Tossing my hands up, I say, “That’s what you’re worried about in all of this? Smith’s best friend is named Moose. Yes. I don’t know if it’s short for something. They all have weird nicknames, so I’d assume so, but they’re goddamn Navy SEALs, so Moose fits. It’s part of the culture. Or so I’ve gathered from talking to him.” Smith wants me to meet Moose. Our schedules haven’t jived yet.
Both Jasmine and Teala laugh. I shake my head. Try as I might, I was unable to write anything last night. Visions of Smith clouded my thoughts. One would think that’s what I would desire to gain focus to write a novel about his life, but it was so distracting. The way he touched me and looked at me seemed so intimate. I wanted him all to myself. More than I’ve wanted anything else in my entire life, I wanted him to see me like he sees Megan. And he did. I believe he really did.
Teala downs the rest of the water in her bottle. “I need to find a friend who looks like that, too. Can you make that happen? Write me in as the love interest!” she exclaims.
A wave of mild annoyance washes over me. In my mind the love interest has always been Megan, but perhaps, just maybe, another woman enters the picture. My stomach sinks and flips at the same time. If I write it, it’s fiction, but I could live in the place I so desperately desire to be.
I unlock my car door. It’s a brand-new German-engineered sedan. The windows are tinted, and I orderednew tags. It gives me another layer of security against my past.
I haven’t seen or heard from Roarke. His mother called me twice to “talk.” What she really wanted was reasons. For the first time in the history of knowing Roarke’s creator, I told her everything. The reason we spoke twice is because it took two hour-long phone calls for me to get the whole story out in between her sobs. She told me she suspected something was amiss in our relationship but never would have guessed how dubious her son was behaving. She apologized for him several hundred times. It made no difference. If anything, it solidified my decision.
I wave a quick goodbye to Teala, tell Jasmine I’ll see her at home, and excuse myself to write. And write I do. I plot and outline and add quotes to the large marker board that covers half my wall. I’m a mad woman—a woman on a mission. I don’t change out of my workout gear. The sweat on my clothing and my hair eventually dries, and I’m sitting in the middle of my bedroom at Jasmine’s house, staring at the last blank, white bubble at the right side of my board.
“The ending,” I whisper. “How does it end?” Love triangles aren’t my strong suit, or any suit if I’m being honest. This is two love stories streaming at the same time. One from a forgotten time and one present—now. One that is wildly alive and thriving. The choice should be easy, but I see no easy choice for my characters. I close my eyes and think of the photo albums. I let mymind replace Megan with me. The images flit through one by one until, when I open my eyes, tears are pouring down my face.
Jasmine pokes her head in my room after knocking softly. “You have an hour before dinner. Smith called the house to remind you. I told him you were zoning.” She closes the door after widening her eyes at the mess of my multicolored marker board. She never asks questions about my process.
I don’t stop thinking about the blank bubble while I shower or blow-dry my hair, nor when I have a meltdown trying to decide what to wear. “A date? Not a date?” I ask myself as I toil between a skirt and blouse or a low-cut dress. Jasmine made the executive decision for me. When I open the front door to greet Smith, I’m wearing a dress covered in sloths. The neckline dips down low enough to reveal the swell of my breasts.This is a date, I think when I see Smith.
“You’re early,” I say in greeting. “Sorry, I was busy when you called.” Planning our future without you realizing it.
“No apologies needed. Especially when you appear like this,” he says, turning his hands palms up and motioning to my body. “And on time, too, might I add. Wearing sloths. You should join me on my planet. I think you’d enjoy the weather there.”
Shaking my head, I giggle. “Come in,” I say, flustered. His hair is coiffed like I’ve never seen before. The smilehe wears is mine, and everything inside of my being is drawn to him. I have to repeat her name in my head. Megan. It’s my mantra. What is he doing to me? When he walks past, I smell his soap, and I swallow down a lump of desire.
“You have a beautiful place, Jasmine,” Smith says.
Jasmine acts bashful, turning her face down. He’s fucking with everyone. It’s pheromones. It has to be. And I have to spend a whole dinner pretending to not be affected. Jasmine finally thanks him and retreats to the kitchen to continue making soup.
Smith licks his lips and turns his gaze my way. “Are you going to show me your room?”
I panic. The marker board. He can’t see that. Oh my god. What was I thinking? It’s a book about his life. He will read it. In my frenzy, I failed to remember the most important part of this. Smith and his feelings.
“Aren’t we going to be late? It’s a mess right now. Plus, I have so many questions. I’m pretty confused, Smith. Should I grab my notebook?” Finally something intelligent comes out of my mouth. “You look like that. I’m wearing my sloth dress. I don’t know what that means.”
Laughing, he lays a hand on my bare shoulder. It’s warm and dry. I shiver anyway. I don’t shrink away from his touch like I did with Roarke. Smith’s hands have never done anything to betray me. There’s nothing sinister in his actions—only honesty and sincerity.
“It’sdinner, Carina,” he says. His explanation does nothing to quell my nerves. “We’re going to eat at your favorite place. I showered, if that’s why you’re wondering why I look like this. I’m clean. Also, I’m assuming the sloth dress is only reserved for special occasions. I’m honored to meet you, sloth dress,” Smith says, running a finger underneath the strap on my shoulder. No cardigan is needed tonight.
My breath catches in my throat. “Smith. What is this?”
“Whatever it wants to be, Carina.”
I blow out a large breath through both my nose and mouth. Before I put my foot in my mouth, I ask, “Explain, please.” I keep my voice low and hold up one finger when he parts his lips to speak. I know Jasmine is listening to every word, so I usher Smith out the front door into the warm, breezy air. “Now explain.” My hand burns where it lies against the outside of his shirt. It makes me wonder what it would feel like to touch his bare skin on the other side of the shirt.
Looking up at the sky, he pauses a few beats. My pulse hammers against my neck, and I rock from one foot to the other, thanking Jasmine for choosing a pair of ballet flats instead of heels. She told me sexy heels don’t belong with my sloth dress. It was a fair point. Smith’s gaze flicks down to meet mine. He’s determined something in those few seconds of silence. I see the steely reserve reflected in his dreamy eyes.
“We broke up. Megan and I are no longer together. Iwanted to tell you the other day, but you left him, and I was so happy for you that I didn’t want to ruin that news with my news.” He works to swallow. “It’s over.”
Relief hits me square in the chest, but it’s quickly replaced by sadness. She’s not only a real live person. She’s also one of my beloved characters. “You broke up with her,” I say.
Sighing, he clasps his hands behind his head. “She initiated it, but I agreed with it. It’s for the best. It’s not fair to either of us. There are no hard feelings.”
Of course there aren’t. She’s perfect. Megan wouldn’t be catty or cruel to this man. He’s perfect. He wouldn’t make this harder on her than it has to be. I cough. “It’s tragic,” I whisper, hiding my face with both hands.
He shakes his head. “A second ago you would have been happy about it. I see the way you look at me.” My eyes widen. “I know there’s more between us than either of us will admit. You asked what this is,” he says, motioning between our bodies. “We can finally find out.” This is why he spoke of living with me. It’s a real option now. When I stay silent, he continues. “You’re going through a lot,” he says.
I interrupt. “We’re standing on my best friend’s deck because I had to leave my abusive fiancé. A lot doesn’t define what I’m mucking through right now, Smith.”
