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After he kicks my ass for letting this happen.
“You’re probably right,” she says, but from the corner of my eye I catch her shaking her head, absently playing with the ties on her borrowed basketball shorts. “But sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. I know I made the choice to switch gears in grad school, but even with all the catching up I had to do in the journalism program, I still thought it might work out.”
“Hasn’t it?”
“Not exactly.” Ellie shrugs. “I had this whole life plan—go to school, get a great job in business, make a ton of money, make my dad proud.” Her voice is so quiet, it feels like she’s making a confession.
“Instead, I’m in a studio apartment in Astoria,” she continues. “My dishes rattle every time the train goes by. I have a master’s degree from a prestigious university, but most days I’m writing puff pieces like ‘Ten Signs He’s Just Not Into You’ and ‘Is Your Smoky Eye Setting Off the Right Alarms?’”
Dishwasher forgotten, I step in front of her and put my hands on her shoulders, offering an encouraging smile. “I have no idea what a smoky eye is, but Idoknow that whatever you’re working on, you put your all into it. That’s what counts.”
“It’s not serious work, though. The S and H story is the first time in my professional life I’m working on something that matters. Something that can help people.”
“Itwillhelp people. It’s already helping.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” she says. “The story, the work… I’m not even close to finished, and I already believe it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.”
“That’s a good thing, no?”
“Maybe it would be, if I were doing it as myself.” She blinks and turns away, but not before I catch the tears glistening on her cheeks. “All those smart, fearless things you think I can do? I can’t seem to do them without a costume and a mask. Without pretending I’m someone else. You think I’m this badass writer who goes after what she wants, but most of the time…I’m just scared.”
My heart cracks right in half. “What are you afraid of?”
“Not mattering. Wasting the time I’ve been given. Looking back in twenty years and wishing I’d done everything differently.”
She looks so vulnerable—the fear etched in her eyes, the downward turn of her mouth, the furrow between her brows—some primal instinct claws its way out of my chest, and all I can think about now is how badly I want to protect her. How much I want to take away her pain.
How desperately I need her to see herself the way I see her.
I cup her face in my hands, brushing away her tears with my thumbs. “This is only the beginning for you. You’re fierce and talented and smart as hell—with or without the costume. Personally, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind for a second in weeks.”
“That’s only because I’ve infiltrated your workplace, passed out in front of your office, and—”
“No. It’s because you inspire me. Because you’re an amazing human being.” I hesitate a beat, but I can’t hold back the rest of the words desperate to make their way out. “And because, ever since we kissed, all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”
Her breath hitches. “You do?”
“I was so zoned out today, Rictor told me go home and sleep it off.” I slide my thumb across her lower lip. “I’m still thinking about it, El. Right now.”
“Me, too,” she whispers, breath as soft as powder.
“Good to know.” I lean down, bringing my lips to hers, but it’s nothing like our first kiss.
This kiss is hungry, starving, almostsavage.
Her hands twist into the front of my shirt, and I grab her around the waist and lift her onto the countertop, shifting between her thighs. She tastes like creamy coffee and cinnamon and raw, unfiltered Ellie, and if I drop dead right here, her legs wrapped around me, her hands on my chest, I’ll say it was a life well lived.
She moans against my lips, driving me wild.
I need to touch her, to feel her against my skin. All of her.
I slide my hands up her outer thighs, warm and silky-smooth inside the borrowed shorts, and she inches forward on the countertop until I’ve got a handful of her firm, perfect ass.
But it’s not enough. Not for either of us.
“More kissing, less clothes?” I ask, voice rough with need.
“Fewer,” she pants.
