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“So, so good.” I let out an embarrassing moan again and my body relaxes even more.
It’s a rare Saturday where I don’t have anything going on and neither does Warren. Something I planned, so we hardly had to leave the bed today.
I just wanted one day with him where work wasn’t a bother, where no one was calling me and demanding things of me, where I was having to divide my attention between work and this man who was quickly becoming someone I valued.
It was getting harder and harder to hide my feelings around the office. My mother was growing impatient, wanting me to make things official with Jasper Pierce even with my insistence that I wouldn’t date him, wouldn’t be with him, no matter how good it looked to the outside eye.
I could give a diddly squat what it looked like to the outside eye.
If people couldn’t accept whom I shared my bed with—my life with—that was their problem. Not mine.
Warren stops and plops down onto the bed beside me. When I turn to look at him, it’s clear to me that he’s got something on his mind.
“What’s going on?”
Warren smiles. “Nothing.”
I know when he’s lying too. Something that I can tell easily because it usually is a lie to protect my feelings or me from any outside stress. While that was nice, it wasn’t healthy for either of us. Or, at least, I didn’t think so.
“Seriously.” I prop myself up on my arm and look at him.
“It’s really nothing.” He sighs and leans against his own hand. “I’ve been working on getting some things worked out.”
I wait.
And wait and wait.
But the explanation that would normally follow that kind of sentence doesn’t come.
“What kind of things?”
“Work things.” He shrugs.
“Work things?” I frown. “What’s wrong at work?”
“Not your work, work. Something different.”
I give Warren a look. “Am I going to have to drag this out of you?”
He sighs and almost shyly, in a deflecting kind of way, he runs a finger between my breasts.
“No distracting.”
“I’m not,” he insists. “I’m talking about my words. My poems. My art.”
I sit up at that with a severe frown. “Your poems?”
“Yeah.” He nods and his hair—I love his hair—moves around his shoulders. “I’m working on getting some work published.”
I gape at him and I feel a twinge of heat behind my eyes. “Warren.” There’s awe in my voice. “That’s amazing. How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Mostly because I’ve gotten nothing but rejections from publishing companies.”
I cock my head. “That’s not the only reason.”
“You’re busy, Janie. I know your job stresses you out. I’m not going to add to that.”
“Warren,” I admonish and the full force of why I’m upset hits me. And instead of hiding that, I tell him straight up. “You talking about yourself, your passions, is never going to stress me out.” I grab his hand and squeeze. “You mean a lot to me, you mean…” I swallow, my gaze going to our linked hands, unable to find the right words. Maybe he could, because he’s kind of brilliant when it comes to forming amazing, beautiful words, but I stumble. Probably because my feelings are a lot to wade through. I look back at him again. “I never want you to hide your troubles, your triumphs or your feelings from me.”
