Page 54 of Stick to the Deal
We both lean forward, our closed lips meeting. I tilt my head for a better angle, my tongue seeking access. My hands softly clutch her to me, afraid to hold on too tight, terrified to let go.
Nic melts against me, opening herself as her arms slide further around me.
A cacophony of emotions shakes me—too many to name or properly process—but I do my best to convey them to her with my tongue. This isn’t ourfirst kiss, far from it, but until now, we only shared impassioned embraces during sex. Any public displays were chaste and for show.
“Happy New Year!”
The crowd cheers and we break apart—reluctantly on my part. Friends pull us into a heartfelt round of hugs and well-wishes. As we’re passed around the circle, we maintain eye contact. I see the same questions reflected in her eyes that are echoing in my mind. What now? What does this mean? Where do we go from here?
The only thing I know is there’s no pretending now.
Chapter 28
Reality Check
It’s been a peaceful morning, both of us sharing space but concentrating on our separate tasks. One week in Florida has blended into two—neither of us seeming anxious to return to colder climates when we can work remotely. For me though, work just isn’t… well, working today. I drop the tablet onto my lap and pick up my still steaming mug of coffee.
Warm sunlight streams through the floor to ceiling windows, bathing me in it’s happy glow. It’s why I put the couch in this spot, so I could take catnaps in the sun without going outside. I wriggle my toes, smiling at the swan symbol as the fuzzy material of my fleece socks stretch around my feet.
Without looking up from his laptop, Reginald gives my foot a gentle squeeze where it rests between his hip and the back cushion. As the couch is wide enough for two, we’ve taken to both sitting on opposite ends with our legs sharing the middle—like a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps in a box.
Dressed in soft trousers and a henley, Reginald is about as casual as he gets. I need to buy the man some athleisure clothes. His dark brows pinch behind his reading glasses. Slate-gray eyes dart across the laptop screen before him. Each word bringing a more pronounced pout to his lips. I miss the warmth on my foot immediately as he lifts his hand to hit the backspace key repeatedly.
“What’s wrong?” I tap him with my toe to gain his attention.
With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. My core clenches. I never had a thing for teachers, but this sexy scholar look is working for me.
“It’s this list of articles for the magazine. I’m not sure they’re right.”
“What do you have so far?”
“Lord Firth’s environmental efforts, the book drive at Cambridge, that artist working with orphanages, and an interview with an up-and-coming actress who grew up a war refugee.”
All worthy topics of a human interest magazine dedicated to positivity, but I immediately see why he’s struggling. “Those all sound good, but it’s a bit repetitive.”
“What do you mean?” His brows pinch, appearing more confused than angry.
“Well, all those pieces are about public figures. Who is your demographic? Are their stories represented? Most people like reading about themselves.”
I see the moment it clicks.
His eyes widen and his lips form an adorable O before spreading into a full grin. “You’re right. Brilliant as usual. Thank you.” His hand returns to my foot.
I laugh, secretly warmed by his praise, as I glare down at the offending tablet. “Not sure about that.”
“Something troubling you at work?”
“It’s this photoshoot next month. I can’t find the right theme. They gave me full creative control and I’m not sure what to do.”
He closes the laptop and removes his glasses. Warmth blooms in my chest at his full attention.
“Don’t you typically have full control?”
“Not really. There’s usually a brief—something laying out the theme and basic requirements. This magazine keeps saying they trust me after seeing the Time piece. Why did I have to do such a good job?” The buttery leather of the sofa arm cushions my head as I sink lower.
Reginald chuckles as he squeezes my foot again. “Because you’re brilliant—like I said. What is the feature about? Who’s the client?”
“Playbill,” I mumble.
