Page 51 of What I'm Looking For

Speaking of cousins, I could write a not-so-feminist fairy tale involving the wedding of a different cousin. In it, Will’s smile creates a force field around us that repels all nosy relatives. With him at my side, the looks I catch are envious rather than piteous. The two of us wow the crowd as he twirls and dips me on the dance floor. Even as the daydream plays out, my frontal lobe keeps the idea firmly in the long-shot column. I just met the guy. Even thinking about inviting him to a family gathering is ridiculous.

My fingers are getting twitchy. Also my toes.

Will’s still asleep.

I squeeze my eyes closed. Breathe in and out.

Still not tired.

Why can’t I enjoy just lying here next to him? I mean, it’s not earnings season, where every waking moment is spent analyzing quarterly reports, so it’s possible to take a weekend off. Might there be a benefit to focusing on something other than the market for a change? Kind of like a spring cleaning for the brain? Perhaps a balance sheet exists where I enjoy a two-person sex life along with my workload. That might be more fun than living vicariously through Alice all the time.

Even if my brain would shut down, however, something’s digging into my hip and keeping me from relaxing fully. Moving carefully, so as not to wake Will or the cat, I slide my hand under the sheets. Having excavated a foil wrapper, I have to stifle a giggle. I remember Will suggesting that we need to write a letter praising the work of the manufacturer of the Choco Mint A-Go-Go flavored lubricant. I’m wiggling again just thinking about it.

That’s it. I can’t lie still anymore. Moving as smoothly as I can, I ease away from Will’s heat.

A possessive palm grips my hip and hauls my butt back in. Fingers lightly stroke the skin of my belly, and instantly I’m swimming in a heady hormonal cocktail.

Facing him, I run a hand over his chest, my fingers exploring the many textures. Smooth skin, hard muscle and just the right sprinkling of curls.

He rolls to his back, yawning and stretching under my hand. His movement wakes Frankie, who yowls before jumping off the bed. Will grabs my roving hand, kisses my knuckles and then my nose. “What time is it?” he asks over a second yawn.

I twist to check the clock on the bedside table. “One thirty. Wow.” I flutter my eyelashes. “Where did the time go?”

“Man. I gotta get some work done.” He kisses my hand again, but quickly releases it to sit up and scrub his hands over his face.

I pull the sheet up to my armpits. “Yeah, I should probably get to work too.” If only I was a good enough actress to cover my disappointment.

His yummy lips form a pout. “Really? I was hoping you’d help me.”

“Uh, I don’t how I can. But sure, I’ll try.”

“Great! I’ll be back in a sec.” He hops out of bed and disappears into the other room for a few moments. When he crawls back into bed, I can’t help but respond to his kiss.

Too soon, he pulls back. “Work first, play later.” He dangles a paperback in front of my nose. “Well,thisplay now, play with you later. I promise.”

I sigh dramatically. “All right.” I accept the slim book. “All’s Well That Ends Well. This is the play you’re doing now?”

“Yeah.” He rolls onto his back. “I have to be off book by tomorrow.”

“Off book?” I flip through the pages.

“It means I have to know all my lines.” He walks a hand across my chest. “So, will you help me?”

“Not if you don’t stop distracting me.” I grab a shirt from the floor, which just happens to be his. When I wriggle into it, his woodsy-lemony scent envelops me. “Okay, what do I do?”

“Let me find a scene I really need to work on.” He takes the book back and flips to a page. “Can you test me?”

There are a lot of little penciled-in notes, including arrows and swoopy lines. “What’s all the writing in the margins about?”

He lies back against the pillows, muscular arms folded behind tousled curls, legs casually crossed. “That’s just stage directions and some notes to myself. You can ignore those.” He truly is an ideal specimen of manhood: muscles not too lean, not too bulky. His abs ridged, but not freakishly cut.

I flip the sheet to cover him. “I can’t focus with you on display like that.”

He sighs. “It’s hard being such a sex god.”

I try to poke him in the side, but he scoots away. I give him a stern look. “Alright, let’s get to work.” I scan the text. “I guess you’re Bertram?”

“Yep, and you read Diana. Ready?” He catches my nod before beginning. “‘They told me that your name was Fontibell.’”

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