She smiled and patted my hand. “Don’t ever get old, Rosalie.”
“Time and tide wait for no man—or woman—I’m afraid.”
She sighed ruefully. “Ah, good old Chaucer. You don’t hear many people quoting him these days.”
“I heard someone say on TV that if Chaucer were alive today he’d be a huge TikTok star” I told her, shaking my head at the ridiculous notion. Where did news programs find these people?
She stared at me blank-faced for a long moment, and then we broke out into simultaneous laughter. “There’s an image.”
“Indeed,” I said, refilling my cup. “Want more?”
“No, but I am curious what you were about to propose.”
“I don’t know if this will work or not,” I hedged in case she hated the idea. It was definitely a break from the norm. “But I wondered if instead of you running around all day from one table to the next answering questions about random books, we could organize each table by genre instead? This way, we can assign volunteers based on their own reading preferences. For example, if we’ve got someone who’s read every Tom Clancy or Jack Ryan book known to mankind, he—or she—can work the military thrillers table.”
“Tom Clancy is Jack Ryan, dear.”
“Oh,” I grinned over the rim of my teacup. “I’m afraid my knowledge of Mr. Ryan extends only so far as John Krasinksi’s washboard abs.”
“Did someone order washboard abs?” Preston asked, stepping into the living room with a smug smirk on his handsome face.
“Oh, crap!” I said, setting my cup down next to its matching teapot and springing to my feet. “I totally forgot.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but your mom told me to come on in.”
Patricia pushed up from her own spot on the sofa. “We’re done for now anyway.” She moved to my side. “I love the idea. Why don’t you put it—and any others you have—down on paper and we can go over them in a couple of weeks. We’ve got plenty of time to get all our ducks in a row. We don’t have to do any heavy lifting until after the holidays.”
“That sounds great.”
She squeezed my arm with her good hand and swept out of the room, quietly calling my mom’s name.
When we were alone, my eyes automatically dropped down to Preston’s torso. He cleared his throat, and I flicked them back up to meet his playful gaze. “Washboard abs?” I said, my mouth practically salivating at the delicious image his comment had forced into my brain.
“John Krasinski?” He lifted a questioning eyebrow.
Something about that expression had me tilting my head to the side to study his features more closely. As I did, it occurred to me that he slightly resembled the famous actor. Preston was a few inches shorter and broader than Krasinski, but their coloring was similar. And they had that thick scruff of gorgeous beard in common, too.
My eyes dipped low again as if they had a mind of their own and all they wanted to do was admire Preston’s muscular body. Not that I could blame them. The man certainly knew how to wear clothing. I could only imagine what he’d look like without them.
“What can I say? I dig nerds who grow up to be hot,” I teased, forcing my gaze back up to meet his eyes.
Since finding out that Preston had spent his teenage years as a Dungeons & Dragons-playing nerd, it had become a running joke between us. In fact, his nerdiness was what had brought him here tonight. We’d made plans to cook dinner and then watch the first episode of an old show called Firefly. I’d never heard of it, but he swore up and down I was going to love it. I was dubious at best. Nothing about a space cowboy and his band of misfits flying through the universe in a rusty ship while being chased by something called a reaver sounded at all appealing to me. If we were talking old shows, I’d take The West Wing any day.
“You are trouble with a capital T.” His eyes sparkled as he slid his hands down into the back pockets of his jeans. The gesture pulled his shirt tight across his chest, showing off the firm pectorals underneath.
Briefly, I wondered if he’d done that on purpose. “Look who’s talking,” I said, mimicking his posture as a coy smile stretched across my face. Two could play at that game. Admittedly, the effect had less impact when you were wearing a baggy sweater than a tightly-fitted thermal henley, but I wanted him to know that I was clued into his shenanigans.
He laughed and shook his head fondly, his tongue darting out to lick a quick path over his bottom lip.
There was nothing sexual about it at all, and yet I very nearly moaned. I needed to get a grip.
“Come on,” I said, walking past him and gesturing over my shoulder that he should follow me into the kitchen. “Let’s go make dinner.”
By the time we’d moved on to the fourth episode of Firefly, my feet had somehow found their way into Preston’s lap. Currently, he was pressing his knuckle gently into my arch, rubbing it back and forth.
An involuntary moan escaped from between my lips. “Ngghh.”
The pressing stopped. “Too much?” he asked, glancing my way.
I shook my head. “No. And if you stop, I might have to murder you. That feels amazing.”
He chuckled, and the rubbing recommenced as episode four played on. A handful of minutes later—as Kaylee and Mal crashed a society event Inara was attending—Preston moved his grip from my arch down to heel. I hummed in appreciation, and he let out a slow breath, adjusting his position on the sofa as a pained look flashed on his face when the screen lit up the room.
“You can stop,” I said. “Your hands must be tired.”
“That’s not it,” he said, his voice sounding like tumbled gravel. He cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
His eyes found mine. “I like making you feel good.”
“Is that a fact?” Now my voice sounded odd.
Preston nodded and dragged his gaze back to the TV to watch Mal inexpertly defend Inara’s honor. He wrapped my foot in both of his hands and made light squeezing motions as he moved from my heel up to my toes, where he gently rolled each one between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. I let out another groan, this massage the closest thing I’d had to an orgasm in the presence of another person in going on three years.
