Page 33 of Catching Kyle
“No. The food was great.”
There’s a pause. “Was it something I said?”
I want to say something, but I can’t just tell him the truth. He’ll just think I’m some insecure, emotional gay. Yet I don’t want to lie either.
“It’s just,” he says beyond the door. “You’re doing me such a huge favor, coming to me on a weekly basis. I told you I could pay you.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say. I want to make my own money.
“See?” he says. “The best way I can repay you is by giving you the most honest feedback. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”
I wrap my hands around my stomach, filled with butterflies.
And there’s the Kyle Weaver that tips me over the edge. Not only is he attractive; he’s kind. If he could pay me for what I’m doing for him, he would. So instead, he’s pouring his heart into understanding a genre that he didn’t even like before. All for me. He’s so unlike David in so many ways.
I rise and approach the door. I take a deep breath, then open it.
Kyle stands just on the other side, his arm propped up on the frame. From here, I can see sweat beginning to stain his armpits, and I’m suddenly aware of what a man Kyle Weaver is. I look up at him, and he’s standing slightly over me, his wide chest broader than my shoulders.
He doesn’t step away. Instead, he comes a little closer. I hold my breath, our noses only an inch apart. Then his wide nose brushes mine, sending chills down my spine. My gaze trails from his chest to his brown eyes, and I just want to fall onto him. Being this close, it’s like all my fantasies are coming true, the anger toward myself a shadow of what it was. We close the distance between our lips, and I close my eyes.
No. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for men who couldn’t love me back.
My eyes shoot open, and I pull away just before our lips touch. Kyle straightens.
He shakes his head. “I—”
“Sorry,” I say, but I try to act like nothing happened.
He winces slightly, hurt. I slip past him and make my way to the couch.
I don’t know what just happened, but I do know this: Kyle Weaver isstraight. He has to be. So, he isnotemotionally available. I just discovered why my romance lacks zest. I can’t just throw that all away by repeating my old, toxic pattern. I will not fall for a guy who can’t love me back. Not again. I will write a solid romance, get an agent, get published, and get my community back. Kyle Weaver will not stand in the way of this.
I sit down, but Kyle’s still standing there. He’s expressionless. Frozen.
He takes a breath, almost gasping, and breaks from his stupor. “Oh, no worries at all,” he says, trying to return to his affable manner. But I can tell the enthusiasm has waned.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, returning to his seat.
I nod. “Just working through some things is all,” I say. “I appreciate your feedback. I think you’re completely right. My characters lack that internal conflict. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Kyle says, less pleasurably and more pained. “I’m glad I can help.”
Both of us sit there and silence. Neither of us have returned to eating, and now Kyle’s leg is shaking rapidly.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.
The question is a sharp cut to my heart, widening the wound from earlier that’s making my chest tighten. “Why do you ask?”
He’s chewing on his lips, staring at the table between us, his leg still bouncing. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, as if revising his response.
“I’m wondering—” He shakes his head, then swears under his breath. I wince and lean back, already on the defense after all that’s happened.
“Maybe,” he says. Then sighs. His leg stops bouncing as quickly, so he must have figured out what he wants to say.
“I wonder if you were in a relationship, maybe that would help you understand how to get those internal issues down,” he says. “Relationships aren’t easy, but you could apply what you feel there in your writing.”
My whole body tenses. “Are you saying that because I’m single I don’t know how to write love?”
