He strolls to the door and looks over his shoulder, his hand on the handle. “Of course I think you’re funny. Why wouldn’t I think you’re funny?”
I feel like I’ve missed an important part of the conversation.
I’m okay with not being funny. Some people need to make other people laugh. But I value other qualities in myself. “I’m a lot of things, Wesley. But I’m not funny.”
“Well, then, why do I feel so happy whenever I’m with you?” he asks.
My face is blank, except for my eyes, which feel like they’re about to fall out of my face, and my cheeks, hot with delighted embarrassment.
He sighs, knocking his head gently against the closed door. “I concede that might have been a touch heavy for two people who are just hooking up. Albeit, exclusively.”
Forget highway billboards. He rents ad space in Times Square. Andoh. I know that I need to be careful here, to not push his boundaries and keep work safe for him. But I didn’t realize how very gentle I need to be with his heart. And with mine. We have the capacity to hurt each other, not just professionally. A few weeks ago, I would have tried not to bat an eye at the thought. But now that I know him, I want to protect his heart as much as I want to protect mine.
“Do you want to come over tonight?” I ask.
He pauses, brushing his hair back, and says, “Yes.” He sounds relieved.
I nod. “Okay. Maybe around eight?”
“Sure.” He turns away to open the door.
“Do you really feel happy when you’re with me?” I say quickly and a little too loud.
Turning back to me, he frowns. “Of course I do,” he says, with his words and with the heat in his gaze.
He watches me quietly. “I want to kiss you right now. I want to show you with my mouth exactly how happy you make me.”
I press my thighs together. “That...that is not work appropriate, Mr. Chambers,” I say, trying to hide the smile on my face.
“Back to work, Ms. Blunt.”
Chapter 27: Wesley
Corrine sits, cross-legged, on her living room floor, in a pair of black tights and a black sweater with a deep V-neck. She smiles at me as I walk in, then turns back to the fireplace, speaking quietly into her phone. I stand for a moment in her foyer. Do I make myself at home? Should I strip down on the bed? What’s the protocol here for a secret hookup?
She turns back to me, her eyes narrowing, and now I’m wondering on a scale of one to ten, how creepy do I seem loitering in her doorway? I toe off my shoes and fold my jacket over the back of a barstool, hooking my messenger bag over it as well. I sit beside her, stretching out my legs and resting my weight on my palms behind me.
“Okay, Mom. I’d better go,” she says, her voice sweet and soft. “Love you, too.”
She sets the phone down, smiling at me.
“Hi,” I say. “How’s your mom?”
“Hi,” she says. “Good. She sounded sleepy.”
“And how are you?” I ask, nodding to her phone so she’ll know I really mean,How are you taking all this?
She smiles but it’s sad. She’s quiet and I think maybe she won’t answer, maybe this is a thing that we don’t talk about even though we put our tongues in each other’s mouths.
“My mom used to say that I was a slow cooker friend.”
I nod, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I’m a slow burn,” she explains. “It takes a long time for me to warm up to people.”
I don’t know whether or not agreeing will get me in trouble but that is the most accurate assessment of Corrine Blunt I have ever heard. So I say, “Ahhhh.”
“I just...” She picks at her fingernails. “I’ve never thought about what it might be like to exist in a world without the one person who knows me better than anyone else.”
