by Jillian Dodd
“No. I mean, in the past, I hooked up with a couple of the girls. I won’t lie. We’ve all been together for a few years with other people sort of floating in and out at different times. It was a long time ago, but I guess there’s a reason they say men and women can’t be friends after they’ve crossed the line.”
“It did seem like at least one of them was into you.” Many more than one, but I’m trying to be tactful.
“I hate to say it, but that’s just one more reason I’ve been spending a lot more time with the other group I mentioned. Don’t get me wrong. I knew what I was getting into when I hooked up with the girls. I’m not a child, and I’m not going to lie. But it’s uncomfortable, especially when they get all touchy, like they own me. This other new group, they’re committed to their craft. There’s no personal stuff among us to get in the way of the work. I’ve learned and grown so much in my time with them.” He practically glows when he talks about them. His voice takes on the sort of reverent tone I’d expect to hear from a religious devotee.
“I hate to ask, but why do you hang around with the original group then?”
He averts his gaze and shifts a little in his chair as our server brings our drinks. I notice the way she tries to catch his eye, but he’s too busy examining the tablecloth, looking uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, she won’t look at me, and I sort of wish she would. I mean, he’s here with me. Why is she making puppy dog eyes at him?
“Thank you,” I chirp, and that seems to be enough to move her feet.
He chuckles softly, still lost in thought. “To answer your question, I feel bad. I don’t want to leave them. I don’t want them to think I think I’m something special.”
I can’t help it. “But you are something special.”
“You’re just saying that. Ashley told me you were writing a book about actors, and I know you’re here tonight for research. You don’t have to stroke my ego. I would’ve come out with you either way.”
“Do I give off the vibe of somebody who uses people? Because you’re starting to make me feel bad.” His eyes fly open wide, but I don’t give him a chance to respond before continuing, “I’ve been looking forward to tonight ever since you sent me that message. And not because of a book.”
“For real?”
“For real. I’m not the actor here, and I’m a terrible liar. Ask anybody.”
“That’s good to know since I would’ve been pretty bummed out at the thought that you weren’t interested in anything else but your work.”
I’m glad I’m wearing long sleeves or else he would be able to see the goose bumps all over my arms. How can I help it? I’m not made of stone, and he’s doing things to me with those eyes of his. It’s like I’m being hypnotized.
And I don’t have a problem with it. In fact, I like it.
I like it so much that I decide before our entrées have even shown up that I’m going to invite him back to my Upper West Side apartment once we’ve finished eating.
And not for research.
Then again, maybe it will turn out to be research.
Maggie wants me to spice things up after all.
CHAPTER NINE
“So, this is how the other half lives.” Rafe lets out a low whistle when he steps into the apartment, sliding his hands into his pockets and nodding slowly as he takes in the view from the front windows. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Where do you live? You never did tell me.”
As I’m closing the door, I take a quick look out into the hall and listen for the sound of Matt on the other side of his door. His apartment seems quiet. Maybe he’s out for the night.
Good. I don’t need him blasting horror-movie sound effects this time around. I still haven’t gotten over that, especially since his timing couldn’t have been worse. It was bad enough for a man to whisper another woman’s name in my ear while in bed with me. The ear-piercing shrieks that immediately followed made me want to scream along with them.
Rafe shrugs out of his coat, handing it to me so I can hang it up. “I have a studio in Alphabet City. It’s really just a room somebody somehow found a way to add a small bathroom to. It would make a good-sized bedroom for some little kid.”
I know I shouldn’t feel embarrassed. Still, I can’t help it. I have so much space, and I’m only one person.
“Alone, I hope?”
He throws his head back and laughs at this. “God, yes. I can barely turn around without bumping into something as it is.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
He asks for water, so I bring him a bottle along with a glass of wine for myself, and we sit together on the sofa.
Once we settle in, I ask, “What about roommates? You could afford something a little bigger if you lived with somebody else.”
“True, but there would probably be the same amount of living space. Twice the apartment, twice the people. Know what I mean?” He waves a dismissive hand before opening his water. “I don’t have it that bad. I know plenty of people who live in literal dumps, apartments the size of closets. I have a room, a tiny stove, a tiny refrigerator, and a tiny sink to go with my very tiny bathroom. I have my books, a TV, a bed.”
“There’s something to be said for only using as much as you need, I guess.”
“Honestly, that’s something that means a lot to me.” He angles his body toward me while mine is angled toward him, so we’re sitting close enough that our knees touch. “We live in such a materialistic world, don’t we? Don’t get me wrong; this apartment is beautiful. But I’ve never needed much. My parents were sort of hippies, and a lot of their beliefs rubbed off on me.”
“My mom was kinda like that too.”
His head snaps back a little, like he’s surprised.
“I grew up in a little apartment in Brooklyn. My grandparents were very wealthy—my grandmother still is, I should say—but Mom didn’t want to live that life. And she didn’t want to raise me the way she had been raised. We were just normal people.”
