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I need to keep the journalist in me alive and not rush ahead until I’ve got all the facts. Knowing everything about her, though, won’t justify these feelings. It won’t corroborate the evidence in my heart and my manhood. It won’t turn the future already brimming in my mind into something reasonable.
A flash, an image, a dream. Michaela lying in a large bed on silk sheets, cradling a baby to her chest, smiling at me with love swelling and…
No, Jacob. Shut up. Stop it.
“I’m sorry,” she says, after another pause, reminding me I’m just standing over her, staring like a freak.
“Why are you sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“There’s nothing to disturb. I had another meeting with Trent. He seems to think the truth is malleable. I was going to do a little more work and then head home.”
I’m not sure why I share this, except I want to share everything with her.
“Ah.”
“What about you?” I ask. “What are you working on?”
She waves a hand. The gesture is alluring with an air of forced casualness. Or I could be overanalyzing everything she does since it all fascinates me.
“Just boring admin stuff to keep the company afloat… no offense.”
I almost laugh at her sarcastic tone. There’s nothing mean in it. It’s a tone I can imagine bringing smiles to our children’s faces—a tone she’d use when saying something like,“Well, if you don’t eat your dinner, you’re going to make Mommyveryupset.”
“My real passion is…”
“What?” I ask when she stops speaking.
She shrugs.
“You can tell me,” I say, then scramble for a reason. “I take an interest in all my employees’ side projects.”
There’s a reasonable explanation for my interest. The truth is, I’ve been too busy with the deal to think about anything else, but the excitement in my woman’s eyes is enough to get me listening. Again, I fight those thoughts. Notmy woman. Slowing down is probably a good idea.
“I’ve got a small blog,” she says, “for my journalism stuff. That’s all.”
“That’s not nothing,” I say, voice fierce.
I can’t let her put down her dreams. The effort she puts into her passion isn’t insignificant. The deranged urge comes to me to tell her I’m proud, which would be insane.
“I’m proud of the enthusiasm in your voice,”I could say.“It’s the same enthusiasm we’ll both have on our wedding day, and when we bring our first child into a loving home…”
I keep my expression as neutral as possible. That’s despite the war raging in my chest, my heartbeat turned to pounding drums, and my balls aching in my underwear… which suddenly feel too tight.
It’s like my desire is trying to escape. My hands would own my woman’s legs, her ass, and her moans.
“That’s how I started,” I go on. “Small publications, chasing the truth. I never planned on all this. What was your latest story, Michaela?”
She flinches when I say her name. It’s probably my tone of voice. Some people have resting bitch—or prick—face. Others, like me, have resting jerk voice.
“I helped bust a dog-theft operation,” she says.
I don’t shock easily, but this throws me off-balance.
She steps a little closer, bringing her scent with her—perfume, shampoo, and beneath it all, the intoxicating scent of my woman.
“Did you expect me to say I covered a local bake sale or something? I want to be a serious journalist one day.”
