by Ash Harlow
“Okay,” she said.
“I didn’t mean it about jumping clear, but I’m pleased to see how well you took to the idea. Perhaps bungee jumping might be on the menu soon.”
“Forget it. It won’t be.”
Katrina had completely lost her sense of humor again. I faced her backward to the direction we were traveling and got her to crouch and take hold of a rope. I moved in behind her, taking my arms around hers and holding the rope beyond her grip.
“You’ll feel a bump, and the basket will tip a little.” I undersold the bump. There was a fallen tree branch concealed in the grass where we first touched ground, so the bump was a hard thud. The force of impact threw Katrina against me, and I braced my feet and cushioned her, imagining the gasp she made was in awe of being thrown against my body rather than the surprise of the sudden connection with the ground. We dragged on for a bit across the field before finally coming to a stop.
When Katrina faced me, her face was elated. “We made it,” she said, grinning. “I think I want to do that again.”
Mission accomplished.
11
Katrina
The hot air balloon ride had been amazing, awesome, the thrill of my life. I think much of my euphoria on landing was to do with the fact that I’d been mostly in a fear-freeze state during the ride. Making it back to ground, uninjured, gave me an overwhelming sense of survival. The other part was falling into the safety of the hardness and heat of Stone’s body. No wonder his fans went nuts for him.
I was still buzzing when we reached Stone’s house, even though he seemed completely unaffected by the morning’s events. Partly, I wondered if the balloon ride had been a tactic to keep him from writing, and seeing as I wasn’t contracted for the thrilling experiences, it was time to tackle the writing issue.
Stone had grabbed my phone and was flicking through the pictures. “Great selfie,” he said, flashing the screen at me.
“I look terrified.”
“You were.” Stone smirked and continued swiping. “I could smell your fear.”
“Let’s talk about the book. Time for writing? I can bring you some lunch later.”
“I’ll get onto it tonight. I think I’ll hit the gym.”
“I don’t want to nag you, Stone—”
“Well don’t.”
“—but the deadline’s looming. How much have you done? I have to give Sarah a report.”
“The outline’s coming along.”
“You need to sit down and write. Free write. Journal. Anything’s good. It’s just like flexing a muscle. The more you work it, the stronger it becomes.” I wasn’t making that up. I’d read it on the internet when I’d been scouring writer’s sites in an attempt to find ways to motivate him, still, it sounded like crap coming from a non-writer.
“I know.” Stone raised his arms and flexed his biceps. Clearly, there was nothing I could teach him about exercising the muscles to make them strong and the work easier.
So far this morning, he’d shown himself to be charming, dangerous, childish and ridiculous. Not bad for a few hours, but now I wanted him to show me he could be professional enough to go to his room and write.
“Come on, Stone, there’s so much riding on this. You can knock this book out, then get on to writing the sort of stuff you really want to produce.”
He looked at me, glanced out the window, then back to me again, face blank. If I’d made him angry, I wouldn’t have blamed him. Who am I to tell him how easy it is to write a book? How would I even know?
“Are you willing to do one little thing for me, to help me to write?”
“Loaded question, Stone.”
“Answer me.”
“If it’s legal, sure.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt.
“I’d like to kiss you.”
My chin dropped to my chest. “What—”
“I’m not trying to complicate or change things between us, but I need this. The last woman I kissed was Lily, and that bothers me. I need to go into this story with the memory of another woman’s lips against mine.”
“Can’t you just use your imagination? By all accounts, you’ve had enough kisses in your life.”
“Some parts of my writing don’t work that way. I have to experience, and I have to leave Lily out of this book. We’ll kiss, and we’ll never talk about it again.”
I wanted this so much. In that fold that marked the moment between sleep and consciousness, hadn’t I imagined the touch of Stone’s lips against mine? Sometimes gentle, sometimes filled with such desperate desire that my breath vanished.
I searched his face, locked into his eyes that glinted like a quartz seam in a rock. Was he teasing? Would he smirk if I agreed and turn from me, seeing that my desire to feel his mouth on mine was so obvious?
His kiss.
If not, if he was serious, could I really let him kiss me, then pretend it had never happened? Sure I could. It was a day for experiences, and this was one I wanted.
I nodded and told him okay on a whisper.
Two fingers slipped under my chin, tilting my face toward his. I focused on his mouth and his lips, loosely curved in a soft smile. As he lowered his head, my eyes closed, and he covered my mouth with his. Warm, firm and gentle, his fingers slid from my chin and along my jaw to cradle my head. Something gathered low in my stomach, preparing for more.
His mouth parted, and across my lips came the tender sweep of his tongue. I made a small sound, a whimper as my lips separated, my tongue tentative as I touched his. In seconds, we explored, learning, sharing breaths. His other hand cupped my face, and he held me and took charge. I could have stayed against his mouth forever. I became aware of pressing my body against his, our heat mingled, my hand in his hair.
He was hard.
He wanted me.