“How did you end up here then? What does she think about your fantastic view?”
It’s not his fault. People of our general age don’t immediately assume somebody’s parents are already dead.
“She’s not with us anymore. Neither is my dad.” I look down at my wine, swirling it in the glass.
He touches my knee, and when I pry my eyes from my wine, I find him looking dismayed. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“It’s okay. It’s been a long time now. And, yes, maybe my grandmother did have some influence over the apartment I chose, but it was sort of a celebratory lease signing. I had just graduated college and sold my latest book. I was on top of the world.”
“All things considered, you could have done a lot worse than leasing a gorgeous apartment. Especially at that age! I’d say you have a good head on your shoulders.” He winks.
“I like to think so.” I wink right back.
“I’m guessing you live alone.”
“Yeah, not a roommate in sight. Do you ever get lonely?” I don’t know where that question came from. It fell right out of my mouth before I had the time to critique it.
He doesn’t seem to think it’s a weird question though—at least, he doesn’t skip a beat before shaking his head. “If anything, I wouldn’t be a very good roommate.”
“How come?”
“I keep terrible hours. I tend bar at Oscar’s—ironic, right? That’s how I make ends meet.”
“I can’t believe I never thought to ask you that.”
Clearly, he doesn’t make enough money from working with these little theater groups to live in Manhattan.
“It’s decent money. So, I pretty much sleep during the day and work at night. I usually get home around five in the morning, if I don’t stop out to get something to eat with some of the cooks. When I’m not sleeping or working, I’m getting what exercise I can in a small space.”
“I like to do yoga here. What do you do?”
Whatever it is, it’s working for him.
“The basic stuff. Push-ups, crunches, lunges, and squats. I have a set of free weights. I also do a lot of stretching and breathing exercises. Breath control is hugely important.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of that.” I can’t help but snicker, thinking back on our time at the diner. “It seems like a lot of your friends don’t feel the same way about breath control, smoking the way they do.”
He looks sort of stern, and now, I wonder if that was the right thing to say. I hope he doesn’t think I was insulting his friends.
As it turns out, that isn’t the case.
“You want my honest opinion?”
“Sure.”
“That’s just one of the reasons they’ll never go as far as they want to go.”
My eyes widen.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “If you treat your craft like it’s nothing more than a hobby, how can you expect to find any lasting success? Or any success at all? When I was in college, it became so clear. We were doing a big show, and all of us were hoping to be nominated for the American College Theater Festival. Judges would come in to evaluate our performances, that sort of thing. Everybody wanted to have a chance to compete at the national level. Anyway, only about half of the cast took it seriously. They quit drinking and smoking, stopped staying up late and eating junk, and basically worked their asses off. The other half did like they always had. Which half do you think got sent on to the festival?”
“And let me guess. You were one of the people who got nominated.”
He lifts a shoulder, offering a faint smile. “It was obvious which of us took the production seriously and which ones didn’t. Even a bunch of judges, who had never met any of us before that one night, saw it. It makes a difference.”
He leans in, and intensity practically leaks from his pores. His voice deepens as he says, “For me, acting isn’t a hobby or a dream. It’s what I do. This is my craft. It’s not my sole purpose in life, but it’s a big part of it. And if I’m ever going to make a name for myself or even earn a living at it, I have to dedicate myself to being as good as I can be.”
There go the goose bumps again.
“I have to admit, you’re a little bit overwhelming.” When his face falls, I add, “In a good way! Really. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as devoted as you. And for what it’s worth, it was obvious to me, watching the performances the other night, that you have much greater dedication to your work. This isn’t a game for you.”
He relaxes against the cushions, grinning like I just said the magic words he’d been waiting to hear. “You saw that? You’re not just saying it?”
“Not at all. It seemed like—and I’m sorry if I’m crossing the line by saying this—the rest of the group sat around at the diner, throwing these names around. I even recognized some of them. Strasberg and the method acting versus other approaches. And sure, it sounded interesting. But those are just words unless you back it up with action.”
His mouth falls open before his eyes light up. “How is it you see everything so astutely? I mean, it’s like you’re reading my mind. You’re saying things I’ve thought for such a long time.”
“It’s always easy for an outsider to step in and observe and draw conclusions,” I offer with a shrug.
“No, no.” He touches my knee again, and this time, his hand stays put. “No, it’s more than that. You have insight and intelligence. I guess they come in handy when you’re writing about people. Especially relationships.”
“So, you don’t think it’s corny?” I tease, though there’s more than a little bit of truth to my teasing. “Being a romance writer, I mean. You don’t think I’m a loser for writing porn?”
“You don’t write porn though. Hell, even if you did, who cares? You do it well enough that readers love it and want more of it. But last time I checked, the Times doesn’t have a list of the best-selling porn—unless I’m missing something.” A wicked grin follows this, and a twinkle is in his eye. “Hell, I might have to subscribe if that’s the case.”
