I frown as that familiar feeling of embarrassment creeps up my spine. “Stop that,” I say, gesturing to his expression. “You’re always doing that. Always laughing at me.”
His smile vanishes. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re smirking. You’re always mocking me, like you think I’m just some hilarious joke.”
His eyes soften and his mouth curves into a gentle smile. “I’m not laughing at you, Alex. You make me smile and you make me laugh, but I’m not laughing at you.”
“Well, just stop it.”
He chuckles, crossing his arms defiantly. “Stop what? Enjoying your company?”
“Yes,” I mutter, but I give him a wry smile anyway.
He chuckles again, then stands there with his arms folded, gazing at me.
“So.” I shift my weight. “Er, happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, and you. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing. I spent the day reading.”
His brows furrows. “You spent the day alone?”
I nod.
“That sucks. I didn’t realize. You could have had dinner with us, we had way too much turkey.”
“Oh, it was fine,” I say, trying to ignore the fizzle of pleasure I feel at the thought of having dinner with him and Henry. “Thanksgiving doesn’t mean much to me.”
“Still… no one should spend Thanksgiving alone.”
I fight against a smile and lose. He’s being really sweet. I think back to our conversation at Beanie, when he listened to me talk about turning thirty and wanting to go after my dreams—when he made me feel like I wasn’t crazy.
Shit, why does he have to be such a nice guy? Things were a lot easier when I thought he was a misogynistic jerk.
His gaze shifts to my laptop on the table. “What were you writing?”
“Oh…” Warmth spreads over my neck. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing.” He leans against one of the machines, arms still crossed, expression playful. “Seemed quite interesting.”
I dig my teeth into my lower lip, running my eyes over him. I can’t help but wish I wasn’t having this conversation in our basement laundry room, in my pajamas. And then I notice, part of me wants to tell him about my novel. Not about the characters, or the oddly familiar scenarios or anything in any detail, but just the fact that I’m writing a novel. I’m excited about my writing, and after our last conversation, I know he’ll understand that.
But then what? He’ll realize what a dreamy, romantic sap I am and lose all respect for me. And no doubt he’ll think my choice in genre is silly, because it’s not high-brow or literary or any of that meaningful stuff.
Or worse—he’ll want to read it.
“I’d love to read some of your writing.”
Fuck.
“Really?” I choke on a laugh. “Now?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
I think of the scene I was just writing about him in the shower and heat streaks across my cheeks. Jesus. The last thing I need is for him to read that. He’ll think I’m a crazy, horny maniac. And potentially a bit of a stalker.
“Er, I don’t think so. It’s… I’m not ready to share it. It’s a work in progress.”
He studies me for a second then gives a small nod. “Okay, I get it. But when you’re ready, I’d love to read it. I might be able to offer some advice.”
Actually, that’s a good point. For example, he might say, “we’d never have sex in that position,” and then offer some helpful alternatives. Hopefully with a practical, hands-on demonstration. I swallow hard at the thought, because God, I want him right now. Maybe on one of the machines, during the spin cycle…
I shake my head to clear the thought. Pull it together, you horndog.
“Thanks. Yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”
An awkward silence settles over us, punctuated only by the sound of the dryer spinning behind me. I wait for him to say goodnight and leave, but he doesn’t.
“So how long have you been in New York now?”
I think for a moment. “Um, like a month and a half?”
“And you’ve done all the tourist stuff?”
“Well, no.” I give him a sheepish smile. “I’ve hardly left the West Village. I did take a cab up to Times Square but it was so full-on that I came back home. I want to go see more of the sights, but I’ve been so busy settling in and working and stuff. And, I don’t know. The city… it’s a bit intimidating.” I look down at my hands, feeling stupid. I wanted to move to New York and now that I’m here, I spend most of my time within the same ten-block radius. Which, come to think of it, is probably about the same size as my hometown.
I glance up, expecting Michael to be regarding me with another of his amused expressions, but he’s not. He’s sawing his teeth across his bottom lip, his face thoughtful. “What are you doing next week?”
“Er…” I hesitate, taken aback. “I’m not sure. Working probably, and writing. Why?”
He shrugs, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth. “If you have some time free, why don’t you let me show you some of the sights? I’d take you sooner but I have to work. So if you don’t mind waiting until next week… what do you say, a native New Yorker showing you around?”
There’s a flutter in my stomach as his words sink in. He’s asking me out for a day of sight-seeing. Well, he’s not asking me out, obviously, but he’s offering to show me around. For a whole day. The two of us.
“Um… are you sure you don’t mind?” I manage at last, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. Because I’m not nonchalant. I’m cartwheeling inside.
He gives me a strange look. “Of course I don’t mind. It will be fun.”
“Okay, sounds good.” I try my best to contain my silly grin. “What will we do?”
“We can do whatever you want.” Something kindles in his eyes as he holds my gaze, and I wonder, just for a tiny nanosecond, if we are actually talking about sight-seeing at all. My breathing quickens as
