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He opens the door at the top of the stairs and I almost laugh. It’s actually the living room equivalent of his offices. But warmer. Lovely. Elegant, clean, bright. Scandinavian with sleek lines and white leather and chrome. He offers to take my coat, and I unwrap the scarf without causing any obvious hair-static damage. He gestures to the couch, which looks so welcoming.
He kicks off his shoes at the door, and I do, too. I walk over to the couch and pick up a beautiful linen-covered pillow in desert browns. Pulling it to my chest, I sit down and hug it, needing something to do with my hands, because suddenly it occurs to me that I’m in Grayson Mercer’s apartment and I can’t remember how normal people do dating.
Am I supposed to sit right beside him? Should I not have tucked my feet up under me? I mean, what would my mom say if she saw me with my feet on a man’s couch? (That’s a rhetorical question. I promise, I know perfectly well what she’d say. And she wouldn’t sound amused.)
He sits, not super close, but not all the way in the other corner. I don’t want to look like I’m staring at him, so I stare at the glass and metal coffee table in front of us. It’s covered in snacks. A huge bowl of popcorn, two different kinds of chips—also in bowls because he’s a classy guy, and the platter of cheese.
I must make some kind of amused sound, because he nudges me and says, “What?” He’s smiling, so I decide to tell him what I’m really thinking.
“Are you a designer in secret? Is doctoring just a hobby for you?”
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
I gesture to the room. The throw blanket. The table. The perfect charcuterie display. He shrugs.
I squint up my eyes, pretending to sleuth something out, but really, it’s just an excuse to look at him some more. “You didn’t say no, so I’m guessing that’s a big yes.”
He shifts over a little closer to me.
“I’m not a designer. I have a brilliant sister who directs my decorating decisions, and I found the cheese board tutorial on Pinterest.”
No way. He could not possibly be any more perfect.
“Well, you can tell your sister and the original poster of the cheeses that you all make a very good team.”
He shifts again and pulls out his phone. “Will you tell her?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’m not calling your sister.”
He laughs. “You don’t have to say anything to anyone. Just give me a thumbs up or some other sign of approval.”
I hold up both my thumbs in an exaggerated, elbow-splayed gesture ofyes.
He takes a shot and then another. I relax out of the crazy pose and smile at him. He keeps taking pictures.
“What are you doing?” I ask him. “I mean, I know what you’re doing. But why?”
He takes two more shots before he lowers the phone and says, “I want to remember this.”
“But nothing’s happening yet,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Not true. You’re laughing and smiling. You just tucked some of that amazing hair behind your ear. You made yourself comfortable in my home, and that’s definitely not nothing.” He puts a single finger at the edge of my knee, just there at the outer seam of my jeans.
“Wow,” I whisper. “You’re very good at this.”
He leans a bit closer. “You make it easy.”
“Literally no one has ever accused me of making anything easy in the whole history of my life,” I tell him.
His voice is a husky whisper, much different than his professional tone. “Maybe they’re expecting something different, because you’re definitely making it easy for me to fall for you.”
Am I sitting on Grayson Mercer’s couch with my mouth open in dumb surprise? Yes. Yes, I am. I do the little adjustments to make my astonishment look more like a mature woman’s pleased expression and lean a little closer. Can I just do this? Move in? Kiss Dr. Mercer?
No way to know until I try.
I lift my chin, and his eyes get wider. He’s definitely not protesting. I put my hand to his face, my fingers tracing his extraordinary jawline. “Would you be opposed to a little pre-film experiment?” I ask.
“What’s the hypothesis?” he asks, his own hand covering mine.
