Page 38 of Rivals to Lovers
Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “I think this is a mutual-admiration society. Or at least that’s how I see it. For books, that is. I really like hearing yours.”
“Like an old-school literary salon,” she said, standing again. The jumpsuit shifted, pressing against her hips. He watched her move as she walked into the kitchen. Observation was an important skill in a writer. “Wineglasses and corkscrew in here?”
“Yes,” Wes called. When she didn’t immediately return, he roused himself and followed. He found her standing in front of the open fridge.
She wheeled around, wine bottle in one hand and a block of cheese in the other. It was a three-year aged cheddar he’d bought a few days ago. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “If you didn’t have plans for this, it would pair really well.”
“I mean, I was going to shred it for a casserole,” he said, straight faced.
And then she threw the block of cheese at him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mo
Once Wes and Mo got settled on the couch—wine poured and cheese sliced thinly with one of those wire cheese cutters—they started reading from the chapters of their books, alternating back and forth. Mo liked the way he edged to the other side of the couch and watched while she read, not interrupting until she’d gotten to the end of a chapter. She was less patient, interrupting him to ask where he’d drawn material from and trying to peer into his brain, the brain under the curling brown hair he had that she knew from experience was fun to comb through with her fingers.
Was it surreal to sit across the couch from someone she’d had very good orgasms with and not be touching them? Yes. But after the weirdness of how things ended on Sunday, it was a relief to pretend it had never happened. Almost. Still, he didn’t kiss her cheek when she got to his house. Even in the kitchen, after she threw the cheese—notathis head, as he had accusingly stated, butnearhis head—he hadn’t touched her. No playful shoving.
It wasn’t like the electricity was gone between them, but something was off. She hadn’t gone over to his place with any unstated hope that they would pick back up where they left off Saturday night. Or maybe she had hoped that but was adult enough to understand that flings happened. Normal people could be friends afterward. It just hadn’t happened to her yet, this fling-then-friend thing that she guessed they were walking into. Or, more accurately, this LinkedIn-connection-then-rival-fling-now-friend thing.
She finally allowed him to finish his second chapter, and he refilled her wineglass. As she nibbled on the cheese, she held a hand below her chin to catch the crumbs. “I do have plates,” he said, looking amused. “As long as you promise not to throw those at me too.”
She reached out, intending to wiggle her cheesy fingers in his direction, but he caught her hand in his and held her palm up for inspection.
“What?” she asked.
He wiped her palm, then smiled and released it. “Getting the crumbs off.”
“I thought you were going to lick them off or something.” She meant the tone to be joking, but her breath caught when she imagined his perfect tongue and what it had done between her thighs.
He lay the manuscript down on the table and inched closer on the couch. His gaze tracked her expression. “You’re a good distraction, you know that? And I am not easily distracted.”
His tone, almost sad, surprised her. A glass of wine in, stomach buffered comfortably with good cheddar and thirty pages further in his book, Mo felt happier than she had beenan hour ago. But he didn’t look similarly content. “What do you need distracting from?”
He lay his head back and rubbed his chin gently. She tried not to remember how nice that scruff had felt scraping against her belly as he kissed down her body. He must use oil to keep it soft. No, she would focus on the moment, on this man who obviously had something on his mind. After a second, he said, “My parents are splitting up.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“No, I know. Is that what your mom was talking to you about this weekend?” Mo felt even worse for tagging along to what had probably become an intense family moment.
“Sort of. She told me they were separating, but I guess they are filing for divorce. Ulla: queen of the understatement. She said, meeting Beyoncéin the late nineties, that she thought she would ‘do well for herself.’ ”
Mo laughed at that. “She wasn’t wrong.”
He refilled the wineglasses, then took a sip. “I know it’s dumb to think this has anything to do with me. I don’t live at home, and it’s not like I won’t see them. Ultimately, they’re adults and they have to live their own lives, not the life I wish they could live.”
“Which would have them stay together?” she asked.
“Right, which would have them stay together. I guess I always found hope in their marriage lasting so long, despite her getting famous and him barely tolerating the limelight. I loved being able to point to them as an example of very different people making a relationship work.”
“Ha, well, my parents are a good example of that, if you still want hope,” Mo said. “My mom was a farm kid–turned–Democratic organizer and fell in love with a construction worker who’d never traveled. They met in high school, dated, then before they settled down and had kids, they went around the world together. I think they’ve brought that love of exploration to everything they’ve done since. Even when it’s owning pigs.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he said.
“They’re going on thirty-eight years. I’ll get to celebrate with them when I go home next weekend for my sister’s wedding shower.”
