Page 52 of Perfectly Complicated
“Easy enough.”
She takes back her laptop and makes the changes in the cast list, her fingers flying across the keys. “Now, about the script—if Saint Nicholas is the narrator, where should we begin? We need to work in the kids as much as possible.”
I slide the computer toward me. “How about you take a break and let me take a stab at it?”
“Nope.” She snatches it right back like it’s a container of ice cream and I’m holding a spoon. “I’m thinking if we focus on the historical aspects…”
“Janie.” I reach out and ease the lid closed. She gasps like I just shut it on her fingers.
“You almost got my fingers!”
“And you’ve been at this all night. Besides, they’re going to cramp up if you keep typing like a caffeinated squirrel.”
Her lips press into that stubborn pout again. “You’re seriously forcing me to quit right now?”
“Not quit. Just take a break. You can even look over my shoulder.”
She hesitates, then sighs and hands me the laptop like it’s her firstborn. “Fine. But if you turn Saint Nicholas into an action hero, I’m taking the laptop back and locking you out.”
“With what—your secret password? Let me guess…1, 2, 3, 4?”
“How’d you…” She stops herself, gaze narrowing. “Great. Now I have to change my password.”
“No, you don’t,” I say, scooting my chair closer to hers. “You just need to do something that’s hard for you.”
Her brow crinkles. “What’s that?”
I shoot her a look. “Trust me.”
For a moment, she says nothing.
I open the laptop and read through a few pages. Her shoulder brushes mine as we share the computer, but she doesn’t try to take over. This is progress—her willingness to give up control and work with me.
“What if we pick one thread and follow it?” I suggest. “If we start with Saint Nicholas’s story, he could present the Bethlehem story.”
“That could work.” She picks up her mug of tea. “But how?”
“I think we should let the kids tell the story,” I suggest. “Honestly, they’re way more entertaining than I am.”
“I don’t know…” She tilts her head, her gaze landing on me with a spark. “You’re pretty entertaining.”
I glance over and catch the blue-gray flecks in her eyes, and suddenly I can’t remember what the script is even about. “As long as I keep your attention, Bennett, I’ll consider my job done.”
She bumps her shoulder playfully into mine. “Well, your job isn’t done until we finish this script, so get to work, Riley.”
“Man, you’re bossy for a kindergarten teacher,” I tease, flashing her a grin.
We dive into the script, our knees brushing beneath the table as we both reach for the keyboard at the same time. Neither of us moves.
My focus should be on the dialogue we’re editing. But all I can think about is the way her leg presses into mine and how close I am to shutting this laptop so I can kiss her instead. She is definitely a distraction, and that’s only gotten worse since the festival. She leans over to read a line out loud, her hair falling toward my shoulder with the scent of her shampoo, and I swear, if she keeps looking at me like that, I’m not going to be responsible for what I do next.
We’re not quite friends, but we’re not adversaries anymore either. We’ve found a middle ground where I don’t feel like every word out of my mouth is evidence against my character.
But trust with Janie isn’t linear. It’s two steps forward, three steps back—a constant reminder that her ex-husband didn’t just break her heart, he broke her faith in the entire concept of trustworthy men. Some days I feel like I’m competing with a ghost, trying to prove I’m nothing like a man I’ve never met, but whose damage I see in her eyes every day.
It feels like a game I can’t win. But I’m willing to try.
When I finally get my thoughts under control—which is nearly impossible considering how I can barely focus—we work through a tricky section of rewrites.
