“Nothing. I spent the day reading.”
His brows furrows. “You spent the day alone?”
I nod.
“That sucks. I didn’t realize. You could have had dinner with us, we had way too much turkey.”
“Oh, it was fine,” I say, trying to ignore the fizzle of pleasure I feel at the thought of having dinner with him and Henry. “Thanksgiving doesn’t mean much to me.”
“Still… no one should spend Thanksgiving alone.”
I fight against a smile and lose. He’s being really sweet. I think back to our conversation at Beanie, when he listened to me talk about turning thirty and wanting to go after my dreams—when he made me feel like I wasn’t crazy.
Shit, why does he have to be such a nice guy? Things were aloteasier when I thought he was a misogynistic jerk.
His gaze shifts to my laptop on the table. “What were you writing?”
“Oh…” Warmth spreads over my neck. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing.” He leans against one of the machines, arms still crossed, expression playful. “Seemed quite interesting.”
I dig my teeth into my lower lip, running my eyes over him. I can’t help but wish I wasn’t having this conversation in our basement laundry room, in my pajamas. And then I notice, part of mewantsto tell him about my novel. Not about the characters, or the oddly familiar scenarios or anything in any detail, but just the fact that I’m writing a novel. I’m excited about my writing, and after our last conversation, I know he’ll understand that.
But then what? He’ll realize what a dreamy, romantic sap I am and lose all respect for me. And no doubt he’ll think my choice in genre is silly, because it’s not high-brow or literary or any of that meaningful stuff.
Or worse—he’ll want to read it.
“I’d love to read some of your writing.”
Fuck.
“Really?” I choke on a laugh. “Now?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
I think of the scene I was just writing about him in the shower and heat streaks across my cheeks. Jesus. The last thing I need is for him to read that. He’ll think I’m a crazy, horny maniac.And potentially a bit of a stalker.
“Er, I don’t think so. It’s… I’m not ready to share it. It’s a work in progress.”
He studies me for a second then gives a small nod. “Okay, I get it. But when you’re ready, I’d love to read it. I might be able to offer some advice.”
Actually, that’s a good point. For example, he might say, “we’d never have sex in that position,” and then offer some helpful alternatives. Hopefully with a practical, hands-on demonstration. I swallow hard at the thought, becauseGod, I want him right now. Maybe on one of the machines, during the spin cycle…
I shake my head to clear the thought.Pull it together, you horndog.
“Thanks. Yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”
An awkward silence settles over us, punctuated only by the sound of the dryer spinning behind me. I wait for him to say goodnight and leave, but he doesn’t.
“So how long have you been in New York now?”
I think for a moment. “Um, like a month and a half?”
“And you’ve done all the tourist stuff?”
“Well, no.” I give him a sheepish smile. “I’ve hardly left the West Village. I did take a cab up to Times Square but it was so full-on that I came back home. I want to go see more of the sights, but I’ve been so busy settling in and working and stuff. And, I don’t know. The city… it’s a bit intimidating.” I look down at my hands, feeling stupid. I wanted to move to New York and now that I’m here, I spend most of my time within the same ten-block radius. Which, come to think of it, is probably about the same size as my hometown.
I glance up, expecting Michael to be regarding me with another of his amused expressions, but he’s not. He’s sawing his teeth across his bottom lip, his face thoughtful. “What are you doing next week?”
