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“Why was he telling you about his childhood?”
I shrug. “The whole meeting was odd. We talked about writing. Kind of. But not as much as I thought we would. I guess I thought it’d be like an interview or something, but it was more like…”
“Like what?” she urges.
“I don’t know. Like he was angry at me. He was so intense. Looking at me like he wanted to tear me to pieces. But then why the heck would he offer a second lesson if that was the case?”
“Do you think…”
She leaves the question dangling, tempting me, cutting herself off because maybe she thinks she’s going to upset me.
“Do I think he’s attracted to me?” I prompt.
“I’m sorry,” she says, nodding. “I know I’m the one who told you not to worry about that. But I mean… he seemed angry, he was intense. In my experience, that can often mean a man wants you. It’s not like they’re the best at dealing with their emotions.”
“I honestly don’t know.” My core begins to pulse, beating hard, sending desperate signals thrumming through my body, willing me to believe it’s possible, willing me to sink into the fiction. “It’s not like I’ve got much or any experience in that area. I don’t think I’d even know if he was.”
“Well, it sounds like there’s going to be plenty of time to find out.”
She leans forward, a wicked smile on her lips, all bright and vivacious.
“Who knows? Maybe lesson two will have even less to do with writing than today’s class. If you know what I mean. Maybe he’s going to teach you more than full stops and, um, brackets if you know what I mean.”
I giggle. “Okay, number one. I know what full stops and brackets are. There are even fancy words for them. Periods and parentheses.”
“There is nothing fancy about periods.”
Laughing away her comment, I go on. “And number two, yes, Kelly, I know what you mean. You’re not exactly being subtle.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“If he throws himself at you, what are you going to do?”
“Come on. As if that’s going to happen.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “But it’s like a game. What would you do?”
“Probably melt out of awkwardness.” I try to joke, but there’s too much cold reality in my words for that. “Honestly, I have no clue. But it doesn’t matter. He probably didn’t even mean it about lesson two—”
My laptop is open on the coffee table, showing a half-filled page of my novel when it makes a beeping noise.
The notification window pops up, telling me I’ve got an email from Madden Mitchell.
“No way is that him,” Kelly says, leaning forward. “That’s spooky.”
I reach across and navigate to my email, scanning the short line.
Lesson two. My place. Tomorrow night. I’ll send a car to pick you up. Sound good?
“He wants to meet tomorrow, at his place,” I say, forcing the words past the dryness of my mouth. “He’s going to send me a car. What should I say?”
“What do you want to say?”
“Yes, I want to say freaking yes.”
She laughs. “Then I think you have your answer.”
I type out a message, keeping it as short as his. I click send and then realize I haven’t given him my address, and then I realize I don’t need to. He has it from the letter.
Sitting back, I let out a shuddering breath.
“I’m going to Madden Mitchell’s house. Kelly, this is real, right? This isn’t some crazy dream.”
“It’s crazy,” she says. “And yeah, it’s a dream. But it’s also one hundred percent real.”
Chapter Twelve
Madden
My whole body is a landscape of nerves as I wait for my woman to arrive, my fists clenched tightly on the balcony railing as I look down at the city. I find my eyes moving to the distance, to the horizon where the suburbs lie, as my mind fills with a thousand fantasies of the life we’re going to build together.
“I can’t let all this out, boy,” I tell Boxcar. “Not yet.”
He looks up at me, head tilted as if to say, How are you going to stop it?
I grind my teeth from side to side, the notion that he’s right – that there’s no fighting this – rises in my mind.
The apartment buzzer goes off effectively cutting my thoughts right down the middle. My heart starts to slam against my chest, big heavy drumming beats, as I walk through the apartment toward the front door.
“Hello?” I say, pressing down on the intercom button.
“It’s me.” Her voice is breathy like she’s rehearsing how she’ll pant and whimper when I finally drive up inside of her. “Um, Maddie. I mean. It’s Maddie.”
“I know,” I nearly snarl. “I’ll buzz you up.”
My hands are shaking when I push down on the button, turning to my apartment, and walking toward the living room. My place is open plan, with a tall ceiling and a large floor covered in overlapping rugs. The kitchen is off to the side, sleek marble, and the walls are all covered in large bookshelves, reaching from the floor to the ceiling.
