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I slide my key into the keyhole of my apartment door, but before I engage the lock, I stop and turn to Clive.
“Okay, before I let you in, there’re a few things you should know.”
“Oh, really?” He tilts his head to the side, but his eyes never leave mine. “Like what? Is your apartment door actually a door to Narnia? Or is your apartment just really, really dirty like that episode of Friends where Ross is dating that woman who has a rat in her bag of chips? I need some direction on whether I should focus on wonderment or excrement.”
“Neither. But there are several rom-coms on my Netflix account and a Janis Joplin CD in the stereo.”
“So, what am I supposed to prepare myself for, then?” he asks, leaning closer to my face and offering up a sexy little smirk. “The sight of a CD?”
“No. You’re going to need to prepare yourself for the rules.”
“The rules?”
“Yes.” I nod. Just one defiant tip of my head. “The rules.”
“Okay,” Clive responds and steps back in a gesture with both hands held out in front of him. “Lay ’em on me, Riv.”
“The only condiment I serve is mustard. Ketchup is for sheep, and mayo is for simps. At least, in my apartment. Feel free to do what you want with your free will otherwise.”
He smiles instead of running straight in the other direction, and my heart kicks up in my chest.
“What else?”
“At this late hour, my TV only knows one channel. It will not be swayed, and it will not be changed, no matter how cute you grin.”
Speaking of cute grins, his gets even bigger. “And what channel will I be subjected to?”
“TV Land, of course. When someone asks who I love, Lucy will always be the answer.”
“Okay, Riv. You’ve definitely got some ’splainin’ to do, but for the sake of getting out of this hallway, I’m going to go with my gut and agree to the rules now.”
I pull myself away from the manuscript at the sound of Brooke’s bedroom door opening, forcing my mind to reenter the real world. It’s not a bad place to be, on a bus with Brooke Baker, but the more I dig into the realm of Clive and River over and over again, the harder it is to remind myself that the flutters in my chest and aches in my cheeks aren’t real. As much as they feel like they should be, Clive Watts and River Rollins aren’t real people.
Convincing myself is especially hard right now, having read this scene with an entirely new context into River’s obsession with mustard. Brooke took that one from herself, like all writers do, but as the reader, with little to no contact with the author, you don’t normally find out.
I put down my pen and pick up my cup of coffee and wait for Brooke to make her way through the tiny hall by the bathroom and into view. It’s not a long walk, but since she’s been in there getting ready for a while now, the wait feels painstakingly prolonged.
When she finally emerges, her soft brown hair is swept behind one ear, secured by a pin, and her eyelashes are lengthened with mascara. The sight of her makes my breath catch in my throat.
Clive and River and Lucy Ricardo are officially a memory.
She’s wearing a burgundy crushed-velvet blazer over the thinnest, silkiest white lace top I’ve ever seen. Trim, black pencil-leg pants finalize the outfit and end at the top of a pair of shiny black heels. She looks classy and gorgeous and…a million other descriptors that a book editor with an above-average vocabulary should certainly be able to think of right now.
“Brooke,” I start, stopping myself just short of spewing a whole monologue about how beautiful she looks that’ll scare her beyond belief.
“What?” she asks, confused by the single use of her name—as she should be. “Do I look weird? I’m trying not to walk like a baby colt on ice, but it’s been a while since I’ve donned a pair of heels.”
“You definitely don’t look weird.” I have to blink to believe she’s real. “You look…well, you look beautiful.”
Brooke’s signature blush climbs into her cheeks at a rapid pace, and she ducks her head to look down at the floor. A smart man who knows his boundaries would have considered the implications of a compliment in a professional setting further, but all I can think is that I’m sorry for saying anything now because it’s robbed me of her dewy green eyes.
Shit, Chase. Get a grip on this…quick.
I try to find another way around my words, but everything else would be a lie. The fact of the matter is that Brooke is beautiful. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Well, thank you,” she eventually responds and lifts her gorgeous eyes back to mine. “But I’m too nervous right now to let your words soak into my brain. I’m not exactly an expert at hair and makeup, and this is my first time on broadcast TV,” she admits with a little frown. “I mean, I don’t even know what they could ask me where the answer isn’t supremely frightening.”
