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 kitchen. “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.”
“Why not?”
“I think she’s just worried that I won’t be able to transition into fiction.”
I feel a prickle of defensiveness for him. I know all too well what it’s like to have people not support your writing. “I’m sure you could, you’re a great writer. Have you written any of it?”
“Not yet. I’ve taken notes, but it seems kind of pointless to get started on something that’s not going to go anywhere.”
I frown, thinking of my romance novel. I’m quite certain it’s not going to go anywhere, and yet, I love writing it. I’m even getting close to finishing it, I think. “You wouldn’t do it just for the fun of it? Surely that’s reward enough in itself, right?”
He scrubs a hand over his beard. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” His gaze lingers on me, his expression thoughtful, and there’s a little frisson through me. “What about that romance novel of yours? What are your plans with that?”
“Oh.” I twirl my wineglass. “I’m not sure. Probably nothing.”
“I’d like to read it.” There’s an undeniable spark in his eyes now, and my heartbeat quickens. I just want to push him back against his bookshelves and drop to my knees in front of him.
Gah! Don’t think about that!
“Why historical fiction?” I blurt.
Despite my abrupt subject change, he gives a sincere smile, unable to resist answering my question. “I love history, learning about the way people used to live, what their lives were like. You know, there’s a universality to it—to being human. We all struggle with the same things, even thousands of years ago. I thought with fiction, I could create these characters who live in a different time, and…”
As he speaks, his whole face lights up and his eyes come alive like that time at the skating-rink. There’s so much passion in his voice, in the way that he’s gesturing with his hands, talking about his ideas with unguarded excitement now, and my heart feels like it could burst.
This man, he’s just… he’s so gorgeous, so smart, so passionate.
I stare at his mouth as he speaks, mesmerized by the fullness of his bottom lip, the way it curves up slightly higher on one side, the way it looks so soft beside the coarseness of his dark beard. And, fuck, that beard. I don’t know what it is, but it’s so manly, so—
“You okay?”
Shit. I was so busy obsessing over his mouth I didn’t even notice he’d stopped speaking.
I meet his gaze with a nervous laugh. “What? Yes, I’m fine. I was just…” Thinking
