Page 34 of Golden Touch
Whatever it is, Nash has an X factor that most men lack. A magnetism that’s got to be good for, say, half an orgasm all by itself.
Butthree?That must be an exaggeration.
“You’re staring, pussycat.” He winks at me. “Eat your pizza. Keep your strength up. When you finally give in, you’ll need energy.”
I manage to roll my eyes while I help myself to a slice of pizza.
After dinner, Nash sets his laptop on the coffee table and asks me if I want to watch a movie. “It’s either that, or I’m going to spend all night returning emails. My job doesn’t seem to know whatleave of absencemeans.”
My heart twists in an uncomfortable way. “Are they mad at you for leaving?”
“A little,” he hedges. “But you know what’s sad? I can practically do my whole job from here. I’m one hundred eighty miles from the beer, but everything I need is right here.” He pats the computer.
“Well, that’s at least convenient?” I suggest, refilling our sangria glasses.
He picks up his glass and frowns. “I guess. But it makes me realize that my dad is kind of right about my job. I call myself a beermaker, but I don’t ever touch the beer. I don’t even get close.”
“Your dad also thinks he could outthrow most of the Sox’s pitchers. I don’t think I’d take his advice on this.”
Nash throws his head back and laughs, and the sound rolls through me like a wave. Then he sets his computer on the coffee table and pats the cushion beside him. “Come on, movie night.”
“What movie?” I ask, weighing the risks of sitting close to him.
“You can pick. I need a break, and you look to me like you’re all up inside your head. Pick something funny, maybe.”
I’m not a funny girl, not lately anyway, and when I sit down beside him and lean over the keyboard, I search forThe Witch, because I’ve heard good things, and Anya Taylor-Joy is cool.
“Whoa!” Nash says when he can see the screen again. “Did you open my playlist?”
“No? Was I supposed to? I’m not in the mood for a comedy, and I thought you could handle this. Was I wrong?”
He leans forward and clicks back to the menu—then chooses “Nash’s Playlist.”
The Witchis the first thing on it. “I’ve been meaning to watch this.”
“Then why didn’t you suggest it?” I prop my feet on the edge of the coffee table.
“Didn’t want to scare you. But you know what this means, right?” He gives me a smug grin that shouldn’t look hot, but somehow is.
“That we both like scary movies?”
“It’s fate,” he says, nudging me with his knee. “This movie is at least five years old, and we both want to see it.”
“That’s called acoincidence,” I point out.
“That’s called asign,” he argues. “Now hit play, pussycat. Let’s see if you’re tough enough for some scary witches.”
It’s possible I’m not. Apparently woodsy New England witches are very scary. The cinematography is bleak. There’s a creepy shed. And a possessed goat.
But, hey, at least I’m not thinking about triple orgasms.Instead, I’m slowly sinking into the sofa and trying not to cover my eyes.
“You doing okay over there, honeybunch?”
“Uh-huh.” I take another gulp of sangria so I don’t scream.
He reaches over and smooths my hair back. It’s a friendly gesture, but I like the warmth of his hand more than he could know. When it’s gone, I miss it, but he doesn’t touch me again, or take advantage of my nerves.
It’s tempting to climb into his damn lap, but I stay strong. The credits finally roll, and I’m filled with relief. “That was fun,” I gush. “Thanks for being a friend and watching that with me and not doing the age-old slither-closer until oops-my-arm-is-around-you bullshit.”