As the last of the sound died out, I became aware of two things simultaneously: first, the TV had gone dark, an “are you still watching?” message taking up the screen, and second, beneath my free foot, Preston was sporting a rock-hard boner.
For days, I’d been asking myself how to tell Preston that I wanted him. Maybe instead I could show him?
Slowly, I brushed my foot over the denim-clad bulge, and he let out a low hiss. His head spun on his shoulders to look at me. When our eyes connected, his gaze was hot and needy. He pressed his thumb into the pad of my foot, and I coasted my toes along his impressive length. Whatever he might’ve thought before, there was no mistaking my intent now. His chest rose and fell with slow, deep breaths as he flexed his hips forward, inviting me to do it again.
My nipples pebbled beneath my sweater.
His breathing grew louder as I became bolder in my exploration. And yet, neither of us moved from where we sat. It was almost as if as long as I was here and he was there, this was as far as things would go. But if I dared to climb over onto that side of the sofa and touch him with my hands—or better yet, my mouth—there was no telling how far we’d go.
While one part of me craved that more than anything, the saner, more responsible part of me knew this would have to suffice. As much as Preston played a starring role in all of my battery-powered fantasies, we weren’t actually together. This whole fake relationship thing was only smoke and mirrors to keep my mom from harassing us.
At least, that was how it had started. But I’d be lying if I said sitting here listening to his breathing in the dark, I didn’t imagine it turning into something more.
I liked Preston.
No, that wasn’t strong enough for what I felt fo
r him. I admired him. I valued his friendship. I thought he was the hottest fucking man I’d ever laid eyes—and now feet—on. I dreamed about him when I closed my eyes at night.
I wanted him.
So why wasn’t I doing anything about it?
For the next several moments, I wrestled with the idea of dragging my foot off his lap and climbing on top of him. Picturing my hips undulating over his, I grew wet and needy.
But just when I’d worked up the nerve to turn my fantasy into reality, the light flicked on, and my mom stepped into the living room, her hair twisted up in rollers. Groggily, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Oh!” she exclaimed when she finally noticed Preston and I sprawled out on the sofa, his hands clamped around my foot to hid his erection. “I didn’t know you two were in here. I came down to get some water and saw the TV was on. Sorry,” she mumbled, flicking off the light and trundling out of the room, her slippers making slapping noises on the floor.
Preston and I sat in silence. Eventually, he squeezed my foot and slid it from his lap. Pushing up from the sofa, he turned and stared down at me, the faint light coming from down the hall illuminating the room enough that I could see his face. “I’m going to head home.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the kitchen, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s getting late.”
Disappointed, but understanding his reasoning, I moved to stand. “Let me walk you out.”
He took a quick step back. “No, I got it. You stay there.”
I peered up at him, wondering why he suddenly appeared—and sounded—panicked. Was he regretting our little game of footsie? “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Nothing like that. It was …” He ran his hand through his hair again and blew out a breath. His gaze softened as his lips tipped up at the side in a small, sweet smile that made my heart flutter. “Tonight was fucking fantastic actually, but I’m going to go before your mom comes back and starts asking questions neither of us wants to answer.” He glanced down at the bulge in his denim. I was shocked to see he was still hard, despite my mom’s interruption.
He was right, though. If she had any inkling of what we’d been up to, I could only imagine what she’d say or do with that information. It was a good thing her vision had been cloudy with sleep.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I agreed. And because my vagina wasn’t the only part of me currently feeling needy, I asked, “I’ll see you soon?”
He smiled down at me again. “Yeah. We’ve got ten more episodes to watch.”
“It’s a date, then.”
“It’s a date,” he said, coasting his palm over the top of my head as he passed out of the room.
I couldn’t wait.
18
Rosalie
The next morning, I closed the lid of my laptop and pushed it away. Crossing my forearms on the table in front of me, I dropped my face down into the cocoon I’d created and let out a frustrated groan, all my fuzzy, happy feelings from the night before squashed by the reality of my situation. I’d been on the hunt for a job for the last few weeks, and I was no closer to finding one now than when I’d first started.
A couple of days ago, I’d spoken with the owner of a yarn store who was looking to hire someone to run the shop while she was on maternity leave. Unfortunately, the call had gotten off to a shaky start when she’d asked my opinion on a popular brand of yarn she was excited to get her hands on and I’d had nothing to contribute. Things had gone further downhill when she’d wanted to know what I thought about the Ravelry controversy. Given that I hadn’t even known what Ravelry was, much less why it was controversial, she’d promptly ended up the call.
Not that I could blame her. I hadn’t done my research so I’d come off looking like a fool. I only had myself to blame.
From there, I’d moved on to applying for office jobs. Alas, things weren’t going much better on that front either. A recruiter I’d contacted had let me know they didn’t have any suitable positions available, and the temp agency I’d uploaded my resume to had just emailed to say they’d keep it on file should something come up. At this point, I didn’t know what I was going to do for money. The lawyers I’d hired to facilitate my divorce didn’t come cheap, and I was blowing through all the cash I’d saved quicker than I’d thought I would.
