I take the mug of tea from his outstretched hand. “I’m so sorry. I should never have made you—”
“Hey, come on. You didn’t make me do anything. I had a great time out with you.”
“Except for when you nearly broke your back on the ice.”
“Well… that part wasn’t great.” He turns to lean back against the counter opposite me, his eyes animated as they move over my face. “But the rest of it was. Even the bit after.”
I look down at my tea and press my lips together in an attempt to contain my smile. Is he referring to the part where he took half his clothes off and I had to use superhuman strength to resist him?
My eyes drift back up to his. He’s sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, his gaze resting on me, and for a second I wonder if he felt what I felt, in that tiny room when I was icing his shoulder. Because there was a moment when I thought maybe he did, but that’s unlikely. I’m prone to imagining these sorts of things.
I clear my throat, forcing the image from my mind. I’m going to have to work a lot harder on not getting caught up in Michael fantasies with this new writing opportunity.
“So, um, I got some good news about my writing today.”
“Yeah?”
“An online magazine wants me to write a few articles for them.” I try to hold back my grin but I can’t. “And if the articles do well, it could become a regular thing, like a column on their site.”
“No way!” His mouth curves into a broad smile. “That’s awesome.”
“I know.” I do a happy hop on the spot and Michael laughs.
“When will you find out?”
I think back to what Justin said. “They’re launching the column in the new year, so probably in a couple of weeks.”
“And what’s it about?”
Bugger. I was kind of hoping we wouldn’t have to get into all that.
“Oh, you know.” I dip my teabag up and down, avoiding his gaze. “Just… things.” It’s excruciating hearing myself sometimes, I tell you. I don’t know what I was expecting—ofcoursehe was going to ask what it’s about.
I hazard a glance at him and he’s leaning against the counter, cradling his steaming cup of tea as he regards me with amusement. “Look,” he says after a pause. “I get that it can be hard to show someone a work in progress, or whatever. But you won’t even tell mewhatyou write about. It’s almost starting to feel like, I don’t know… you don’t want me to know.”
He’s right. I haven’t wanted to tell him. I think mainly it’s because it doesn’t feel like, well, a very impressive topic. He wrote this stunning, moving memoir about walking the Appalachian Trail after his divorce. I write posts about wearing comfortable underwear because no one is going to see it. Will he evengetit?
“Okay,” I say, rubbing my nose. “Just… don’t judge me, okay?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I raise my eyes to the ceiling, unable to look at him as I speak. “I write a blog about being single.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Okay. And what is thecolumngoing to be about, then?”
“Being single and… how great it is.”
There’s another beat of silence. When I finally make myself look at him, he’s just staring at me.
“You write about being single? Seriously?”
“Er… yes?”
“Right.” His gaze slides to the floor and his brow furrows in thought. “Why didn’t you tell methisis what you write about?”
I cringe. “I don’t know.”
I wait for him to say something, but he’s still frowning, scrubbing a hand over his beard. Eventually, he blows out a breath and lifts his gaze to mine, then his mouth softens into a sheepish little smile. “Sorry. I just… I kind of thought there was something happening here.”
