I force myself to look away from his chiseled features and focus on thethreepacked bags of Chinese food.Damn. I didn’t think he’d order the entire menu.
Taking one of the bags from his arms, I lead him into the apartment. “How much do I owe you?”
He scowls, his dark brows pulled low. “You don’t owe me anything. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“That’s a lot of food,” I point out, peering over my shoulder. “Probably enough to cater a Bat Mitzvah.”
Or at least a baby shower.
“I’m a big guy.” He shrugs, as if that statement wasn’t extremely subliminal. “Do you want to eat at the kitchen table or the island?”
Coming back down to earth, I cough out, “Uh, the table is fine.”
While I pull out plates and silverware, Cole opens container after container of delicious-smelling dishes. Beef and broccoli, orange chicken, kung pao pork, and General Tsao with tofu. I grab one of my nicer wines—and by that, I mean it cost more than $11.99 but less than $24.99—and pour two glasses.
I set the glasses on the table, and when I look up, I find Cole studying me with keen interest.
“You’re taking a writing class?”
Breath stuttering, I dart a look at my laptop, which is open on the seat next to him. There’s nothing salacious on there. Just about a thousand open tabs, all holding information about writing courses and classes. Who knew that searching “creative writing class near me” would send me down a rabbit hole of such epic proportions?
I wiggle my fingers, silently demanding he return my private property to me, and sit in the empty chair across from him. “It’s considered rude to look through people’s computers.”
With a completely unrepentant smirk, he closes the lid. But rather than hand it over, he keeps it on the seat like it’s claiming squatter’s rights. “Good thing you’re not just people.”
“Hmph.” I pile a bit of everything onto my plate at a turtle-like pace, but when I can no longer pretend to be engrossed by the food, I risk glancing up.
Cole’s amber eyes narrow in assessment, the steadiness of his stare an almost physical force. “So are you?”
Playing dumb, I ask, “Am I what?”
“Taking a writing class? You’ve mentioned wanting to be an author.”
I sputter at his question. The wordauthorsounds so outlandish and out of reach that I feel ridiculous for ever having admitted that to him. “No, I’m not. Sophie suggested I find a hobby. That’s not reading, I mean.”
“But you’re not sold on taking a writing class.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
When I don’t answer, he puts down his fork and rests his forearms on the table, his focus homed in on me.
“I told you I took a shit in my mom’s vegetable garden because I was scared a goldfish was going to resurrect itself from the toilet. I highly doubt anything you could say would be more embarrassing than that, so spit it out. What’s bothering you?”
I can’t help but laugh at the memory of that story. He has a point, though. My insecurities aren’t nearly as embarrassing asthat.
“I don’t know.” Fork in hand, I pick at my food, moving it around on my plate. “I guess the idea of turning what’s forever been such a pipe dream into a reality makes me nervous. What if I spend months or years working on a manuscript, and then it’s not even good? There aresomany books and authors out there. The Book Nook is big, and we only sell a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of published works. Who am I to compete with the Sarah J. Maases and Emily Henrys of the world?”
His nose scrunches up. “This is how you feel when I name sports players, isn’t it?”
A smile blossoms across my face as warmth blooms in my chest. “Yup, pretty much.”
“Okay, well, who are they? Besides authors, obviously.”
“Obviously.” I laugh. “A fantasy author and a romance author, respectively.”
“But you read fantasies and romances written by other authors, right?”
I flick my hand, gesturing toward the other side of my apartment, where books live in every nook and cranny. “Of course.”
“Just because a reader likes those authors doesn’t mean they can’t also likeyou.” He grins, pleased with himself. “Plus, you already have the perfect plot. You can write a memoir about a bookstore manager falling head over heels for a hockey player.”
