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I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, my own hand resting over Luke’s.
* * *
The next morning,I wake up starving, relaxed, and a little sore. It takes a second to remember why.
I blush, thinking about the things I confessed to Luke last night.
Then I smile, thinking about how obviously those whispered fantasies turned him on.
Next to me, Luke lets out a loud snore. He sounds like a bear hibernating.
I resist the urge to giggle as I slip out of bed. I don’t really feel like getting dressed in yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt, so I borrow Luke’s bathrobe instead.
It’s too big on me, almost sweeping the floor dramatically as I head to the kitchen to start coffee and wolf down one of the pastries Luke’s chef leaves for us.
I feel relaxed, recharged...I feel like writing.
On impulse, I go get my laptop and then sit down at the kitchen island.
Trying to work on my next novel feels too daunting.
Instead, I open the files for Luke’s book. I’ve written tons of bits and pieces since we started. Now, for the first time, I start trying to thread them together. I flesh out some scenes and cut others.
Since I’m writingforLuke, in his voice, I can’t come out and say, “Luke Dewinter is a complicated, fascinating man.” Instead, I show it through the stories I choose. The way I juxtapose one scene with another, so that the reader can’t help but read through the lines and see how amazing he is, even if he tries to hide it from people.
I’ve also got an idea I’ve been toying with—starting every chapter with a quote from someone else about Luke.
I want the first one to be from a newspaper article, commenting on the public, asshole playboy persona he shows to the world. Then I’ll use the first chapter to flip that quote on its head, show once and for all how wrong that line of thinking is...
My fingers fly as I work. The coffee goes cold in the mug next to me. I finish the pastry, wolf down another, then go back to typing.
“There she is,” Luke says from behind me. “The bathrobe thief.”
I start. “I didn't realize you were there...” I trail off as I realize he’s wearing nothing but low-slung pajama pants.
Luke absently scratches his stomach, and I briefly lose my train of thought.
How is it possible I feel evenmorehorny after everything we did last night?
“What are you working on?” he asks. “Is that your book?”
“Oh. No. It’s yours. I mean ours,” I correct.
Is it my imagination, or does he stiffen slightly?
“Actually,” I say on impulse, “I think I’m ready to show you the first chapter. If you want to read it and give me some feedback.”
“You don’t have to...I mean, I’ve got to head into work...” He trails off as I turn the laptop and slide it across the kitchen island to him.
Luke looks down at my laptop like it might jump up and bite him. Then he looks up at my nervous, hopeful expression.
He sighs and sits down. “Fine.”
As he reads, I pour him a cup of coffee. Then I putter around the kitchen, loading the dishes we left in the sink yesterday. Wiping the area where I was sitting free of pastry crumbs.
Every now and then I sneak glimpses at Luke. But I can’t tell what’s going on in his head.
My stomach is a mess of knots.
