by Jen Morris
Michael and I stare at each other for a moment, then he reaches for my basket and hauls it up onto his arm, not taking his eyes off me.
“Come on.” He nods towards the front of the store. “I want to show you something.”
We make our way to the register, my heart still tumbling about in my chest. As Michael heaves my basket up onto the counter, I can barely get my wallet out, I’m buzzing so much from our kiss. I hand my credit card over in a daze as the clerk scans my items.
“Oh, you’re a writer?” She places my writing books into the bag.
“Er, yes,” I mumble, acutely aware of Michael beside me.
“That’s so awesome. I’ve always dreamed of being a writer but never really gotten around to it.” She slides the bag across the counter to me. “Have a great night.”
I take the bag with a faint smile, feeling myself droop. What a timely reminder that I too used to only dream of writing and now I’m making it a reality. And kissing Michael is a sure-fire way to crush that dream, to see it dissolve into dust and scatter into the wind, until I’m right back where I started.
He turns to me as we step back out into the chilly air, pulling his beanie down onto his head and winding a scarf around his neck. While we were in there—for three hours, I now realize—it’s gotten dark, and quite a bit colder. I attempt to pull my coat tighter but I’m struggling with the massive bag of books.
I’m just about to tell Michael I should go when he takes my bag of books to carry it for me—and my heart melts.
Shit. I am in so much trouble.
“You wanted to show me something?” I hear myself ask.
“Yeah, if you’re not in a hurry to leave?” His eyes are bright and excited, and I nod, powerless to walk away.
With my books tucked under his arm, he flags down a passing cab and we climb inside. And I realize too late that it was not a good idea for me to get into a cab with him. The backseat is an even smaller space than the book aisle. I can smell his woodsy cologne and he’s within easy kissing distance. If he says anything even remotely sweet, I’ll lunge at him.
And if he tries to kiss me, I’m done for. I’ll be yanking my dress up my thighs faster than he can pay the driver.
I lean against the window, pressing my warm cheek against the cool glass, praying for strength as we head uptown. We sit in traffic for a while, but Michael doesn’t say anything—and he doesn’t touch me, which is both a relief and an overwhelming disappointment. He just gazes out the window in thought.
When we finally come to a stop, I stumble out of the cab, my head a cyclone of confusion.
No, I’m not confused, I tell myself firmly. I know what I’m doing: being friends with Michael, focusing on my writing, not wishing for another happy ending. We shared one little kiss but it’s over now. Everything is fine.
He gestures down the street with a secret smile. “This way.”
I follow him, intrigued. We turn a corner and that’s when I recognize we’re at Rockefeller Plaza. And as Michael leads me across the Plaza, weaving between tourists who are out despite the cold night air, I see why he’s taken me here. You can’t miss it: the Christmas tree, lit from top to bottom in a dazzling display of twinkling lights, right behind the ice rink.
“Wow,” I breathe as we reach the rink, gazing across at the tree. “It’s stunning.”
Michael sets the bag of books down at his feet and leans on the railing. “Yeah. I thought you might like to see it at night.”
I glance at him, watching as he shivers in the cold air, pulling his beanie down over his ears. He turns to me with a big, boyish smile, his dimple deep in his cheek, and my breath stutters. I can’t believe he remembered. My heart squeezes at how unbelievably sweet that is—at how sweet he is.
I can’t stop myself; I reach a hand up to his face, needing to touch him, to show him what this means to me. I run my thumb over the smooth skin of his cheek to his beard and keep it there, feeling the roughness of his beard against my palm. His eyes flutter closed as I touch him, and when I don’t remove my hand, he steps closer, slipping his arms around my waist and drawing my body to his.
Yep. I’m done for.
He gazes down at me, his eyes black and penetrating. His mouth opens, then closes, before he finally asks, “Can I kiss you?”
I nod breathlessly. Fuck, if he doesn’t kiss me I’m going to die.
But he does; he lowers his mouth to mine in a slow, sweet kiss that sends a shower of sparks through me. I circle my arms around his neck and tilt my head, melting into the warmth and softness of his lips. I’ve never kissed a guy with a beard before and there’s the most delicious tickle against my cheek. Something about that sends fire shooting down through my center, makes need bloom hot between my thighs.
Jesus Christ. I’m trying to keep it together, but it’s a losing battle. I let out a little moan against his lips and I feel him smile, tightening his arms around me. When his tongue dips into my mouth, seeking mine, my knees buckle and he has to hold me against him.
“Get a room!” a passer-by calls and we both laugh, drawing apart. But not too far; he rests his forehead against mine, gazing at me with dark eyes, his breath warm and sweet on my lips.
“I thought you just wanted to be friends,” he murmurs, and I giggle.
We stare at each other for a few moments, both of us grinning, figuring out our next move. Quite frankly, I just want to get him into bed, but…
I glance down at my stack of books at his feet with a heavy sigh. I hear the words from the clerk at Strand again—I’ve always dreamed of being a writer but never gotten around to it—and, with all my strength, I pull away. When I see the light dim in Michael’s eyes, I take a deep breath, letting the freezing air fill my lungs.
