Page 147 of Story of My Life
“Your desk.”
She shook her head, making her ponytail shake. “I don’t even want to hear this one.”
“Suit yourself.” I took a sip of beer and waited a beat.
“Okay. Tell me.”
I led the way into her office and flipped on the lights. She still had boxes of books piled up, eating up the floor space in the room. I pointed to the shitty table she was using as a desk. “That thing is a travesty.”
“It serves a purpose. And it’s pretty sturdy, as you’ll remember.” She patted the top.
I shook my head. “You need something custom, curved to match the window behind you. Not some big-ass executive desk. Maybe something more simple, like a wood top and metal legs. It’ll give you more space underneath since you look like you’re wrestling an alligator when you write.”
“I do not,” she said indignantly.
“It’s like your whole body is acting out whatever you’re writing. Besides, then you could do a matching library table,” Isaid, pointing toward the other wall. “And still have room for a small couch or a couple of chairs in front of the fireplace.”
She sighed. “You need to stop having ideas until I start selling more books.”
“If you’re not going to throw these on a shelf, you could drop them off at the bookstore,” I said, nudging a box with my foot.
She shook her head. “No, they’re supposed to go here. Every time I sit down to write, I feel guilty for not unpacking, and every time I start to unpack, I feel guilty for not writing.”
I handed her my beer and picked up the first box.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making you forget I just added a ton of money to your final bill.”
Her husky laugh sent a sizzle up my spine.
“You don’t have to unpack my books. That seems more like a boyfriend job than a no-strings-sex partner job.”
“I already hung your damn curtains,” I pointed out.
“Well, when you put it that way.”
She put on some music, an eclectic playlist of classic rock. And we loaded books—hers and other authors’—onto the shelves.
“I need more books,” she observed as I sliced a blade through the next-to-last box, cutting it down for recycling.
Her collection was respectable but nowhere near big enough to fill the shelves.
Mine would have done it. Not that I was thinking about mingling my library with hers.
I tossed the flattened cardboard onto the mountain by the door.
“You need to mix in some knickknack things,” I said, eyeing the shelves.
Her eyes lit up. “I can have knickknacks!”
“Uh. Yay?”
“You try living your entire life in New York, where you’re lucky if you have a closet the size of a loaf of bread. Walk-in closets and storage are a universal fantasy.”
“Guess that means you’re living a fantasy then.” I picked up the final box and dropped it on her desk.
She cocked her head. “I guess maybe I am.”
