by Jen Morris
“Yes.” I place a tentative hand on Michael’s shoulder. “He’s hurt his shoulder, so can we—”
“Oh dear. Please remove your skates and you can come with us.”
“Come with…” I begin but Barnaby dashes off and leans close to speak to another attendant. I glance at Michael in confusion and he rolls his eyes.
“They’re probably worried we’re going to sue.”
A disbelieving laugh slides from my lips as I unlace and remove my boots. “Seriously?”
He nods, reaching down for his boots and flinching again. I wave his hand away and crouch at his feet, unlacing his boots for him.
“Try to look pissed off and we’ll get season passes or something,” Michael says with a pained grin.
I glance up at him. “Do you actually want season passes?”
But he doesn’t say anything. He’s just watching as I undo his boots and slip them off, one after the other. Something shimmers in his eyes, and I can’t help but wonder if he likes having me down here, on my knees in front of him. I’m not going to say I mind it, although I’d prefer that we weren’t surrounded by throngs of tourists and that it wasn’t freezing. No, I’d rather we were indoors, with Michael reclining on a huge bed, and instead of a winter coat I’d be wearing a lacy—
“Okay!” Barnaby appears again, wrenching me from my daydream. Probably just as well.
We grab our shoes, following after him. He leads us inside to the underground concourse and over to a door marked “staff.” We head through and down a corridor and into a tiny room with some chairs, and he disappears again.
It’s not until then that I realize I’ve been clutching Michael’s hand in worry this whole time, as if my touch is somehow going to make him feel better.
I give him an awkward smile, dropping his hand as we take a seat. “Sorry,” I mumble, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s insanely warm in here after being out on the ice, and I stand, shrugging my coat off. “What would we even sue them for, anyway?”
Michael’s gaze travels down over my dress before returning to my face. It reminds me of that evening when he saw me in my Snow White costume, and I blush.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, locking his gaze with mine. He has the same look in his eye as when I was down on my knees and it makes my heart thump a little harder.
“Righty! Okay, here we are.” Barnaby is back with an ice-pack and a clipboard, and he thrusts both into my hands. “You’ll need to complete this.”
He vanishes again and I glance down at the clipboard with a sigh. It’s all kinds of legal stuff about how they’re not responsible, blah blah blah. “You want me to fill this out?” I offer, handing the ice-pack to Michael.
“If you don’t mind.”
“You’re not going to sue?” I ask, half-kidding. I’ll never understand the American legal system.
Michael shakes his head. “It’s not that bad. Besides,” he adds, his face darkening ever so slightly, “I’ve spent enough time in court lately.”
I settle down on the seat and fill in the form. It only takes a few minutes and I can feel Michael’s gaze on me the whole time. He must be worried I’m going to do it wrong, or something.
Setting the clipboard aside, I turn to him with a frown. “Aren’t you going to…” I gesture to the ice-pack.
He gives me a sheepish look. “Would you mind? I can’t quite reach.”
“Oh! Right, of course.” I spring to my feet.
He gingerly slips his coat off and I step behind him, ready to put the ice-pack on his shoulder. But before I can do that, he grabs the hem of his sweater with his right hand and peels it off, until he’s just sitting there in a black tank top.
And—holy shit.
Saliva pools in my mouth as my eyes track over his gorgeous, sculpted shoulders and the muscular curve of his biceps. And when he glances back at me with those espresso-colored eyes, heat races up my body.
“Alex?” he prompts, and I blink.
“Yes. Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to stop the unfolding of a million dirty fantasies in my mind, and press the ice-pack against his shoulder. Believe me when I say it takes every ounce of strength in my body not to lean forward and run my tongue over his smooth, hot skin.
He flinches at the touch of the ice-pack, and I place my left hand on his bicep to hold him steady. That’s the only reason, I swear, because he keeps pulling away. There’s a painful little groaning sound from his mouth as the ice numbs his shoulder, but my twisted mind just hears a sexy groan.
That does it. I imagine myself down on my knees again, but this time I’m reaching for his zipper and making him groan again and again until he’s so overcome with pleasure that he forgets all about his shoulder—that he forgets his own damn name.
Jesus. How on earth have I ended up here, alone in this tiny room with half of Michael’s clothes off? And—for fuck’s sake—how am I supposed to keep it together now?
I feel his arm flex under my fingertips and my breathing goes haywire, molten heat pooling between my thighs. This man is so undeniably sexy and I’m losing it. It’s like I’m caught in a spell as I slide my palm over his bicep, the feel of hard muscle under silky skin making me quiver.
He turns to glance up at me again from under his thick lashes and suddenly the whole room is crackling with electricity. His eyes pin me in place as a flush creeps onto his cheeks, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think—
“How are we getting on in here?”
We both turn to the door as Barnaby comes sashaying back in, bright-eyed. He snatches up the form, nodding in our direction when he’s satisfied we aren’t heading straight for the lawyer’s. Then he spins on his heel and exits before either of us can say anything.
I suck in a breath, taking a step back from Michael. That was close. God knows what I might have done if Barnaby hadn’t come in right then. I think I was about three milliseconds away from climbing onto Michael’s lap.
