Page 74 of King of Hollywood
Why did he sound apologetic?
“No, Harold.”
“Yes, Marshall.”
“No, Harold.” I groaned, rubbing my temple. “No.” He made an apologetic sound. “But—it’s date night.”
“I know. I’ll make it up to you?”
“Fuck.”
Apparently—sparing you the gritty, boring details—someone had been an idiot (big surprise there) and something had been logged incorrectly—and blah, blah, blah.
A giant, expensive, pain in my ass.
In a tizzy, I walked over to Felix’s home. It was brisk out, chill for a summer night. The woods creaked, and down the street, Barry’s lights were off despite it only being eight p.m.
I’d been flying on cloud nine all day, imagining what Felix and I could get up to tonight.
I’d had it in my head that I might touch his ass.
I know! Me?! An ass toucher.
I’d never wanted to touch someone’s ass before.
I had been psyching myself up for it all day. And if things got a little frisky, I’d also figured I might throw a little tongue action in for the first time. I was a goddamn adventurer. Obviously I’d take Felix for food he wouldn’t eat first and park us in the woods in what I now affectionately referred to as “our spot” in my head.
It was going to be so romantic.
Which was why I was pissed-angry-annoyed-irritated that I’d have to call off our date. Damn, Harold and his burger-pizza-eating, polo-wearing bitch-face.
Luckily…my ire was for naught.
Because when I told Felix what had happened, instead of sending me home to bitch and moan alone, he invited me inside, laptop, spreadsheets, foul mood, and all.
We sat together on his couch in silence for hours while I put out metaphorical fires and Felix crocheted some more wisteria for the parts of the house I’d cleaned.
He graciously left me alone, which allowed me to focus.
I’d never understood the phrase “comfortable silence” until I’d met him. Now I knew it intimately, and I never wanted it to end.
The occasional brush of Felix’s cool feet beneath my thigh served to remind me that I was here—and not at home. As did the lovely lemony scent of his hair, and the quiet whisper of his needle looping through yarn.
At one point, Felix abandoned his project and switched positions entirely. No longer sandwiched at the other end of the couch, he scooted into my side almost…shyly. He glanced at me through his lashes to gauge my reaction to his closeness.
A pleased little smile flitted across his lips when he saw my face.
I wasn’t sure what it was doing, but apparently it was favorable because only seconds later he was settling his head against my arm, his fluffy hair an absolute mess.
He dozed sleepily, like he wasn’t curled up with a predator.
Like he wasn’t a predator himself.
My monster ached.
Felix drooled against the sleeve of my button up, his crochet forgotten. Docile. Sweet. He looked so…soft like this. Covertly, I took a picture, logging it away in the album on my phone that was dedicated to him, and him alone. Then, because his hands looked rather lovely where they rested almost demurely in his lap, I took a picture of them too.
And his feet.