I give him a playful nudge that’s really nothing more than an excuse to touch him. Good Lord, his body is miraculous. So tight and firm, but not showy or obnoxious. “So, it’s not corny? What I do?”
“Not at all. Listen, you might get that treatment from some people but not from me. I have nothing but respect for the amount of work you must put into what you do. I mean that.”
“Really?”
“I know how hard it is to create what looks like a realistic relationship onstage or in a play I’m writing. I can’t imagine what it would be like to write a whole book about it and actually have people want to read it. Much less more than one book.”
It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for years, and I finally have the opportunity to let it go. Somebody gets it. Hayley gets it, and my grandmother doesn’t have a problem with me writing romance. I’m sure that, somewhere inside her, she’d rather I was somebody’s well-groomed wife, carrying a Birkin bag on one arm and a baby in the other, though she wouldn’t say it out loud.
But I’ve never felt like the rest of the people in my life take me seriously. Even Matt makes his jokes, though he pretty much laughs about everything I do.
This guy gets it. He gets how hard it can be sometimes. That my work is more than throwing a few sex scenes onto the page, strung together by a thin plot. I try to tell stories based on emotion, compelling enough that readers want to keep turning the page.
All of this bubbles up in me as I place my wineglass on the coffee table. He follows my lead and leaves his water there before taking my face between his hands and pulling me in for a passionate kiss.
He takes his time, his thumbs stroking my cheeks while his tongue glides along my lips. I part them to let him in, and he groans softly when I wrap my arms around his shoulders and press everything I can against him—chest, torso, legs.
It’s been a while. What can I say? I’m a little eager, and I’ve been lusting after him ever since the second I saw him onstage.
So, when he lowers me to the sofa, I go willingly.
When he stretches himself out on top of me, our bodies touching from head to toe, I wrap one leg around his and pull him closer, making him groan louder this time and plunge his tongue deeper into my mouth while he moves his hips against my thigh.
When he growls faintly and pulls back, looking down at me with half-closed eyes and his mouth parted so he can breathe in short, heavy bursts, I try to pull him back down for more. So much more. My body is singing, my heart racing, blood rushing.
Yet there’s regret when his eyes open fully. “If we keep going like this,” he pants, his face still close to mine, “I don’t think I’ll want to stop.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
And who the heck is speaking through my mouth? That is so not like me. Not even a little bit. I’m usually the one second-guessing everything, overthinking to the point of forgetting why I started thinking in the first place.
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, one on either side of me, and flashes a rueful grin. “I’m trying to learn my lesson. Remember earlier, when we talked about me hooking up with those other girls? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think of you as just being one of them. But I don’t want to make that mistake again either. Doing whatever I want without thinking of the consequences.”
This is so not the time for him to be experiencing a crisis of conscience.
“I understand that,” I murmur with a sinking heart while the rest of me wonders what about me isn’t enough to make him want to throw his principles out the window for a little while.
I’m sure that if it wasn’t for the general throbbing ache all over my body, I’d understand where he was coming from. I might even respect him for holding back.
But again, I’m aching over here.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re beautiful. So beautiful. I wanna take my time with you, if th
at’s okay. I want to know so much more about you before we come together that way. I don’t want this to be just another hook-up, if you get what I mean. Does that sound stupid?”
“Not at all.”
He snickers quietly, planting a kiss on my nose and then on both cheeks. “It doesn’t sound like you mean it.”
“I do mean it. I’m just … well, to be honest, you make a girl feel things.”
He thrusts his hips, pushing himself against my thigh with a tight groan. “You make me feel things, too, and I’m sure I’m gonna have blue balls the rest of the night. I just want to avoid making the same mistakes over and over. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for. I mean it.” I give him one more kiss before sliding out from under him while he works his way to a sitting position.
“I’d better go anyway,” he decides, checking his phone. “I promised I’d call my scene partner. We’re working on a piece we’re presenting this weekend to the rest of the group and, you know, a few guests. Would you be interested in coming?”
“Sure, I’d love to.” And not only for the sake of my book. Watching him in action is something else, like witnessing something special being born. The opening of a flower. The birth of a star. “And I guess I’d better get some work done. I always work better at night.”
“Another night owl.” He kisses me once more at the door after putting on his coat. He’s warm and tender but strong, too, and still slightly demanding. Reminding me of the passion we came close to sparking into life back there on the sofa. “It seems like we have a lot in common, Miss Valentine.”
Yes, and enough chemistry to make my toes curl before either of us has taken off a stitch of clothing.
Something tells me I’m going to enjoy writing this book.
CHAPTER TEN
I’ll say this for Rafe: he knows how to light a fire under a girl—and I’m not talking about her sexy parts.
Well, her sexy parts too. But that isn’t what I’m referring to right now.
Right now, I’m referring to the fact that, as soon as I woke up these last few mornings, I’ve been raring to go. I want to find other writers to bounce ideas off of. I want to meet up with them and learn about their approach to writing. Maybe there’s something I don’t know. Maybe there’s something that might work for me. I only need to learn from others.
