Of course everything will be fine, I tell myself. The problem with my fantasy self is that it’s just as skilled at imagining disasters as it is the good stuff.
I lean over to kiss the tip of his nose. “I’m more than okay. Shall I make us some coffee?”
He nods, settling back against the pillows with a happy sigh.
I slip out of the covers and pull on my underwear, glancing around the room for my clothes. My eyes land on Michael’s hooded sweater and I reach for it, pulling it on. I bury my face in the fabric, inhaling the scent of his woodsy cologne and soap, feeling all snuggly.
“Hey,” he protests mildly, but when I turn to him, his mouth hooks into grin. “Shit, you look sexy. Come back here.”
I giggle. “In a minute. Let me get coffee.”
See? Everything will be fine.
* * *
Michael isquiet on the ride home. His hand is resting on my leg, and my own hand is up on the back of his neck, stroking his hair—it seems neither one of us wants to stop touching the other—but I can’t shake the feeling that he has something on his mind.
“You okay?” I ask, thinking back to the tense drive up here.
He glances at me, his mouth curving into a smile. “Yeah, beautiful. I am. I just—” He pauses, and apprehension pinches his brow. “I have to ask. What are you going to do about this column if you get offered it?”
Oh. Right.
I pull my hand away and turn to gaze out the window, watching the passing landscape. I’ve been trying not to think about this, because… I have no idea.
“What about your romance novel?” Michael tries again when I don’t answer. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with it when you finish it?”
“Not really.”
“I thought it was good.”
I blush, glancing at him from under my lashes.
“I don’t know the genre, so I can’t comment on that.” He shoots me a flirtatious grin. “But it certainly, uh, had the desired effect.”
“That’s only because you thought it was about you and me,” I say with a wry smile.
“Itwasabout you and me.”
My blush deepens. He’s got me there.
“And I loved it.” He takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Why do you think I made you give me a copy?”
A laugh tickles my throat. Yesterday Michael said he wanted to read it properly, since I’d finished the draft. I was nervous but then I figured, what the hell? The cat’s out of the bag—he knows it’s about us—and just quietly, if he reads the whole thing, we might even get to act out some of my favorite scenes.
He grins. “I can’t wait to read it all.”
“Just… don’t show it to anyone, okay? It’s not polished yet, and—”
“Of course. It’s for my reading pleasure only.” He emphasizes the word “pleasure,” wiggling his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh again. “But seriously. Which do you enjoy writing more? The articles or the novel?”
“The novel,” I admit.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s fun, and I have total control over how I write it.”
“If that’s what you love the most, maybe focus on that.”
