by Lauren Runow
“Thanks again for helping me bring that stuff up.”
He looks like he’s going to say something, but I’m already turning back to my place. If there’s one thing that was confirmed today, it’s that I need to get my notes straightened out and finalize a plot for The Artist.
I’m closing the door when I feel resistance and realize Jake is keeping me from closing it fully.
“Lacey,” he says.
I pop the door open.
“Don’t forget to have fun.” I look at him curiously when he adds, “With your work. If you don’t love what you do, it’s not worth doing.”
I watch as he turns and walks to his apartment. He goes inside, and so do I, walking to my room to change. I grab my notebook to jot down notes. I’m scribbling thoughts down when music pours through the walls.
This time, instead of it being loud and raucous, it’s a lyrical love song. The kind you can relax to. Think to.
I smile as I settle into the corner of my sofa and work. Good thing I do love what I do for a living.
That must be why I’m smiling.
Chapter Five
I’m searching through photos of hot guys reading because, well, there are some perks to writing romance. One of them is getting to fawn over pictures of handsome men. I’ve actually been Googling away most of the day when there’s a knock on the door.
I open it to see Jake standing on the other side, wearing jeans, a navy henley, and that damn smirk. He’s dressed casually, yet the way his sleeves are rolled to precise three-quarters makes me think he puts way more effort into his appearance than tossing on a clean shirt.
He looks like he’s about to say something when his face falls and his eyebrows turn down in question. “Do you ever wear clothes that aren’t sweats?” He points at my attire.
“I was dressed quite nicely for my signing, thank you very much.” It might have just been jeans and a sweater, but I did throw on heels, so that counts for something.
“I meant, when you’re not greeting your hordes of fans?”
I run my hand over my head, smoothing out any loose strands that might have popped out of my bun. “I’m writing.”
“Explain this to me, Miss Rivers. Business hours are flexible, but when do they end?” He steps into my apartment with a white pastry box in his hands and a swagger to his hips.
I close the door, not sure if I’m annoyed because he’s here, interrupting me, or if I’m happy for the distraction from the nothingness surrounding me. Plus, whatever is in that box smells heavenly.
“I’m on a deadline, remember? I need to write, so here I am … writing.”
“Yes, but that’s what you do during the day, not when you should be out, watching the game.”
“I don’t like sports.”
He holds an arm out in the air, as if to stop time and silence my words.
“Don’t say that out loud. We’re in Bears territory here. And you don’t have to like the game to enjoy the two-for-one drinks that are served.”
“You have a point, I guess. What’s in the box?”
He places it on the counter and unties the string. “The bakery near the shop makes the most amazing treats. The lady who runs it brought these over to me, but there’s way too many, so I figured I’d share.”
I raise a brow. “That’s super sweet of you.”
Peering into the box, I see flower-shaped cookies with powdered sugar on top.
“Don’t be shy.” He pushes the box toward me after grabbing one for himself and taking a bite.
I lean against the counter and grab one. The buttery, sweet flavor melts in my mouth. I let out a moan, making him pause mid-chew, before gobbling up the cookie and licking my fingers of the powdered-sugar residue. My thumb is in my mouth as I gently suck on it , and he looks at me with his mouth agape.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
He shifts on his feet as he swallows. “Have you eaten today?”
I look up as I try to think if I ate anything. “I had coffee this morning—”
“Get dressed,” he commands as he closes the bakery box.
“Why?”
“Because you need to eat and get out of this house of loneliness.”
I eye him, wondering what his angle is. We’ve been friendly since I moved in but more like neighbors saying hi in the hallway, and we hung out for a few minutes the other day when he popped in for limejuice. Other than that, we’ve never spent more than ten minutes together.
“We”—I motion between the two of us—“don’t go out. Where are your girlfriends? What about your lady, Natalie?”
“Who? Oh, the yoga girl. She’s a great girl but not for me. Besides, I’m not in the mood to have to romance tonight. I just want to sit back and chill.”
“I’m not sure if I should be honored or offended.” I walk away from him and head into the living room. I plop down on the couch and grab my computer, which is quickly removed from my lap and in the hands of Jake.
“Have you even stepped outside today?”
“Yes,” I lie.
His mouth twists as he eyes my stained sweatshirt. “Yeah, I don’t buy it, but I love the way you lie. Come on. Get up.”
He hits my leg, nudging me to stand while taking my hand and lifting me up. I stand with my hands on my hips, defiantly looking up at him.
He smiles as if my stance is cute. “We can stay for just one drink and an appetizer, if you’re that hung up on staying home and writing. I’m sure your brain needs the break anyway.”
Maybe he’s right. I’ve been lounging in the house all day, and writing isn’t coming so easily. Maybe a drink will do the trick.
“Fine,” I huff and drop my hands from my hips, heading to my room to change. “Where do you want to go?” I call out from behind the half-closed door.
“What do you like? I could have pizza, but I’d prefer something lighter. Gino’s is good, but we’d have to wait for a table. Maybe Shooter’s? That’s the best place, I think. It’s on the corner and casual. Sound good?”
