Page 51 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug. “I did a thousand words this morning. I don’t know if I can handle any more right now. It’s slow going at the moment.”

“Huh,” I say slowly. “Is writing always like that? Or is it usually easier?”

“Uh,” he says, his eyes fixing suddenly on his ice cream instead of looking at me. “It’s not always this bad. I’m struggling with this book.”

“Are you?” I say, surprised. I wondered how it was going, since he mentioned the other night that his current draft was trash, but this is the first time he’s said anything else.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice heavy. “I’m in my head too much. It’s hard when you’ve written both a bestseller and then a complete flop. I keep worrying that I’ll never do anything better than the bestseller while also worrying that people now expect more flops.”

“Oof,” I say, and I wince. “I hadn’t thought of that. That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“It is,” he says dryly. “And while some readers are complimentary, some are not. People can get pretty mean about books they don’t like.”

“Did your second book do okay? If you don’t mind me asking,” I add. The second one is my favorite, personally, but to each their own.

“Preorders were high, but the overall public opinion is that the book is not good,” he says. “And I’m contracted for three books, which means I reallyhaveto write this one. I don’t know how I’m going to meet my deadline, especially because it’s going so poorly. But I’m meeting with a critique group on Monday.” He finally looks at me again. “Maybe some outside feedback will help.”

“I’m sure it will,” I say. It’s a stupid thing to say; how can I be sure? I can’t. But I want him to feel better.

We continue to eat in silence, listening to the sounds of the day—the chatter of people around us and the chirping of birds, the faintwhooshof the breeze. I find my eyes returning to Soren more and more as he eats. He seems more relaxed now that we’re not talking about his writing anymore, which makes me happy.

I continue to watch him, trying not to smile, but finally I shake my head.

“You’re getting ice cream all over your face,” I say, passing him a napkin. I point at his chin. “It’s in your beard.”

“Oh,” he says, and I’m surprised to see a pinkish tinge appear in his cheeks. He wipes his beard and then continues eating.

I laugh—it feels amazing to laugh—and then point at his mouth. “It’s still getting everywhere.”

Soren’s lips twitch. “So critical. Get it off, then.”

“You get it off,” I say, tossing another napkin at him.

But he gives a little shake of his head and licks his ice cream cone again. “It doesn’t bother me.” His eyes sparkle as he looks at me, even while he continues to eat. “Feel free to get it yourself.”

I bite back my smile. I know what he’s doing. He’s teasing me, needling me—maybe even flirting. It’s not just him, either; my mind is teasing me, too. Because instead of imagining wiping his face with a napkin, a different image pops into my brain: leaning closer andlickingthe ice cream off his lips. My heart stutters at the thought, and—

“Yes,” Soren says, pulling me out of my wildly inappropriate daydream. His voice is hoarse, and when my gaze meets his, my heart stutters again, this time accompanied by a strange flip-flop sensation in my stomach.

His eyes aresearing.They’re burning like the sun itself, so vividly blue, so full of raw hunger that I can barely breathe.

“What?” I whisper.

“Yes,” he repeats. “Whatever you’re thinking of right now—do it.”

My eyebrows climb so high that the cut on my head gives a twinge of pain. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, my voice breathless.

He leans closer. “Liar,” he says. Then, with a challenge in his gaze, he repeats, “Do it.”

And I don’t know what comes over me. I truly don’t. I have no explanation, no excuse. I set my ice cream cone down on my napkin, place my hands on the sides of his face, and lean forward until we’re so close that our noses are almost touching.

For a second I breathe him in—caramel breath, warm skin under my fingers, rough beard edging my palm.

Electric eyes, long lashes, and a heady, intoxicating warmth rising in my chest.

Then—for reasons known only to the Good Lord, I might add—I close the distance between us and lick the ice cream from his lips.

First from the corner of his mouth with the flick of my tongue; then from his lower lip with a slow sweep.

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