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I stop, looking at myself in the mirror. My T-shirt is stuck to my body, outlining the shape of my chest and abs. My eyes are wide but tired, giving me an almost manic look. A few years ago, I did a TV show where I lived like a Viking for a month, getting involved in their culture, their day-to-day schedule. It was hard and brutal work, and afterward, I had a similar look in my eyes…
That’s what Autumn does to me. She makes me primal, animalistic, makes me feel like a man from a thousand years ago who’d charge into her village and claim her by any means necessary.
My fists tighten when I think about the man she was having dinner with, my mind hurling brutal thoughts at me, like the idea of her hands running down his body, their lips fusing.
I close my eyes, breathing slowly. I can’t let my thoughts go there or I’ll end up trashing the gym.
The idea of my woman being with anyone else makes me want to roar.
But then, my woman?
I can’t label her in those terms.
She doesn’t belong to me, even if I can’t stop thinking about making her mine.
I finish off with some cardio, running on the treadmill, turning the setting up until I’m sprinting. Egil sits next to the machine, looking up at me with his kind eyes, as though he understands how difficult this is for me.
I haven’t been able to work all day, even after printing my draft. I tried to read the words but they just danced and changed shape, becoming paragraphs about how perfect Autumn is instead.
With my workout done, I strip and take a quick shower. I turn the setting up to the highest pressure, standing beneath the showerhead as it blasts down on me. It doesn’t help, and neither does turning up the heat.
Autumn is there, always, with her soft smile and her vivacious eyes and her body, always her body tempting me…
After the shower, I return to my study, meaning to get some work done. I pick up my phone, checking if I’ve got any texts or emails from my publisher, or any PR-related stuff forwarded from my agent.
There’s nothing from my publisher or agent, but there is a text.
It’s a text that has me leaning back in the chair, as though someone has just physically struck me, my teeth clenched as I work out how to handle this.
Hey, Asher. I hope this doesn’t seem too forward. But I was wondering if maybe you could take a look at one of my essays? I can send it to you, or we can meet. I don’t mind either way. Thank you. (It’s Autumn by the way) XX
I read and reread the words, wondering if there’s something more to this than reviewing her essay.
Did she feel it last night too, the spark between us?
I should tell her no.
The whole reason I wasn’t going to pursue her was that I know I won’t be able to hold back the floodgates of my need. I’ll end up telling her all of my fantasies if we start getting close, telling her how beautiful she’ll look in a wedding dress, how radiant she’ll be after she’s given birth to our child.
Our first child, because there’s no way I’m wasting a body so perfectly primed for childbirth on just one baby.
But I care about her. That’s the truth, even if it should make no sense. I care about her and I want her to do well. If she really needs my help with her essay, I don’t want to leave her hanging.
Or is that just an excuse to see her again?
Either way, there’s no way I’m passing up this chance.
That sounds great, Autumn. Why don’t we meet for coffee? You can send me over your essay beforehand and then we can discuss
With the text sent, I pace my study, knowing I won’t be able to focus on my work. Walking over to Egil, I lean down and scoop the little man up, cradling him to my chest as he gets into a comfy position. The little Jack Russell is normally a barely containable ball of energy, but he must sense my mood because he curls up with a soft whine.
I hold him for a few moments and then my phone buzzes.
Okay, cool. What’s your email address?
I send it to her and add, We can meet this afternoon if you’re not busy? That will give me enough time to take a look at the essay
I’m not busy. I finish work at 3. Where do you want to meet?
We arrange to meet at a café near her college campus, and then I check my emails. She’s already sent the essay, concerning the dietary practices in Victorian insane asylums. Even if this isn’t my area of expertise, reading her essay puts a big cheesy grin on my face… or maybe it’s a smirk since properly smiling has never been my forte.