The thrill I got from that idea made me wanton. The kiss morphed into something more intense, more sexual, and seconds later, with a drag of his teeth over my bottom lip, Stone broke us apart.
My breathing was harsh, my lips felt swollen, and between my legs, I felt a heaviness that wanted his touch.
His hands slid from my cheeks down my neck and rested heavily on my shoulders.
We watched each other for a moment, as if something unexpected had taken place and we were trying to understand it. I wanted more. I wanted to tell him that, but he was first to speak.
“Thanks, Poppins,” he said, his voice deep and sexy. He gave my shoulders a squeeze before letting go to press a finger against my lips. “Remember. This never happened.”
I stood there, stunned as he headed for the stairs that took him to the tower.
I don’t know how long I remained in that spot in the kitchen, the kiss playing over in my mind like a chorus that had wormed its way into my head. Finally, I made it to my office to go through the morning’s photos.
The thrill of the balloon ride, pumped with fear and exhilaration, seemed impossible to recall, even after searching through the pictures.
I kissed Stone Logan.
Stone kissed me.
I was stupidly giddy, and I knew I had to move past it in the same way Stone would. I wanted to upload one of the selfies to his fan page. The last one I took, the one that came when he must have thought I’d stopped taking pictures, because he was looking at me rather than the phone, as if he were seeing me for the first time.
No, it didn’t look as though he was in love with me, but the look on his face was possessive. I wanted his fans to see it, to make them wonder if Stone Logan were mine.
Right there, dangerous thinking that I had to shut down.
I made him a snack with more care than I’ve ever prepared a meal. My steps to the tower were tentative. I knocked and waited for him to call me in.
He was typing, working, writing a story.
“Thanks,” he said as I placed the plate of food on his desk. He kept typing, and much as I wanted to see what he was writing, see if he was describing our kiss, I knew I had to leav
e him be.
At the end of the day, I reported to Sarah that Stone was working steadily. I kept the draft burning a secret because so long as they received a book without litigious content, it would be fine, wouldn’t it? Didn’t have to be a rewrite, just an appropriate, series-ending book.
Sarah’s reply came promptly. Good. Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. Don’t change a thing. Tomorrow, I want a word count.
I’d make something up. I wasn’t going to risk progress by hassling him for numbers. Stone was working. That was all that mattered. Not that he’d kissed me, not the amount of finished words he produced, but the fact that he was working. I had to trust him.
But, could I trust myself?
I ached to kiss him again. It was difficult to concentrate. When the end of my day came, I was reluctant to leave. I popped in to ask Stone if there was anything more he needed. Another kiss, perhaps. He replied that he was fine, his focus scarcely shifting from his work.
I had dinner again with Mason and June. They were keen to know how I was getting along with Stone, and I noticed I smiled when I talked of him and wondered if they noticed that, too.
“He needs to settle down,” June remarked. “I know he went off the rails a bit, but although he might think a constant stream of women is the answer to happiness, he’ll find out one day that he’s wrong. A good woman to make a family with is what that boy needs.”
“I’m sure he’ll find someone,” I said, noting that no boy I’d met kissed the way Stone did.
I told them about the balloon flight, how scared I’d been, and how much I’d enjoyed it.
“Sounds like a fun date,” Mason said.
“Oh, it wasn’t a date, just a...” I didn’t know what it was. The funny thing was that I’d always wanted to go on a balloon ride, but I knew I’d never have the courage to actually do it.
“That was a date,” June said, winking at Mason.
By Friday, Stone had given me a good idea of what it was like to work with a writer. By the time I arrived, he’d have already done a gym session. We’d have coffee, then he’d get down to work. Early afternoon, I’d take him some lunch and deal with any research he wanted done. I went into town and shopped for him, then I’d take him another snack before I left for home.
His social media was as wild as ever, and I became better at adopting Stone’s character, replying and teasing in the comments section. At Stone’s insistence, I also worked on the new FaithLit book launch, which turned out to be the most successful yet. According to my mother, that was to do with the quality of the book rather than any work I did to get it off the ground.
The kiss was never mentioned again, nor, to my disappointment, was a request made for a repeat performance.
At the beginning of the week, I’d have been surprised if anyone had suggested I’d be reluctant to return to New York for the weekend. I hinted to Stone that I could stay and help out over the weekend if he needed me, but he waved the idea off, suggesting a break would do me good.
Mason had offered to drive me to the station so that Stone could keep working. I went through to the kitchen to watch for Mason’s arrival, and it was then that I saw the folded piece of paper beside Stone’s wallet and keys on the counter.
My mother could have come up with ten sayings in an instant to warn me of the consequences of poking my nose into other people’s business. I wasn’t a snoop, not usually, and as I unfolded the paper, I assured myself that it might be something vital, something to do with the book.
It was a list. And it wasn’t what was on it that held my attention, but the three things that were crossed out. ‘Hot air balloon ride’, ‘Ride a motorbike’ and ‘Kiss a famous person’.
I don’t know how he’d come to draw it up, but this was a list of things I wanted to do.
