“How did you find it?” I ask.
He blinks once, then his brows lift. “California?”
I nod, trying not to laugh. I wasn’t asking about the foam lip, though fair question.
“I was there on business,” he says. “So I didn’t see many tourist spots. But I found it… pleasant enough.” His cup is almost empty now. “Why, are you planning on going there next?”
“It’s complicated.” When he keeps watching me, steady and quiet, I sigh. “I’ve been offered a job in L.A., and I don’t know if I wantto take it.”
His face shifts almost imperceptibly, like someone’s nudged a painting on a wall. “Los Angeles,” he repeats neutrally.
“Mm.” I stretch out in my chair, trying for nonchalance. It’s one of my tells; Leo would clock it instantly. “I’ve been there plenty. I like it. But this would be… different.”
Other people get instantly excited when I mention it. Or they stare at me incredulously and bombard me withWhy haven’t you already said yes?Jacob, refreshingly, does neither. He just listens, waiting for me to say more.
“It’s a pretty cool gig,” I admit. “Daily slot on a morning TV show, talking about my work. Cleaned up, obviously, but still meaningful. Still getting what I consider to be an important message out there.” I shrug one shoulder. “But they want it all studio-based. Which means no more traveling, except maybe on weekends. And the kind of globe trotting I like? Two days won’t cut it.”
I argued for doing live segments from wherever I happened to be, but the network wasn’t into trusting satellites, time zones, or me. They want control. Normally a hard pass. But… Wouldn’t it be stupid to pass up such an incredible chance?
“Ah, forgive me,” he says, leaning in a little. “What do you do for a living?”
Now you’re asking, handsome. “I write a blog. It’s calledJust the Tippi.” I tilt my head. “Care to guess what it’s about?”
He swallows, color rising, and I let a wicked grin spread across my face. “I’m guessing it’s a reference to, ah…”
“Penetrative sex, specifically the first inch orso of a penis? Yes.” His blush deepens again, and it’s getting addictive; he glances around, horrified someone might have overheard.Precious man. “I started it for fun, really. To make it clear women get to enjoy sex however they choose, and to open up the conversation. Then it grew, and I monetized.”
“No mean feat,” he says thoughtfully.
“Thanks. I work hard on it.” People often laugh when they talk about my content, but the work is serious to me. They don’t offer TV slots to just anyone. The blog is my baby.
And I’ve lifted it to the point where I can comfortably live off the money it makes. Before I flew here, I was biking the Banff Legacy Trail. Before that, eating prawn balchão in Goa. Before that… I’d have to stop and think about it, but I do remember it was somewhere hot with good street noodles. The point is, my life right now is pure dandelion seed. I go where the wind blows and write about what I find each time I land. I don’t know if I can swap that for a studio and a salary I’d mostly spend on rent.
Except, of course, any sane person would kill for an offer like this. So what does it say about me if I’m hesitating?
Jacob rolls up the corner of his napkin, thinking. “If… If I may?”
“Please do.”
“If this job is going to make you even a little unhappy,” he says slowly, “I don’t think you should take it.” He gives me a faint, earnest smile. “You seem like one of the happiest people I’ve ever met, exactly as you are. It’d be a c-criminal shame to let that go, much more than it would to pass on the job offer. No one is obliged to take an opportunity just because it’s objectively good. It’s got to berightfor them.”
I reach instinctively for his hand, then catch myself and swap tomy cup, giving him that essential consent buffer. “Thanks for not yelling at me to grab it with both hands,” I say, finishing the last of my cappuccino.
He looks genuinely puzzled. “I’d never yell at you. Ever.”
Oh, Jacob Stewart, you haveno ideahow much I want to ruin you in the best possible ways.
I scan the café for a new topic, something lighter, and my gaze snags on a poster tacked to the wall. And in seconds, a plan drops neatly into place. They often do, if people keep their eyes open and allow them to happen.
“Have you ever been to a speedway meet?” I ask, nodding towards it.
He follows my line of sight. Local track. Tonight. Twenty minutes out of town. “No. Never.”
“Then come with me.” His eyes widen and I laugh. “I’m calling in that favor you owe me. I want to go, and I’d like your company. Deal?”
He stares, mouth opening and closing, like someone’s unplugged his dialog options. For a second I worry I’ve pushed him from intrigued into overwhelmed. But then he takes three careful breaths and nods.
“Great!” I hold out my hand and, surprised, he shakes it, fingers warm and tentative around mine. There’s the tiniest catch in his throat, a quiet sound I feel all the way down my spine. My skin prickles; his touch is electric, and I haven’t felt that jolt in too long.
