Page 22 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
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After telephonically braving first my mother and then my agent, I just wanted to go back to sleep. Maybe even take a long hot relaxing bath and doze off in the bathtub. But that Friday morning would not be the day to do it. It wasn’t even seven thirty yet. I’d barely had any coffee. I needed a proper breakfast, a long shower, and some naproxen to help alleviate the hangover.
I drank two full glasses of water and made my way to the shower when I heard my phone buzzing. I went back to my bed, looking for it, and saw Victor’s name on the screen. I let the call go straight to voicemail. I guessed he’d also read the news. But I couldn’t have another conversation about that damned article that morning. Especially not with him.
I was again heading for the shower when the doorbell rang. I didn’t have time to swear under my breath or even think about pretending I wasn’t home.
“I brought vegan donuts from Donut Friend and almond milk macchiatos from Verve,” David yelled from the other side of my locked front door. I stopped in my tracks and went straight to open it.
I don’t know how he’d done it, but David had somehow learned that I’d gone vegan since we quit living together and had chosen the surprise breakfast accordingly. Also, for the record, that’s exactly how you should aim to wake someone up: with fried sugary dough and hot comforting beverages.
I opened the door, only partly aware that I was wearing a two-or-three-sizes-too-big UCLA T-shirt and not much else. I didn’t even think about how it looked that I was dressed in his favorite college garment, or whether I was showing too much leg. When you’re five foot three, you can hardly be described as leggy.
He gave me a stare that at the time I interpreted as knowing—he was conscious that I had his T-shirt and was glad to have found it even if it wasn’t clear that I would give it back—but I now think his look was more on the side of appreciative. I may not be leggy per se, but I sure am sexy. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a bra?
“I have a plain glazed, one covered in passion fruit, one covered in matcha, their version of Boston cream, and some donut holes for good measure,” he said, not acknowledging my state of dress—or rather undress—while I was still standing at the door. He held a black donut box and a to-go tray of coffees in one hand, clutching his laptop with the other.
How could someone look sogoodscorchingly hot at 7:33 in the morning and after having way too many drinks the night before?
He wore faded jeans and a dark knit sweater. His hair was still wet from a shower. He smelled of soap, recently applied deodorant, donuts—and him. I felt hungry and realized it had nothing to do with my need for food but my need for him.
Céntrate, compórtate, I ordered myself to focus and behave.He’s not here for a morning fuck and breakfast. He’s here to work on the case, and he’s brought food because he knows you’re the worst and the only thing you keep in your refrigerator is wine and expired mustard.
I let him in. He went straight to my round dining room table and started making room for the food and his computer, setting some of my stacks of badly organized scripts, notebooks, and books on neat piles on the floor.
“Relax, I’ve seen the articles,” he told me then, sitting at the table and keeping his perpetually collected and cool façade.
I breathed a bit more easily. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to him that his name was splattered across the front page of the newspaper he was supposed to be working for.
I allowed my tense shoulders to go back to a resting position and sat at the table, as far away from him and his intoxicating and pheromone-laden smell as I could while still having full access to the donuts. I bit into one of the holes, had a long sip of coffee, and allowed myself to savor the bliss. Only then did it hit me.
“Articles?” I asked. “Plural.”
“Articles,” he said, the hint of a smile still on his lips. Was he clenching his jaw at all or had it always been so sexily sharp?
“Okay, my mother woke me up this morning and forced me to read the one on theVoicewith your name all over it.”
“Your name is also there,” he said.
“Fucking George. I never liked him.”
“He wasn’t lying.” He sent my way one of the most mischievous, lust-filled stares in our history together.
“He wasn’t,” I admitted, doing my best at an equally nonchalant but sexually charged stare.
Not only had we been loud on Wednesday night, I’d texted David after that and asked him to make me scream like that night again. But he still hadn’t obliged. And it didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon—if ever again—considering we had bigger preoccupations and he seemed to be the main suspect in a murder investigation.
So, very much against my primal needs, I asked him about those preoccupations.
“What’s the other article? Or is it alsoarticles?”
“Singular this time,” he said.
“Menos mal,” I said, relieved.
“No te creas, the article in question is quite damning in itself.”
“Fucking press!” David looked offended, but I didn’t care.