I’m buttoning my jeans as I call out, “Sure. I’m not picky.”
“Good,” he says. “I didn’t know you were a Tom Hardy fan.”
I roll my eyes as I take my shirt off, realizing he is looking at my computer screen. “It’s research. I’m using him as inspiration. Now, there’s a real man. Strong and protective, sweet with his wife, loves dogs, and just gets more attractive with age. He’s hot, and that accent is totally swoonworthy.”
I’m shuffling through my drawers, looking for a shirt, when I hear him say, “I see your research also includes porn. Damn, Lace. You like some kinky shit.”
My eyes bug out of my head as I drop the shirt in my hands and storm out of the living room, hopping over the couch and ripping the computer from his arms.
I’m standing here with my chest heaving and the laptop clenched to my stomach when I realize I’m in front of Jake, in my pink lace bra.
His eyes travel from my face to my décolletage and skim over the swell of my breasts, making his chocolate eyes turn black before they pop back up with a smile. “You do know, clothing isn’t optional at Shooter’s, right? I believe you’re required to wear a shirt.”
I scrunch my nose at him. “Not funny. And what were you thinking, snooping on my computer?”
“The tab was still up. I must have accidentally clicked on it.”
“Accidentally, my ass.”
He’s making a face like a boy who was caught with a cookie, but I can’t prove he put his hand in the jar. I squint at him as I march my shirtless self—and my laptop—back into my room, slamming my door behind me.
As I fall against it, my heart races, and my breasts feel tender beneath my bra. My skin is sensitive, the way it is when I’m turned on. It’s weird because nothing happened. All Jake did was run his eyes over my body, but damn, I shiver in a way that’s foreign yet familiar.
I focus my energy on getting dressed. With a black crewneck top and
jeans, I head to the bathroom and do my makeup. I might not get dolled up often, but I know how to do a perfect cat eye when necessary. I walk out of my bedroom, and he doesn’t seem impressed with my cleaned-up look.
Jake reaches for my bun and the stray hair that’s sticking up. “You’re not going to do anything with this?”
I glare at him. “You’re lucky you’re getting me out of the house.”
“You look like you put it up in a bun and then had crazy sex. That, or you masturbated.” He eyes me playfully. “It’s wild and unkempt. I’m totally for the sex-crazed look. I just wanted to know if you were okay with it.”
My brows lift at his assumption. I mean, he’s one hundred percent right that I got myself off while watching porn earlier today, but that’s beside the point.
With a slight huff, I turn back to my bedroom, remove my bun, and brush my hair out. It’s still bumpy, but it looks presentable.
As I come out, I point at him and declare, “No comments. This is how I’m leaving the house, and that’s final. Girls won’t think we’re on a date, so you’ll still get hit on, I’m sure of it.”
He grins as he smooths out his shirt. “Not concerned. Now, let’s go.”
Since Shooter’s is nearby, we decide to walk, taking in the warm autumn night. I have to keep up with Jake as he strolls down the street. His long legs move as if he were floating, and I quicken my feet to meet his pace.
We get to the bar, and it’s moderately crowded—typical for a Monday night. There are sporting events on the televisions, including a pregame special for the Bears.
Jake grabs a stool at the bar and holds one out for me while calling over to the bartender. He orders a stout for himself and a Manhattan with three cherries for me.
I tilt my head, surprised.
“Manhattans are the superior drink.” He grins.
I nod, impressed he remembered.
The bartender places the drinks down. I instantly reach for a cherry, swirling it around in my mouth, tasting the alcohol before popping it off the stem.
“You need to write that in one of your books,” Jake says, taking a swig of his beer. “That thing you do with your tongue around that cherry.”
“You’re such a guy.”
“Trust me, it’s a good thing.”
“Want to see something ridiculous, yet I’ve heard, it’s a huge turn-on?” I don’t wait for him to answer as I place the stem back in my mouth and fold it with my tongue. Next, with my mouth closed, I bite on the stem and twist the rest with my tongue until it forms a knot. As I pinch the end and move it from my mouth, I explain to him, “Apparently, if you can tie a cherry stem with your mouth, you’re a good kisser.”
He nods.
“And blow jobs,” I add.
Jake nearly chokes on his beer.
“Sexy?” I ask, thinking the entire thing is silly.
He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. Definitely write that next time you’re showing how the characters develop their attraction for one another. The hate each other and then fall in love thing is good, but seduction by cherry stem is straight to the point.”
It takes me a few minutes to catch on to what he’s talking about. “Wait. Did you read my book I gave you?”
“Of course I did. I can’t live next door to a famous author and not read her work.”
“You read it?”
“I finished it.”
I look down, completely taken aback that he not only opened the book, but he also read it to the end. Here I thought, he was going to use it as a coaster or doorstop.
He leans forward and grabs my attention with his dark eyes, willing me to look at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I thought?”
I lift a shoulder. “Only if you want to share. Reading is a selective and personal endeavor.”
“I loved it.”
