“About…well, anything you want to talk about.” Red blooms above his neckline. “Do you need anything?”
“Yes,” I say. “If you could write a thousand words about overcoming bias, I would be ever grateful.”
He gives me a pleading look. “I meant more like, do you want me to grab you some dinner?”
Ah, back to work, then. “Thank you, Mr. Grant, but your author management services are no longer needed this evening.”
“I’m not asking as a publicist. I’m asking as a…” He trails off.
I smirk. “I would very much like you to finish that sentence.”
“As a friend,” he says.
“Afriend.” I give a low whistle. “Watch out, Ryan, you wouldn’t want to cross those strict professional boundaries you’re so fond of.”
He frowns. “Consider it a temporary thing.”
“Like temporary insanity?” I ask.
“Oh no, the insanity is permanent.”
I laugh, and a smile tucks itself into the corner of his mouth. It looks stupidly good on him.
“I hear Chicago makes what’s basically a cake but with pizza ingredients,” he says.
“Have you never had deep-dish pizza?” I am incredulous—it’s a rite of passage in this city.
He shakes his head. “Never been here before.”
And he’s not out there exploring? “You should go get some right now, then walk the Magnificent Mile, Navy Pier, see if the Art Institute is open. It’s a shame to waste your last evening here.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I’ve been to Chicago half a dozen times, and anyway, I’m…” I consider how much to share about why I don’t exactly feel like gallivanting around the city right now and decide on nothing. “I’m busy with this essay,” I finish.
He nods. Doesn’t do what I thought he’d do—cut his losses, tell himself he did his job trying to keep the talent happy, even if shewas unreceptive—but instead slides his hands into his pockets and stands in the center of my hotel room as if he’s rooted to its checkered carpet.
He takes in the suitcases open on luggage racks and the floor, clothes and papers strewn on various surfaces, a book and reading glasses atop the disheveled bed. My mother would be mortified at someone seeing my room in this state, but it doesn’t occur to me to mind. Maybe today’s events have numbed me to basic decency. Or maybe it’s because he offered to get me dinner—as a friend. Which he said we are.
Are we?
On their circuit, his eyes scan over the nightstand, and all at once I realize I definitely shouldn’t have invited Ryan into my untidy room. Because right there, for anyone with working eyes to see, is my vibrator.
Fuck.
“So,” I say, my voice much too loud. All the better to distract him with. “Um. Thank you, for, you know, arranging the change in venue for today. Went off without a hitch.”
Did he see it? If he did, does he even know what it is? It’s not like it’s a honking dildo. It’s just a small finger-slip device, a cheerful lilac purple, barely noticeable. It could be anything!
It takes him a moment to turn back to me, though. His eyes are stolid as usual, but his pulse is noticeably beating double-time at his jugular.Fuck.
“Just doing my job,” he says.
Did I imagine that hoarseness in his tone?
I decide to act like he didn’t see anything. What’s he going to do,askme about it? I could deny it, anyway, play it off like he’s mistaken, it’s something else entirely. A high-end thimblette for turning the pages of my book. Yeah.
I halt my spiraling thoughts. What the hell. This is my room. I’m a grown-ass woman who can pleasure herself all she wants.