My stomach sank, the words on the paper blurring. Mason turned into the driveway, and I hastily folded the note and returned it to the counter. My thoughts were chaotic as I choked out a ‘See you Monday’ to Stone, from the bottom of the stairs, and let myself out the door.
I was thankful the trip to the station was short. Mason chatted, asking me what I’d be doing in the city for the weekend, telling me about a New York deli where he and June had shared a memorable lunch, wondering if I’d heard of it.
My replies were brief, and when we reached the station, I apologized and explained to Mason that it had been a tiring week.
“Be sure you get some rest away from that tyrant, then,” Mason said. “I’ll be here to pick you up on Monday morning if Stone can’t make it.”
I thanked him and headed for the platform, carrying my bag and the hard rock that had settled in the pit of my stomach.
Stone had reduced my life to a series of events on a list, as if ticking them off would complete me as a person. Worse was the kiss. Way worse, because it made me feel things that I didn’t want to think about. To me, it connected us because we’d shared something intimate, but for Stone it had been nothing more than a metaphorical erasing of his memory of another woman.
I felt angry, and used, and I had to return on Monday and pretend nothing had happened.
Carrie was all over me the minute I entered the apartment.
“What’s he like? Have a wine? Are you two having sex yet?” She saw my face. “Oh my God, you’re Romancing the Stone!”
“I’m certainly not,” I said. Carrie tailed me to my bedroom, where I dumped my bag before taking her up on the offer of wine. She was my best friend, and I wanted to tell her about the list, but I couldn’t bear the humiliation. Instead, we talked about the balloon trip, the motorcycle ride, and eventually, the kiss.
“He kissed you. That’s just the start, you know.”
The start and the finish. “The kiss was to help him write. I knew if I mentioned it, you wouldn’t hear that part of the story. It was nothing different to, say, he was going to write a scene about learning to play golf, and had never been on the golf course. So he books a lesson with the local pro, goes home, and writes the scene.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “You forget the bit where he actually has kissed someone before, so the kiss practice wasn’t that necessary. What are you going to do when he comes to write the first sex scene and he’s all, Oh, Katrina, I can’t possibly write this scene without fucking you.”
“Will you stop already?” That was never going to happen because it wasn’t on the list. I had to distract Carrie and stay with a single glass of wine. She was good at digging secrets out of me, and if I had too much wine, I’d drop my guard. I shifted the subject to Mason and June, then on to something I really did need Carrie’s help with.
“What are your hours like this weekend? I want to update my wardrobe.”
Carrie’s eyes lit up. This was her area of expertise. “At last, praise the Lord, Katrina wants new clothes. All prayers have been answered. Close the temple.”
“It’s not that much of an event.”
“Are you kidding me? This is huge. They could shoot a reality TV series out of this. Let me grab a pen, and we’ll make a list of the things you need, then I can map out a shopping plan.”
I shuddered at the idea that my life had boiled down to a series of lists. I wondered what Stone was doing, hoping he was working rather than raising hell. I should take a quick tour around his social media to make sure he wasn’t creating havoc with his fans. Perhaps he had lists for them, too.
I was struggling with my hurt and the immense betrayal that came in waves. The blame, I rested entirely on myself. Sure, the list was humiliating, but Stone had given me fair warning that the kiss would never be spoken of again. I had read more into it. And although the list felt demeaning, maybe it was Stone’s attempt at being kind.
If it was, he was off target. The presence of the list mortified me, and if that was because he’d exposed the timid side of my nature and given it a massive shake, the way I felt remained valid.
He’d hurt me.
Carrie bounced back into the roo
m. It was time to blot out my feelings.
“All set,” she said, waving her pen and paper at me. “Let’s start from the skin out.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Lingerie first, then we’ll work through the layers from there. Beau-Peep has a huge sale on this weekend, so we’ll get you some gorgeous bra and panties sets.” She was making notes already. “Budget? No, forget that, you’ll come up with something stupidly low. Oh, one more thing. When we’ve finished your wardrobe improvements, all that hideous stuff you currently wear goes in the trash.”
“No, that’s a waste.”
“It would be a waste if your clothes were actually wearable.”
“I’ll donate them to charity.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “Believe me, nobody is that desperate.”
12
Katrina
Mason was waiting for me at the station on Monday morning. I was dressed in my new clothes—from the skin out—with my hair in a complicated braid which Carrie had insisted made my face thinner, whatever that meant. My carryall held more of my purchases. I had not bought yoga gear. I hadn’t even mentioned that to Carrie, knowing she’d have talked me into something in lycra, and I’d have finished up looking as though I’d just been squeezed into a sausage casing.
A smart European sports car was parked in Stone’s driveway, and I prayed it wasn’t some leftover from a weekend of debauchery. I set my mouth and opened the door, prepared to hide any disapproval, or disappointment, if Stone had been messing around. I didn’t have control of his private life, and it was debatable whether he did, but that wasn’t the issue. The only thing I was concerned with was the book. That’s what I’d drummed into my head over the weekend.