I look up with slightly narrowed eyes, searching his for any sign that he’s bullshitting me. His gaze is steady, and his shoulders are square. His expression doesn’t give any clue that he’s lying, and all I see is conviction.
“Thanks,” I state quietly.
“Your prose was fantastic. I loved how the heroine was feisty yet vulnerable. Her backstory was completely believable, as was the male narrative. I had worried you were going to paint all men as macho Neanderthals who tossed women onto beds and dominated them.”
I smile. “Well, I do have a few of those. Fire and Gold just happens to have a hero who is sensitive yet can be the protector the heroine needs.”
“It was great. And the scene at the end, where the ex-husband comes to take her, how did you know the best place to bury a body?”
Laughing, I cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head. “You can thank Google for that.”
Turning on my stool, I take a look around the establishment. It’s a modern bar with black leather backed booths and a swanky dance floor with pool tables off to the side. To me, it’s exactly the kind of place I would write about, where my hero would take a date if they were coworkers at a firm, coming out for happy hour. I’d have them place a bet on who could go home with someone and get laid first. Of course, they’d leave with one another.
“Is this where you bring your dates?” I ask as I spot a couple chatting ever so closely at the end of the bar.
“No.”
“Too close to home?”
“Kind of. I love the food, and the vibe is chill. I come here with friends.”
I nod in understanding. “So, where do you take your dates?”
“Cellar Door, Marie-Jeanne, Good Measure—”
“No Alinea or Smyth?” I ask, throwing in the names of Michelin-starred restaurants in our city. What he named were anything but.
He shakes his head. “I like to go to trendy dive bars and cool hangout-type eats.” I must look confused, so he turns to me fully, placing his arm behind my chair and explaining, “Say I wanted to impress a girl. If I brought her to Smyth, she’d only like it because it was ritzy and flashy. She’d assume I had money and would take her to places like that all the time. I don’t want a woman to date me just because of the places I’ll take her. Plus, I enjoy hanging out in large groups—double and triple dates. I can’t expect my friends to afford the same places I can.”
“So, dive bars it is.”
“For me, a romantic date is a meal of her favorite type of food and then a movie or a museum. It’s not about showing off. It’s showing that you listen to what they want.”
I tilt my head and take him in—handsome, hardworking, considerate. “You’re a good man, Jake Moreau.”
He grins in agreement. “I told you I was hero-worthy.”
My laughter is a little too loud, and it makes the people around us turn their heads. I take a drink in embarrassment.
“I should be taking notes. I always thought men wanted to put their best foot forward on the first date. You know, flashy car, expensive dinner, trendiest after-hours.”
“I love that stuff.” He points to his shirt, which must be designer by the way he’s using it as an example. “There has to be a balance of what you give and take in a relationship.”
“Is this you letting me in on the inner workings of the male brain?”
He laughs deeply. “I’ll let the romance novelist into the secret mind of a man, though I might be breaking some kind of male code out there somewhere.” He winks, and I let out a sharp laugh.
“Don’t worry; your secrets are safe with me.” I pause as I let what he said sink in. “Does it worry you that a woman might only want you for your money?” I immediately don’t like the way the words came out. Based on his designer clothes and expensive car in the parking lot, I guessed he was well off. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I was assuming—”
“You assumed right. The flower business is lucrative, and the building is paid off, so it’s all profit. I keep telling my father he has enough to retire, but working is in his blood. I was raised by an entrepreneur with high morals, who never saw hims
elf as a wealthy man. If I buy fine clothes, I must take care of them. If I invest, I do so in my home. And if I ever marry, I’d do it for life.”
“I wish all men thought that way.”
“Only the good ones.”
I let out a pfft sound and take a swig of my drink.
“Man trouble in the past?” he asks.
I groan. “Let’s just say, I don’t have the best view of the male species.”
“I take that as a personal insult.”
“You should. Your father might have taught you to marry for life, but you’re certainly having fun, mating your way through the dating pool.”
“And you have nothing to say about the women who are sleeping around? That’s a double standard.”
“I’d be hard-pressed to think a woman or two hasn’t been led on and perhaps fallen in love with your good looks and charm.”
“So, you think I’m good-looking?”
“Hardly the point.”
“True, but it’s nice to hear. I thought you were immune to me.” He winks, and I have to look away, so he doesn’t see how the simple act makes me blush.
“I’m immune to men who meander through life like it’s their playground. It’s a sin.”
“You’re forgetting who sinned first. Wasn’t it a woman who led a man to eat the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden?” He acts like bringing up Adam and Eve is the most natural discussion on earth.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “So, every time you sin, it’s Eve’s fault?”
He laughs, and for some reason, the sound makes butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“What I do is not a sin. Sex between two consenting adults is nothing more than using what God gave us. That would be like saying eating is a sin.”
I let out a hard laugh. “That is called gluttony.”
“Eating too much is a sin. Satisfying the palate is survival.”
“Then, you’re claiming you need sex to survive?” I give him a deadpan stare.
“Pleasure,” he breathes in that low, husky voice. “The human soul needs pleasure or else it will surely die.”
