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“With a hint of cream and three heaping spoonfuls of real sugar.” She counts off her fingers and then glances back at me as if daring me to prove her wrong.
“You reallydopay attention. That’s borderline creepy, you know.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at myself.
Can’t I evernotbe a dick?Why can’t I accept this with a charming smile and a wink? It’s times like these I wish I were a little more like Peter and able to wear my heart on my sleeve.
But Teddie isn’t deterred by my asshole behavior and laughs it off. “Youwould know.” I blink at her, and she rolls her eyes playfully before clarifying. “You know, because you write thrillers and other creepy stuff?”
Afraid I’m going to say something to piss her off—which is highly likely—I just nod in response.
She steps forward and tilts her head to the side. For a moment, I’m both terrified and relieved that it seems like she’s going to kiss me. It’s been less than twelve hours, and I already miss the way her lips feel against mine.
As my eyes slip shut, her hand lands on my chest, and she gives me a gentle press backward into my room. My feet shuffle, and my eyes pop open.
“Go write,” she directs, before pulling her hand away. “We’ll talk later.”
My mouth gapes open and closed like a guppie, but I nod and take my coffee before closing the door. A part of me was hoping she would stop me from putting that barrier between us. But when my door fully shuts, I sigh and resign myself to my fate for the day. It’s what I said I wanted, but it still feels wrong.
I settle into my chair and log into my computer. Again, the words come as easily to me as they did an hour ago and I send a silentthank youto whatever god is in charge of writing and books.
Maybe there’s hope I’ll finish this manuscript on time after all.
8
Teddie
“Yoo-hoo, anyone home?” A familiar voice greets me from the front door.
“I’m in here!” I shout from the kitchen as I squeeze some food coloring into the frosting mix.
Rose saunters in and glares at me as she sits down at the table. “It’s been a lifetime since I’ve seen you, girl. What gives? Is Mr. Big Time Writer keeping youthatbusy?”
My hand stutters and I laugh off her accusation, although it’s the truth.
It’s been three weeks since Nate arrived here and almost one week since we had sex. And we’ve fallen into a routine from that first night. Every morning, I bring him coffee in his navy-blue mug, switching up the creamer to determine his favorites. Then, I let him write for a few hours before knocking on his door for lunch. We always eat together now, out on the lanai. And lately, he insists on doing the dishes after every meal. I’ve tried to tell him it’s literally my job to clean up after my guests, but he brushes me off and snatches up my plate before I can stop him.
In the afternoons, he writes some more, until I drag him from his laptop to eat dinner. I appreciate his work ethic, but authors need to eat too. Then, after dinner, we sit on the couch with my daily batch of fresh cookies and enjoy the glow of the Christmas tree still decorated with miniature books for National Authors Day. We never snuggle like I so desperately want to, but we’re usually close enough that his thigh presses against mine and he teases me with innocent touches. It’s torturously chaste, and I both love and hate it.
Every night, we talk about his book. He reads me passages and we brainstorm subplots while munching on cookies—sugar cookies are his favorite, so I make them often. He even asks me my opinion on certain aspects of his work. He’s a brilliant writer, and I’m honored he cares what I think.
Usually, I agree with the direction he’s going for the plot or his characters, but occasionally I offer a different perspective. He never gets offended or defensive, which honestly surprises me. He just gives me an appreciative smile, making the butterflies in my belly flutter more with each passing day.
We don’t have sex every night but we can’t deny the attraction that’s constantly simmering between us. Some nights, he’s focused on his writing and I don’t want to distract him. But I can’t say it doesn’t hurt a little to sleep without him now that I know how it feels to spend the night in his arms. So, on those nights, I end up shoving my hand down my panties, remembering how hot it was watching his face as he came inside me. I’ll never forget that as long as I live.
But I try to push all those thoughts aside and focus on Rose in front of me.
She impatiently taps her finger on the table. “Well?”
“Well, what?” I press a hand to my warmed cheeks in an attempt to cool them down. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. What were we talking about?”
Her eyes narrow, then she opens her mouth to reply, but suddenly Nate joins us in the kitchen. I can’t stop my instant smile, but I notice the suspicious look Rose gives me before turning her attention to my guest.
“Nate, you remember Rose, right?” I keep my tone light, hoping Rose will do the same in spite of our previous interaction.
“Mr. Author only cares about his book. I doubt he remembers a feeble ol’ lady like me,” she grumbles, turning her nose up. She apparently did not pick up my hint.
Nate doesn’t take the bait and, instead, he just smiles and nods at her. “Of course, I remember. Nice to see you again, Rose.”
She mutters something under her breath, but Nate and I ignore it. Turning toward him, I ask, “Do you need something?”