I need to get a grip, before I do something to utterly humiliate myself.
Michael is quiet in the cab on the way home. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s in pain, or because I weirded him out with my creepy sexual vibes back at the rink. Either way, I feel bad because he went to so much trouble to show me the city and I just ruined it by getting him injured and then lusting all over him when he was vulnerable. Poor guy.
I clear my throat and he turns to look at me. “Sorry again about your shoulder.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I haven’t been on an ice rink in at least a decade. I should have known it wouldn’t end well.” He lets out a grim laugh.
“You don’t take Henry skating?”
He thinks for a second, then frowns. “No, I don’t. Do you think he’d like that?”
“Um…” I hesitate, feeling like I’ve wandered onto fragile terrain.
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Michael rubs at his jaw, his brow pulled low. “Why haven’t I thought of that?”
Whoops. I didn’t mean to make him feel like a crap father. I cringe, glancing away. When I finally look back, Michael is still lost in thought.
“Well, thanks, anyway,” I say. “I really appreciate everything today.”
He gives me a funny look. “What?”
“You know, taking the time out to show me around.”
“This isn’t a public service, Alex,” he says, amusement tugging at his mouth. “I enjoy hanging out with you.”
“Oh.” Pleasure weaves through my chest.
“It’s hard moving to a new place,” he continues with a compassionate smile. “It’s always nice to have a friend show you around, help you feel more comfortable.”
Right. Of course, he just sees me as a friend. I know that. It’s only in my overactive imagination that anything more is happening.
Still, I think, casting my gaze out the window at the passing streets, I’m glad to have him as a friend. If that’s all I’m going to get, then I’ll take it.
; 20
Being single over the holidays doesn’t have to be depressing! Just follow my five tips to make the festive season spectacular as a single gal.
I pause my typing to lie back on my bed and scratch my head. Five tips to enjoy the holidays being single… I can do this. Although, I’m not sure I even have five tips.
Well, there’s drinking. That’s got to be one, right? I know I’ll be drinking.
I’m not exactly looking forward to the holidays. I’m miles away from my family in a new city, and lusting after a guy I can’t have. I guess I could always write an honest blog post about all that, but who wants to hear me moan? Everyone moans about being single and it’s depressing. I’ve tried to keep the whole theme of my blog positive and upbeat, to focus on the good things about living the single life. I figure if I do that enough, I might actually start to believe it myself.
I also thought that keeping it light and happy might be more likely to get me a guest-spot on one of the sites I’ve been applying to. Not that anyone has gotten back to me. Okay, that’s not true; I got auto-replies from five of them and a brief “thanks but no thanks” from a few more. Given I’ve contacted thirty-six websites, blogs and online magazines, that’s not a brilliant outcome.
My phone buzzes on the bed and when I see Mum’s name on the screen, guilt floods me. I still haven’t spoken to my parents, choosing instead to preserve my sanity. Harriet’s been great, though, sending texts of encouragement and asking how it’s all going. Even though we never spent much time together back home, I’ve been surprised to find I miss her over here.
No, it’s not just her—I miss them all. Maybe it’s knowing Christmas is around the corner and I’ll be away from my family, or maybe it’s just that I’ve gotten the space I needed, but I do kind of want to talk to my folks, to tell them how my writing is going and how much I’m loving the city. I’m sure that once they hear how things are going over here they’ll be supportive and happy for me.
I set my laptop aside and, taking a deep breath, I press the talk button. “Hi, Mum.” There’s silence on the other end, and I pull the phone away to check the call is connected. “Are you there?”
“Oh, hello darling,” Mum says, surprise in her voice. “I didn’t think you were going to answer.”
There’s another wave of guilt and I grimace. “Yes, sorry. I’ve been busy. But I do have time to chat now if you’d like?”
“That would be lovely!”
More guilt.
“So, how are you getting on in The Big Apple?”
“Good,” I say, deciding to focus on the positive and not mention the apartment scam that set me back thousands or the ill-advised crush I’ve developed on my neighbor. “I’ve been writing my blog, which is going well.”
“Your blog?”
I falter. Surely she knows what I’m referring to? I shared the link on Facebook when I started writing it. I’d kind of assumed she would be reading it, but come to think of it she never did mention anything in her emails. “Yes, Mum. I’m writing a blog. I put it on Facebook, didn’t you see?”
“Oh, yes. There was something,” she says vacantly.
I let out a sigh. “Well, anyway, I’ve got over fifty followers now.”
“Oh. That’s… nice.”
I roll my eyes. This is about the level of enthusiasm I should expect from her. Just because I’ve been away for a couple of months working on my writing career doesn’t mean she’s now started to understand it. I instinctively touch the book charm around my neck, thinking of how baffled my parents were by my choice to move over here, to leave “everything” behind back home. “Yes. It is good, Mum.”
There’s a pause, then I hear her rustling about on the other end. “Okay, just a minute,” she says.
“What?”
“I’m at the computer now. I’m going to have a look at your website.”
