Page 64 of The Bodyguard Affair
“It’s not that big a deal, though. I mean, I’m on the top floor.” Truthfully, it’s one of those pesky tasks I’ve always had on my to-do list but never gotten around to dealing with because other things always end up taking priority.
I try not to stare too long as he strides over to the living room to assess. “You don’t think someone could climb the fire escape to the balcony? It’s only six floors.”
“The average person definitely can’t,” I say, following him.
He looks out the window and peers down. “They could. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Maybe you could. If you really tried,” I wager, trying to avoid the mental image. Too late.
“I wouldn’t really have to try.” He gifts me with a confident smirk over his shoulder. “Seriously, though, what if a crazed fan of yours finds out where you live?”
I snort. “Crazed fan?”
“You’re a bestselling author, Andi,” he points out. I wait a beat for him to laugh or crack a smile, but it doesn’t come. He’s dead serious.
“Under a pen name.”
“Who’s been doxed,” he adds.
“Fair. But I still don’t think I’m at the point where fans aregoing to come to my house and hold me hostage and demand I write,Miserystyle,” I say, laughing at the mere thought that anyone could ever be so invested in my work that they’d bother to find out my personal information.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re seriously talented. Have you ever thought of quitting your job? Writing full-time?”
I head to the kitchen to fetch the tin of leftover burned cookies again (because I’m weak and I never claimed to have an iota of self-control). “Oh, hell no. That was always a pipe dream of mine, to write full-time. I barely made enough money to cover the expenses of self-publishing. Before, at least.”
“And now?” he asks as I pass over the tin. Realistically, I’ve made more money in the last month than a year’s worth of salary. But it’s hard to say how long it’ll last.
“Technically I could quit and be okay for the next year. Though it would be a leap of faith. And I worry that if writing was my only source of income, it would feel more like an obligation. Something I have to do rather than something I love. That could change everything,” I say, biting into a particularly burned oatmeal raisin. “Do you ever feel like a fraud in your job?” I ask, immediately regretting the overshare.
He shrugs, braving a bite of burned cookie. It’s so incinerated, it crumbles immediately in his hands. “Maybe in the beginning. But the nature of my job makes it easy to measure my skills. I always knew I deserved my place, if that makes sense. Why? Do you feel like a fraud?”
“Not as a PA. As a romance writer.”
His eyes rivet to me as he forces down a bite. “Why is that?”
I swallow a clump of raisin, finally coming out with it. “I haven’t done any of the things my characters do in my books.”
“What things are you referring to?”
I meet his gaze for a hot millisecond before I say it, eyes to the ceiling. “Sex.”
“You haven’t had sex?” His brows shoot up to his hairline; he’s apparently startled by my admission.
“I have. Just not…good sex. Not that my books are only about sex. I know it’s a small part of them, but still.”
His hands tense at his sides, and he shifts slightly on the couch. I feel guilty that I’ve made him uncomfortable with my overshare. He pauses for a couple beats, collecting his thoughts. “For the record, it’s not the sex that drew me intoPrime Minister. It’s the story, the tension between the characters. You do an amazing job writing people to root for. To care about. And also, murder mystery writers don’t go around killing people to make the murder in their books more authentic. Doesn’t make them frauds. You’d never know you were inexperienced to read your work.”
“Really? I always feel like people can read right through it. Like they know I’m just some weird, nerdy girl who’s barely done anything aside from…”
His jaw ticks. “Aside from…?”
“Missionary.”
“Just missionary?” His jaw goes slack. He looks alarmed. Offended. Aghast. Not that I blame him.
I cover my face with my fingers. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. You must think I’m a weirdo pervert.”
“The only thing that’s weird is that you only did missionary with your exes. I mean, did you even get off?”