“Michael, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Does this have something to do with all the kissing?”
“Yes. I should have told you this the other day, but I… I like you too. A lot.”
The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “Yeah?”
I nod. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ve been trying to fight it.”
“Why? Because of the stuff we just talked about?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. I look over at the Christmas tree, at the picture-perfect scene in front of me. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore—keep hoping for something that would never happen. So I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t feeling anything. But—” I cut myself off with a hollow laugh, thinking of Geoff’s words. “I was kidding myself.”
I let my gaze slide back to him, and before I know what I’m doing I step up onto my toes and brush my lips over his, stealing a kiss. When I pull away he’s gazing at me affectionately, and he laces his fingers through mine.
“The thing is,” I say, looking down at our joined hands, “these articles I’m writing—this column…” I glance back up at him, feeling a little stab at the patience on his face. “This is the best opportunity I’ve had in a long time. I really want this. And because of the topic—”
“I know. You don’t have to explain.” He gives me a soft smile, squeezing my hand. “You’re writing about being single. You’ll probably have to be single to write it.”
I shrug. “Yeah. I mean, they never actually said that, but… I don’t see them giving it to me if I’m not.”
“I get it.” He lets out a heavy breath and it’s a white mist between us. “Alex… I’ll do what you want to do. I like you a lot, but I don’t want to get in the way of your career.”
I groan, tugging on his hand. “Saying that makes me want you more.”
“I want you, too.” A half-smile lifts his mouth, then drops away. “But if we want to be together, we need to do this right. I don’t want you to regret ruining this opportunity for me. You’ll know in a few weeks if you’ve got the column, why don’t we wait and see what happens?”
I swallow hard, looking down at the ice-rink below. A fe
w weeks, knowing that he wants me as much as I want him, knowing what those lips taste like now… “I’m not sure I can,” I mutter.
When I glance back at him, he’s giving me a woeful little smile, and he releases my hand. “I think you should take some time to think about what you want.”
I nod, trying to ignore the feeling of despair that’s settled over me.
We gaze at each other for another moment, then Michael picks up the bag of books and we wander out of the Plaza, finding a cab home.
In the cab we don’t talk. I turn his words over in my mind: take some time to think about what you want. I know he means well, but that’s not going to help me in the slightest. Because it’s not that I don’t know what I want. I do, and it’s crystal clear.
I really want to write for Bliss Edition and, if I get the chance, to become one of their featured writers. I want to be paid to write, to make something of myself, to show my parents it’s not ridiculous—and I want to prove to myself that I can do it.
But I also really want Michael.
Shit.
26
Annie runs her hands down Matthew’s firm, sculpted torso, biting her lip as she admires the impressive bulge in his pants. She knows what’s in there and she wants it all.
Her hands are quivering as she—
Wait, should that be quivering or quavering? I halt my frantic typing to double-check.
Writing a romance novel isn’t how I’d usually spend Christmas Day, but it feels like it’s the only thing keeping me sane right now. It’s been five days since Michael kissed me under the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza—five days since I told him I needed time to figure out what I wanted to do—and he’s been nothing but patient and understanding. He’s texted once to ask how I am, but he hasn’t asked what’s going on and why I can’t just sort myself the fuck out—a question I’ve been asking myself repeatedly.
Since meeting with Justin I’ve worked my butt off on two articles, which I sent through yesterday. They’re some of my best work, I think, and I’m super excited to see them published on Bliss Edition. Every time I think about what this could mean for my career, I get a rush unlike anything else.
Well, except the rush I get when I think of Michael: his lips brushing over mine, his hands on my waist, the desire in his eyes. That feeling is intoxicating, and it’s making it a lot harder to figure this out.
I thought I’d decided, to be honest. I sent my articles off to Justin, proud of what I’d done, but ultimately knowing my heart wasn’t soaring in quite the same way it did when Michael kissed me. But then I got an email from Justin. He said the pieces were “funny and relatable—just what we’re looking for,” and that he’d be in touch soon. Reading that, my heart picked itself up and did a happy dance, and I realized that no, I wasn’t quite as certain as I’d thought.
There’s a ding from my browser and I turn back to my laptop with a sigh. The chat box pops up in Facebook and I smile when I see it’s Harriet. I’ve been so pleased to get some space from my family these past few months, but Christmas Day without them has been a bit of a bummer. Despite my last discouraging phone call with Mum, I’ve spent the whole day under a strange cloud of homesickness. Even Matthew and Annie couldn’t distract me from that.
Harriet: Merry Christmas!
Alex: Merry Christmas. Miss you!
Harriet: Miss you too. Christmas hasn’t been the same without you here. How’s the writing? Have you heard any more about that job?
Guilt gnaws at me. Harriet has been so encouraging ever since I told her about the meeting with Justin, texting to check in, and I haven’t replied. I’ve been… distracted.
Alex: I sent through a few articles and they loved them, said they’d be in touch.
Harriet: That sounds promising! See? Mum and Dad don’t know anything. You’re not living in a fantasy world—you’re making things happen!
She’s right. Mum was on at me about “getting back to the real world,” but this is the real world—my writing, the possibility of working with Justin.
