Page 108 of Book Boyfriends
Is this why I can’t move forward?Eyes closed, I play the scene in my head. Their tease-filled exchange leading Patrick to help the romantically challenged Elsie woo her soccer player. That’s where I stop every time, because this isn’t supposed to be aCyrano de Bergeracretelling.
“But what if it is?” Mischief lifts the corners of my mouth into a large grin.
That’s exactly what I’m doing, being mischievous. The ending could still work, but what if it’s not Logan, the team’s star, but Patrick, the goofy but adorable mascot?
My eyes snap open. As if they have a mind of their own, my fingers fly over the little keyboard on my phone. The stream of consciousness flows out of me. Later, once I have time to sit on my laptop, I’ll fix the many, many grammar, spelling, and word flow issues. Right now, I’m just listening to the story. For the first time in months, giddy excitement pulses through me as I write. Though I know I’ll regret this tiny screen when a migraine comes, but this is too good to let go.
“God, you’re beautiful.” Davis’s hoarse voice pulls my attention.
He leans against the entry to the living room. His hair is sleep-mussed, and a lazy smile flexes at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you.” I bite my lower lip.
His brow dips. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Yup… And I’m not complaining.”
“Good.” He saunters over to me. “I plan to say it a lot.” He nestles beside me and tucks me into his chest.
“Excellent plan.” I relax into him. “As long as you’re okay with me telling you how dreamy you are.”
“Not dreamy enough to keep you in bed with me.” Nuzzling his nose in my hair, he loops his arms around my middle.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nah. I usually get up at eight on the weekends to work out.”
“Eight?” I blink. “I didn’t realize I’ve been working that long.”
“Are you writing on your phone?”
“Yeah. I pulled up the soccer romance idea I told you about last night and have been allowing the story to speak to me. I must have lost track of time.”
“That’s great, Peach.” He squeezes me. “I’m sorry I interrupted your flow.”
“This is the best interruption.” I tip my head up and offer a sweet smile.
He smiles back. “Proposal.”
I arch one eyebrow. “Last night was fantastic sex, but not ‘run off to Vegas after our second date’ good.”
“Snarky comments like that remind me that you and Jackson are related.” He chuckles with an eye roll. “Since I know you write most weekend mornings and it’s been a while since you’ve had the flow, why don’t you borrow my computer. I’ll hit the gym downstairs for an hour, and then after, we can do breakfast before I take you home.”
“I wouldn’t want to?—”
“Let me work out, keeping my weekend regimen, while you write and keep yours? If these sleepovers become a regular thing, which, frankly, I hope they do, we need to integrate each other into our lives. Might as well start now.”
Yet another factoid about Davis for my collection. Not the part about waking up by eight on the weekends to work out, but that he wants more of this. More of me.
Sitting up, I shift to face him. “Show me your computer.”
An hour later, I lean back in his desk chair, my arms high overhead in a long stretch, and soak in the happiness washing over me with the thousand words added to my manuscript this morning. With a pleased, self-satisfied smile, I save my work on my online drive and send a backup to my email. Too many horror stories of authors losing ninety-thousand-word manuscripts reinforce the need to back up my backups of my writing. Pushing away from his desk, I shuffle down from the little alcove between the bedrooms toward the kitchen. Both the grumble in my stomach and the knowledge that Davis will be back soon, has me in search of food.
He’d said we’d have breakfast after our morning routines were wrapped up. Not sure if he meant to go out or eat here. No doubt, he’ll be hungry after his workout, so it would be nice to surprise him with food.
Opening the fridge, I peruse the contents, locating veggies, cheese, and eggs for omelets and some raspberries and blueberries for a side. My mouth drags down with his already unsealed butter container, indicating it’s been used. Since I can’t verify that it hasn’t come into contact with gluten, I may just make Davis an omelet and snack on some of the chopped veggies and the berries.
As I’m closing the fridge, an unopened container of butter, next to a still-sealed jar of jam, on the fridge’s door shelf snags my attention. Both are marked with a largePin black Sharpie.
