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“That…?” he asks.
I exhale and try to settle the tremor in my chest. “You know how I like to write?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what I like to write?”
His head shakes, firmly. “That’s private. I’ve never once intentionally breached your privacy for as long as I’ve known you.”
So he doesn’t have a clue? Hoo boy.
Gnawing my cheek, I force a tight smile, take a sip of my drink, and look away. “Well, it’s about time for you to find out, I think.” My knee is bouncing again. I’m surprised it’s not shaking the entire flower. This is going to be horrible. Or amazing. Or amazingly horrible.
But, you know, fanfiction almost always is.
Chapter 25
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anxious does not begin to describe what I’m feeling right now.
Ollie’s face has turned hazardous shades of red. My stomach has twisted into so many knots the most incredible pasta I have ever had in my life may threaten to evict itself soon.
I don’t know why I’m doing this.
Well, okay, I do know why.
I suppose I just never thought of myself as quite this masochistic before.
It’s really late. The sun was setting as we left the restaurant earlier, and the darkening shades filled the woods as we found our way back home to Aspen, a perfectly clean kitchen, and numerous rows of covered baked goods—arranged alphabetically—on the table.
I will need to figure out what to do with seventy-nine pounds of pastries, but that is a problem for tomorrow’s Brittny.
Tonight’s Brittny has distinctly less fortunate problems to handle.
Like Ollie’s shoulders bunching abruptly while his eyes go wide as saucers. He swears, whips his attention to me, pours it back toward my laptop screen. “Th—” The word chokes. “We…” His nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. “It’s been one chapter. What am I doing to you?”
“Welcome to the recesses of my desperate mind. I’m still a preteen in here. And I think I need to sit down.” Having no other chair in my room apart from the desk chair Ollie is occupying, I drop myself to the floor and take great care in smoothing out my skirt.
“You were working on this story…yesterday?”
Without looking up, I nod.
He utters a curse. “Does it get…more…graphic?”
The deranged bark of a laugh escapes me, and I tumble into the fetal position in order to contemplate my life choices. “It’s not graphic! What are you talking about! They kissed! That’s it!”
“They’ve known each other for approximately two minutes!” He throws a hand toward the screen. “In that context, a kiss is incredibly graphic.”
“He regrets it a second later and apologizes!”
Ollie turns to the computer, and—kill me—begins reciting, “‘Oh, beautiful, forgive me. It’s difficult to control myself in front of you. I shouldn’t take advantage of your admiration even if your voice sounds like the song I’ve had in my heart for all my life.’”
I shudder. I forgot how painfully cheesy I made Doliver in the beginning. His character growth has been elite.
Ollie throws a hand toward the screen. His mouth opens, closes. The popping sound of a word dying in the back of his throat hits my ears as I begin searching my carpet for a passage into Faerie. Preferably into a dark part. That no one ever comes out of alive.
I whimper. “I know it’s poorly written. I wasn’t trying to write well. I just…really like you and making up stories about unrealistic, impossible, useless things.”
