Page 52 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

His smirk turns into my favorite smile. The one that reminds me of a jungle cat stretching out in a patch of sunlight. “The other one is not for the weak of spirit. It’s brutally honest and doesn’t pull any punches.”

“That one,” I say without hesitation. “I’m no wimp.” My smile is just for him.

And something about it seems to snap Jackson into an awareness he hasn’t had until this very moment. His eyes now drop to my body with a leisurely perusal that has chills blooming across my skin. His jaw flexes and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “God, woman. How many of these outfits do you own?”

About time you noticed.Except, no. I don’t want him to notice. Do I? Ugh, I’m all conflicted and inside out. He’s my nemesis—but also…my closest friend? Neither of those titles, however, lends itself to a casual quickie to relieve tension. The struggle, I realize, is that he is wildly attractive. Even when I hated his guts, I knew he would look incredible naked. And now that there’s an emotional vulnerability to this dynamic—which does not come easily for me, I might add—it’s throwing gasoline on the fire.

I resist the urge to cover myself like I’ve done something wrong. “This is my house, I’ll remind you. And you didn’t knock. Seeing more of my skin than you’d like is the consequence of your actions.”

His mouth tilts. “Who said anything about me not wanting to see your skin?”

And now I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?

Jack and I have always been equally matched in all ways, but secretly deep down, I’ve known there’s one area where he would easily outpace me. Jack exudes sensuality. And I’ve never felt overly confident in that department. I mean, I’m not terrible by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve never considered myself as overachieving in it either.

I clear my throat and pull the manuscript from his hands. “Let’s see what kind of remarkable insight you’ve given me,” I say sarcastically, because I can’t actually let him see how eager I am to read his thoughts. It’ll go straight to his pretty head.

I pad to my breakfast nook, coffee in one hand, manuscript in the other, and set them both on the table. I feel Jack following behind me. I pull the chair out, sit, and begin flipping through. There’s a lot of ink on this page from his pen. And though I should probably be nervous, I can’t help but smile at his handwriting. It’s meticulous. It’s clear he’s used a ruler when underlining certain parts. There are also tabs marking the sections with his notes, and at first glance they appear to be color coded.

The first few notes, I agree with immediately.

Pacing issues.

This passage could be moved up.

Dig deeper here? What is she really feeling in this scene?

This line doesn’t make sense.

He wasn’t lying—these notes are brutally honest. And I’m grateful for it because it makes the sections where he’s highlighted and addedI love thisfeel all the more honest and important. Like little hugs.

I pause when I get to the only chapter with no notes.

“Why didn’t you critique the intimacy scene?”Intimacy scenefeels like the mature and professional way to refer to the chapter in question. Like when you go to the gynecologist, and you talk aboutyourbreastseven though you never say that word in your life because why would you whenboobsis sitting right there.

I slowly turn in my chair to find Jack leaning his shoulder against the kitchen entryway, arms folded, ankles crossed. He’s got a little frown behind his glasses. How is it possible for him to look so damn attractive with his shirt on backward? “I didn’t know if you’d want me to. Didn’t seem right without permission.”

I’m used to confrontation from him. These other C-words, though—consideration and consent—turn my heart into an overripe avocado. So mushy my thumb would go right through the skin. What a terrible thing.

“You have my permission now. Tell me what’s bad about my intimacy scene.”

Chapter Sixteen

Emily

For possibly the first time in the history of knowing Jack, he looks unsure. Nervous. “I don’t think so.”

“Why? You critiqued every other chapter just fine.”

His gaze is so connected to mine you could zip-line on it. “This is different.”

“How is it different? I write romance—the sex is an important part of it. I want to make sure it’s up to par too.” I shouldn’t push this. I feel the edge of something at the tip of my toes and I shouldn’t take another step. But I do. “Unless you don’t think your skills are good enough in that arena to be of any real help to me.”

He pushes off the wall, smiling quietly. “I’ve never been baited so much in my life.” He pulls a chair out and takes it. “Fine. You really want me to say what I think? Here we go. First, it lacks emotional depth. The rest of your book is packed full of feelings, but when we get to your sex scene, it’s basically just graphic words for what’s happening. It gives the impression that your main character, Kate, is moving through the motions but not actually feeling anything.”

Oh god. What have I done?

He continues, back in work mode—completely oblivious to the fact that my breathing is shallow. “Next, she does all the work. For instance, this part…” He’s pointing to specific sentences like he’s pointing out solar systems on a map of the galaxy.And here is where the heroine straddles him. And if you look over here, you’ll find his bonus hand job.“The entire scene just feels one-sided to me. Like he’s on the receiving end of all the pleasure and Kate’s working her ass off to make it great for him. But then…” He pauses and shakes his head in near disbelief. “It’s just over.”

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