Page 92 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
“Got you,” James murmured, and I believed him in every sense of the word.
He took me through into the bathroom, flipping on the light with his elbow and nudging the glass shower door open with his foot. Steam began to curl into the air as heturned the water on, testing it with his hand until it was warm—just shy of hot.
He stepped into the wide marble shower, keeping me close to his chest as the water cascaded down his back.
Slowly, he set me down onto the built-in bench and crouched in front of me. He reached for a bottle of body wash, pouring a little into his palm, then lathered it into a gentle foam before he began to cleanse me. His hands moved gently, no teasing, no rush. Just long, slow strokes down my arms, legs, and over my shoulders.
He paused now and then to kiss my damp skin, to meet my eyes with a burning desire. When he leaned in and kissed my mouth—soft and steady, water strickling down our faces—it felt more like a promise than a kiss. One that I didn’t know the words to yet, but I could feel the meaning of it all the way down to my bones.
He pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against mine, and the water flowed around us.
Whatever promise he was making me, in that moment, I knew he was going to keep it.
“If I ever make my own blog with Roxie, I am going to have a ‘Food James Makes Me’ section. Just so I can review your food because, dear Lord. I don’t know how you do it.” I groaned as I took another bite of the Italian sub sandwich James had made me after our shower.
“Why don’t you do it?” he asked me as he reached over to steal a chip from me.
“Hey!” I swatted at his hand. “Get your own.”
“I ate mine,” he replied around a mouthful of food.
“Then go get more.”
James stood up to go grab the rest of the chips still on the kitchen counter. “Why don’t you do it?” he asked again, as he made his way back to me.
“Do what?”
“Start your own blog, your own company,” James offered. “Why not do it?”
“Honestly,” I told him, “I’ve been asking myself the same question in recent weeks. I’ve been going back and forth on it. I leaned that way recently. But with this week’s turn of events and Anthea’s offer for me to write the piece on The Social Eatery, I think it would be stupid if I don’t see the opportunity through.”
James tilted his head from side to side. “Maybe. But maybe you should consider that you were nothing but upfront with your wants and desires with Anthea. You entered this entire agreement in good faith, yet she’s gone back on that good faith by potentially taking that away from you.”
The air hung heavy as James’s words sunk in.
“If one door closes, another one opens.” James leaned over to flick the tip of my nose. But not before he snagged another chip off my plate despite the open bag he now had.
“Hey!” I grabbed for the chip bag, but James held it out of my reach.
“Not until you finish your article. You still have to write about how amazing Mr. Old Fashioned is and how he brought you home to his family.”
This time, I grabbed the closest pillow to me and sent it flying in his direction.
He batted it away with ease, a smug look on his face.“Does this make us likeThe Bachelor? Did we just do a hometown date?”
“You’re really full of it tonight, aren’t you.” I moved to straddle him, chips and sandwich forgotten. But he only pushed me back into my spot on the couch before placing my computer in my lap.
“No. No touchy until you’re done.” James reached over to my discarded plate to steal another chip.
“You really have to stop doing that.”
I rolled my eyes at him but followed his direction. The words flowed out of me faster than nearly any other article I’d written for “Love on Wall Street”. Between the food, the company, and the patriarch of the Rossi family, I had more than enough to work with. I described a family-owned restaurant built on the foundation of the American Dream. Hardworking folks that had a gift for flavors and creating a memorable evening. It was exactly what James had described—the perfect place for tourists to have a true New York City experience.
This article, paired with the blog post that Roxie and I would do, would provide enough press to spark some fresh interest in the pizzeria. By the time James finished his sandwich—and mine—I was ready to send the piece off to Anthea, feeling proud for the first time of one of these Wall Street articles. I let her know how sentimental this article was. How great the evening was. How amazing Mr. Old Fashioned’s family was. I even added for her benefit—I told myself, at least—that this felt like a serious step in our relationship. A meaningful one.
My finger hesitated over the mousepad, daring myself to back out now. To keep this one to myself and tellAnthea I’d changed my mind. Maybe the Hallie from a few months ago would have caved under the pressure, but I was just beginning to learn about this newme. Someone that wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted. I was teetering on the precipice of before and after. Before I became a food critic andafter. My finger pressed down into my mousepad, and I watched my email to Anthea disappear into the ether. Some of the weight I’d been carrying since the moment I realized I had no clue where to start for this series lifted off my chest, flying away with the email. All I needed was to get out of my head and without James, I’m not sure I would have achieved that in time. Maybe eventually, but I would have let that insidious voice in my mind win. It was too easy to fall victim to its words. Or let it steal all of mine.
But not this time.
