I’ve donea lot of stupid things in my life to impress a woman. But reading romance novels takes the cake. My plan to use her book as an instructional manual to win her attention has somewhat backfired. I don’t know if it’s this book specifically or romance novels in general, but I’m in a perpetual state of self-torture.
Last night, Rosalie and I read in the living room, not touching, not kissing, not fucking—while the characters on the page were doing that and more. But the worst part was, I couldn’t stop. Even after she went upstairs, I kept reading. I kept telling myself one more chapter, and now I’m functioning on four hours of sleep. A bad idea, especially since today I’m operating large machinery.
Every chance I get to take a break, I’m sneaking off to hide in the tack room so I can pick back up where I left off. I’m fully invested in these characters and I need them to end up together, but each chapter leaves me on a cliffhanger and I’m starting to worry they won’t. If one of them dies, I’m gonna throw the damn book!
Me: Please tell me Dom and Everly end up together . . .
Rosalie: Are you worried they won’t?
Me: Hell, yeah I am! This guy from her past is sneaky and these two keep banging when they should be running!
Rosalie: LOL one of the many things I love about romantic suspense.
Me: It’s crack. Are all your books like this?
Rosalie: The good ones are un-put-downable.
She’s right about that. I only have a few more minutes before Ryan or one of the crew comes to drag me back out in the fields. But I send her another message before reading a few more pages.
Me: You’ll have to help me pick my next read. I’m almost done with this one.
Rosalie: Really? That was quick!
Rosalie: Hmm . . . how do you feel about shifters?
Me: Shifters?
Rosalie: Werewolves, bears, dinosaurs . . .
Me: There’s dino smut?
Rosalie: I revoke your use of the word smut. Only true romance book lovers have rights to that term of endearment.
Me: You’re well on your way to making a romance lover out of me.
Rosalie: That so?
Just as it has several times this week, our banter takes a turn and I can’t tell if Rosalie is flirting. God, I hope she is.
Me: How about we discuss the steps I need to take in order to earn the use of the word over dinner?
Rosalie: Perfect. Just to warn you, there will be a test.
Me: What kind?
Please say oral exam. Please say oral exam.
The little bubbles that indicate her typing appear and disappear for several minutes. I start to wonder if she’s even going to respond.
Rosalie: Do you know what time you’ll be home? And don’t feel like you have to stay in tonight. I’m fine on my own if you want to go out. Don’t let me stop you from your usual routine.
My brows pinch together as I read her text.What the hell is this crap?Is this her polite way of suggesting I give her some space? I guess we weren’t flirting. Here I am counting down the hours until I see her again, and she’s practically asking me not to come back home. Maybe she’s tired of me already? I deflate with disappointment.
I’m a fish out of water when it comes to this woman. My smooth or suggestive lines don’t work on her. They never did. But maybe I’m the only one who can’t seem to let that night last year go. Maybe I’m the only one who’s gone to sleep this week longing for something more than friendship.
I shake my head, pushing away the insecurities that threaten to steal my good mood. I’m spiraling over a fucking text message. I’mbetter than that, and we’re due an honest conversation. I’ve been scared to push her because it doesn’t take much for her to shut down and retreat. But I’m wasting time. She’s only with me four more nights. Am I really going to let another pass while avoiding this undeniable tension between us? I’ve never played it safe. Now’s not the time to start.
Me: Don’t be silly, I like staying in with you.