Alex: Thanks :)
I’m going to make more of an effort with Harriet, I decide. She’s been so supportive since I moved over here. I never knew how much I needed that from my sister, but I do.
I’m about to ask her how things are back home when there’s a knock at the door.
Alex: Sorry, got to go. Chat soon x
When I look through the peephole, Michael’s face is on the other side. Joy zips through me like an electrical current, lighting me from head to toe. I just want to pull him inside and kiss him senseless.
Instead, with inexplicable restraint, I swing the door open and offer a casual, “Hey.”
His cheeks dimple into a smile. “Merry Christmas!”
“You too,” I say, grinning like an idiot and immediately losing my cool. Shit, I know it’s only been a few days but I’ve missed him. Is that crazy?
Well, I don’t care. Because looking into those gorgeous eyes right now, I realize I have missed him. A lot.
Fuck.
He leans against the door frame. “What are you up to for Christmas dinner?”
“Not much. It’s dinner for one, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, come on. Your first Christmas in America and you’re spending it alone?”
“Yep.” Cat invited me to join her family lunch, but I didn’t want to spend the day with people I don’t know. I figured she’d be home tonight, but apparently she’s seeing Kyle again.
Michael’s brow knits. “I was worried about that. You spent Thanksgiving alone as well.”
He was worried about me being down here alone? Of course he was. He’s the sweet guy who took me to the greatest bookstore on earth, who remembered how much I wanted to see the Rockefeller tree at night. My heart swells at the thought and a smile springs to my lips.
“Henry and I made too much food. He made the gravy and he’s very proud.” Michael gives a chuckle. “If you’re not doing anything, would you like to join us?”
My smile falters. “I… don’t know.” I glance down at my hands, shifting my weight. “I haven’t, er, figured out, um…” I grimace, unsure how to phrase it. Our kiss now feels like a long time ago and, given how relaxed Michael seems to be right now, I find myself wondering if he’s just moved on from the whole thing.
But when I glance up he gives me an understanding smile. “It’s okay. That’s not why I’m asking. I’m not expecting anything, Alex. Just come and have a nice meal with us, as friends. Agnes will be there too.”
A cocktail of relief and disappointment swirls inside me. Because as much as he’s absolutely saying the right thing, apparently part of me is wishing he wasn’t.
“Okay,” I say at last. “I’ll just change and be up.”
He grins, pushing away from the door frame and heading back upstairs.
I pad into my bedroom nook with a smile. I was worried that seeing Michael again might be weird, given this state of limbo we seem to be in. But maybe dinner will be okay. And I can’t deny I’d rather spend the evening with friends than by myself.
I refresh my makeup and tidy up my hair, pinning some of it back from my face. Then I slip on a cute navy dress with gold details around the neckline and put some gold studs in my ears. A little lipgloss, then I head up the stairs.
When I knock on the door, Michael greets me with a dishtowel over one shoulder. The side of his mouth kicks up into a grin as he closes the door behind me. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, trying not to swoon into his arms. I let my eyes wander over his dark jeans and olive green button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He’s changed since he came knocking on my door and looks rather nice himself. But I can’t quite find the words to say it—at least not in any appropriate way—so I just stand in the entranceway to his apartment, clutching my hands together in front of me. It occurs to me that I should have brought a bottle of wine or something.
Michael heads back to the kitch
en. “Come in, make yourself at home.”
I wander into the living room, smiling as I’m enveloped by the cozy feeling of his apartment. It’s warm, and there are Christmas carols playing quietly in the background, a small tree in one corner with assorted baubles. But the best thing is the rich, savory smell of roast turkey. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal like this for ages and I’m only now realizing I’ve missed it. There’s a feeling in here, something both familiar and new, something I can’t quite put my finger on. But it feels… good. Really good.
I cast my eyes over Michael’s bookshelves. There’s a lot you can tell about a person from their books, and his collection is fascinating. A lot of non-fiction books on history, nature, anthropology, architecture, travel… but also a lot of fiction. An interesting combination, which makes me smile. That’s one of the things I love about him. He’s not only easy on the eyes—he’s intelligent and interesting, too.
In one corner I notice a whole stack by the same author: Ken Follett, historical fiction. We stock his books at work, and while I haven’t read any of them, I’m pretty sure Harriet has.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Michael asks from the kitchen.
“Yes, please.”
He brings two glasses into the living room, handing one to me. “It’s a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand.” The grin he gives me is all boyish charm and I can’t help but laugh as I take the glass, wondering if he’s always bought New Zealand wine or if this is a new thing.
“Thanks.” I gesture to his bookshelf with a teasing smile. “Bit of a Ken Follett fan, I see.”
“Yeah, well.” A self-effacing laugh slips from him. “Consider it research.”
“For what?”
He hesitates, then releases a breath. “I have an idea for a series I want to write. Historical fiction, similar to that.”
“That sounds great.” I grin at him over my wine. “You should totally do that.”
“I don’t know. It’s commercial fiction, quite different from anything else I’ve written. I don’t know if people will take it seriously. I mentioned it to my agent and she wasn’t very encouraging.”