Perhaps, I admitted with another sigh, it was time for me to reconsider that bartender job I’d seen advertised for the biker bar out on the highway between here and Montpelier. I’d just have to worry about things like health care and paid time off later. Right now I needed cash, and I needed it badly.
What I didn’t need, I thought as my phone’s screen lit up with Blake’s name, was my ex calling to harass me. I knew the smart thing to do was send him directly to voicemail, but given the lack of progress on the division of our assets, a part of me wondered if it wouldn’t be better for us to just hash it all out once and for all. It wasn’t hubris so much as desperation that had me hitting the green button on my phone.
“Hello, Blake. How are you?”
“Better now that you’re actually picking up your phone. I’ve been calling you for days. I’m tired of trying to communicate with you through lawyers.”
I rested my forehead against the heel of my upturned palm. Some things never changed.
“We wouldn’t have to if you’d just sign the damn papers,” I said, biting back my frustration.
“I can’t sign the papers, which you’d know if you ever actually picked up your phone,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Well, I picked it up now, so tell me what the problem is so we can solve it.”
He sighed melodramatically. “The insurance company wants a more thorough investigation into the fire. They won’t pay out the premium until they’re convinced it wasn’t arson.”
“Arson? That’s ridiculous,” I countered hotly. “The fire department already said it was the old knob and tube wiring. I told you—.” He cut me off before I could finish my sentence.
What I’d been about to say was that I’d told him multiple times that we needed to suck it up and pay an electrician to update the wiring. Unfortunately, we wouldn’t have been able to just rewire our unit. The whole building had needed to be updated, and the man who owned the two condos above the gallery would never have chipped in. Slumlords weren’t generally known for re-investing in their properties when they could charge young tech workers thousands of dollars a month to live in hovels. I’d wanted us to just pay for all of the work so it could get done, but Blake had refused, citing his supposed principles.
What those principles were, I wasn’t sure.
“Look, I’m just telling you what they told me. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t called you already to talk through the night of the fire. Unless, of course, you’re ignoring their calls, too.”
“I’m not ignoring anyone’s calls,” I bit out through clenched teeth. “We’ve been through this, Blake. The lawyers advised us to let them handle everything since every time we speak it ends in a shouting match.”
“I have never once shouted at you,” he sniffed. “You, however …”
I let loose a frustrated growl. Talking with Blake was an exercise in patience and restraint, both of which were in short supply these days. There were times, like now, when I honestly didn’t know if he believed the bullshit he spewed.
Did he genuinely not recall the time he’d thrown my Kindle across the room, yelling about how I should be out scouting for the next big art trend instead of sitting at home on my ass? Or all the times he’d flown off the handle over all the men who’d supposedly been flirting with me at gallery openings and art exhibitions—never mind that most of them were gay. If I’d started shouting back it was only so my quieter voice could be heard over his louder, booming one.
But it was no use rehashing any of that now. If I did, he’d only spin it to sound like I’d been at fault somehow. Thankfully, I knew better these da
ys.
I also knew it was best not to entertain his delusions.
I said a silent prayer to stay calm. “Did you need anything else?”
“I just told you that we’re being investigated, and that’s all you can say?”
A spike of fear shot through me. “We’re being investigated? You didn’t say—”
“Yes, Rose. That’s how these things work. They think someone burned down the building to collect the insurance. As partial owners of the building, we’re all suspects. I thought you’d know that with all those cop shows you waste your time watching.”
For the record, I didn’t watch cop shows. I’d watched one episode of one show because my friend James’s little brother was making his debut as a new beat cop character, and I’d wanted to support him. I’d planned on going over to James’s place for a watch party but had been stuck late at the gallery waiting for a delivery that had never arrived. Not wanting to interrupt James’s party, I’d gone home to catch the last bit of the episode instead. When Blake had come home, he’d been livid to find me in my pajamas with the TV on and had never let me live it down.
I opened my mouth to argue but then closed it just as quickly. There really was no point. Exercise in futility, I reminded myself.
“Can you give me the name of the person at the insurance company you spoke with?” I asked, looking around the kitchen for one of my mom’s many random pads of paper that seemed to always be lying about. Of course when I needed one there was none to be found. “Or better yet, can you email me the details?”
“Your lawyer should already have it.”
“That’s great, but I’d like it too in case they call me instead.”
He sighed. “Fine. I’ll have Janessa send it over.”
“Janessa?” I asked, surprised.
I’d hired Janessa Maltin the week after she graduated college. She’d reminded me so much of myself at that age, and I’d wanted to show her the ropes the way I wished someone had done for me. At first, she’d been a great assistant, but in the weeks leading up to the fire, she’d started coming in late wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before or leaving early to supposedly run errands that never got completed. When I’d approached her about it, she’d apologized and told me that she’d met someone. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she’d fallen in love with an older, married man who she had to sneak around to be with, but had promised not to let that affect her work any further. I’d taken her at her word, but it hadn’t mattered when a month later the gallery had burned down and I’d had to let her go. No gallery to run, no assistant needed.
Homecoming (Speakeasy) Page 12
