Page 27 of Love is an Open Book
He leans against the desk. “I was already almost back when you texted. You were lost in your work, huh?” He motions to the website. “Makes sense.”
I give him a little shove. Regret it the instant my fingers connect with his thigh, his muscles hard beneath the thin fabric of his shorts. “Iwaswriting, actually. I didn’t even hear you go.”
“Didn’t want to interrupt but I texted the heads-up since I know you keep your phone on silent. Wouldn’t want you accusing me of clocking out early without notifying management.” His grin is infectious, with no sign of the earlier intensity, and I should be happy we’re back to normal.Amhappy. Of course I am.
“They’ve been breathing down my neck.” With a surreptitious glance over my shoulder, I drop my voice into a stage whisper. “Something about visiting NSFW sites while logged into the company Wi-Fi.”
He shakes his head. “Overlords.” He takes a glug of my coffee, and I commandeer it before he drinks it all.
“Did you finish up your designs?”
“Got to a good stopping point, and I couldn’t do another minute in that sorry excuse for a chair. Let me try yours.”
“It’s the same model.” I’ve tried out a lot of desk chairs over the years and finally settled on a gaming chair. Between that and my ergonomic keyboard and vertical mouse, I’m able to battle the joint pain brought on by long hours of typing.
He makes a shooing motion, and I give in. It’d be good to stretch my legs anyway. But he yelps when he plops down, back arching like he’s been stung. “Shit, this one feels even worse somehow. No wonder you haven’t been getting anything done.”
“It’s not the chair, it’s the story.”
“Fifty-fifty.” He uses my mouse to open a new tab in the browser window.
“Dig into a writer’s search history and the results are on you.”
“Don’t tease me with a good time.”
This man. I hold back a smile, barely. “Why are you so nosy?”
“Says the woman who eavesdrops on conversations and uses them as inspiration.”
“That happened once.” The corner of his mouth hitches, and I cave in a heartbeat. “Twice, whatever.”
“Not that you need to borrow from real life.” He lifts the candle on my desk to his nose and breathes in, chest rising. “You’re always coming up with new plots.”
Imagination has never been my problem. “It’s not the lack of ideas that’s tripping me up, it’s the heart of the story.” I bite into the quiche and my stomach rumbles in response. Didn’t even realize I was hungry until now. “I don’t know why I can’t convince myself these characters would take the leap into something more.”
No push seems strong enough to overcome the risk of losing their friendship. That’s why faking it is so appealing. They can end the scene they’re acting out and go back to the same low-stakes friendship.
Instead of answering, Gavin typesleapinto the search bar, as if that will help.
“Problem solved,” I say, sarcasm less effective with a mouthful of buttery crust.
Ignoring me, he clicks on a video of bungee jumping. “What about this? We take a literal leap to inspire your characters’ metaphorical one?”
I don’t bother to answer. I don’t mind heights; I do mind trusting my life to a glorified rubber band.
He swings toward me, his legs brushing mine through my linen pants. A meaningless touch I normally wouldn’t notice. But all this talk of sparks and chemistry has me wanting him to do it again, deliberately this time. To see if his touch would have the same effect as his words.
But he’s chattering away like nothing’s changed. “...The thrill pushes them to live life without regrets.”
“Bungee jumping would be the regret. If I lived that long.”
He grins, a flash of white teeth. “You’re not making this easy on me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you were writing the book.” The wordscome out snippy, though it’s myself I’m frustrated with, and his smile dims.
“Sorry. I’m not doing this right—”
Does he really think he’s the problem? “Gavin, it’s got nothing to do with you. I’m supposed to be taking a break from writing, but I came up with a work-around just to try to hit my word count. You gave up your day off for this, and I know you’d rather be fiddling around in the garden than pretending to flirt with me.”
