—that made some sense when I thought of how devastated he’d been. At this glimmer of understanding, resolve further strengthened within me. I had to make sure Jane was good for him.

I cocked my head. “You know this. You’ve experienced it.”

She glared at me, and my gut dropped with dread. “I’m an author. I imagine it.”

Trystan burst into the kitchen, laden with boxes, and I rushed forward to relieve him.

I wasn’t sure if the interruption was good or bad.