“It’s a blog. That’s—”
“Oh, wait. Something isn’t working. Hang on.” The phone crashes down and I hear her call out to Dad. “Clark! Why isn’t the computer working?”
In the background I hear Dad’s exasperated voice. “Calm down, Audrey. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
There’s more rustling and I hear the sound of their ancient computer boot to life. For a few minutes I simply pick at a nail, waiting.
“Okay, I’m back,” Mum says at last. “Single in the City? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“My life as a single girl in New York City,” Mum reads aloud. “Who needs men when you can live a fabulous life alone?”
I cringe as I hear my own words read back to me. Something about them grates at me, doesn’t sit right. I guess after developing this silly little crush on Michael, I’ve been slipping back into my old ways a bit.
It’s been a week since we went on our non-date around the city, and I smile whenever I think of it. I’m not sure how else to explain it, but it’s like Michael kind of woke something in me. I’d forgotten what it’s like to really like a guy. I haven’t felt this feeling for ages—not even with Travis. In fact, the more distance I get from that whole thing, the more I realize it wasn’t quite the romantic comedy I thought it was. It was definitely a lot more com than rom, that’s for sure. And now, I barely think of him.
Michael, on the other hand, I cannot get out of my mind. After our day out, I’ve been letting myself imagine how nice it would be if some of my fantasies weren’t just in my head. I know it’s silly, that I should know better now, and I’ve been trying to fight it—without much success. It’s making for some great romance writing, at least.
But that does make me feel a bit weird about my single blog. Because even though there are some great things about being single, it kind of blows when you’ve got a crush on someone.
“Is this right, Alexis? You’re swearing off men?”
“Yes. Well—no, not forever. Just for… a while.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Are you sure that’s wise, darling, avoiding men? You’re not getting any younger. Don’t you want to have a family?”
I suppress a groan, rolling onto my back to contemplate the ceiling. I probably should have seen this coming. “It’s not forever, Mum. I just don’t feel like being with anyone right now.” Though as I say this, I feel a little twinge in my stomach. I promptly ignore it.
“Hmm,” she says again, and I have to bite my tongue. I know she doesn’t give Harriet this much of a hard time about settling down. But then, she is a few years younger, and Mum and Dad have never been as hard on her as they are on me. She doesn’t exactly give them much to complain about.
“I don’t mean to be discouraging, sweetheart,” Mum says. “But surely there are other things you could write about, without having to sign up for some crazy project like this?”
“It’s not crazy,” I say, feeling defensive. “I’m choosing to focus on my writing and that means not dating for a while. It’s not like I’ve had my uterus removed.”
“Don’t be so sensitive, darling.”
A frustrated breath gusts out of me. My parents have always complained that I’m too sensitive, and the minute I get even the tiniest bit annoyed or defensive, Mum whips out that line. I have to hand it to her, though—it works. Because what am I supposed to say to that?
“I’m surprised you’re even wanting to write about this,” she continues. “I assumed you’d be writing one of those ridiculous romance novels you love so much. Always dreaming of Prince Charming.”
My cheeks heat with shame. Good thing I didn’t mention my novel, then. She’d just see that as concrete proof that I’m living in a fantasy.
And then I think of how much I’ve been enjoying writing about Matthew and Annie. Except, it’s not really about them, is it? We all know who it’s really about. Which would be fine, but I don’t just write about Michael, I think about him. All the time. Like a bloody lovesick teenager.
I swallow back the acidic taste of disgust in
my mouth. What is wrong with me? How did I let myself end up back here again?
“Yes, well,” I mumble, resolving to sort myself the fuck out. “Don’t worry about that, Mum.”
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us and I’m about to end the call when Mum speaks.
“Have you given any thought to when you might come home?”
I frown. “What? No.”
“We’re going to miss you at Christmas. And then it’s Harriet’s birthday later in January, so if you’re back by then, we could—”
“Jesus,” I mutter, staring at the ceiling and wishing it would cave in on me. “I won’t be home in January. You know I’ve moved here, right? I live here now.”
“Well, yes. I know you wanted to move to the big city and do your writing, and the blog is very nice. But you did give up an awful lot just to write a few words on a little website.”
Irritation fizzles in my gut and I make myself take a deep breath. “Mum—”
“I just think that maybe it’s time you grew up and got back to the real world. If you came home, darling, I’m sure I could talk to Julie about getting you another job at the bookstore. It probably wouldn’t be assistant manager again, but—”
“Mum, stop,” I snap, sitting up on the bed. I press my balled fist into my eye, willing myself to stay calm. I should have known this is exactly how this conversation would go. “I like living here. I like writing my blog. And I’m not coming home.”
There’s silence on the other end and I grind my jaw, knowing this is going nowhere.
“I have to go,” I mutter. “I’ll… speak to you soon.” I hang up the call and toss my phone aside. My eyes land on my laptop and I reach for it, determined to get this blog post finished.
Determined not to indulge any more fantasies of Prince Charming.
21
There’s something about being drunk at midday that feels kind of naughty, like sneaking into the copy-room to have sex at an office party, knowing you might get caught.