Page 18 of Long Story Short

Tyson places a new pan on the stove. “While I wait for that to heat up and hopefully not burn down my kitchen, I still want to know about your friend, or anything else about you that you’re willing to tell me.”

I try not to stare as he pushes the sleeves of his shirt up his arms. With the fabric rolled up, it now shows off the impressive muscles of his forearms. I shake my head as I rip my gaze from his arms.

“Well,” I begin, grabbing my wineglass and walking a few steps to a counter stool. I slide in and try to figure out how much I want to tell this man I just met. “My best friend is Scarlett Astor.”

He looks at me with lifted eyebrows. “The actress?”

I nod. “Yep. But she was my best friend long before she ever became famous.”

Tyson moves his head up and down as he soaks in my answer. “That’s awesome. How did you two meet?”

“In high school. We both went to the same arts school.” I watch him carefully as I take another sip of wine. I didn’t think to look at the label, but whatever it is, it’s delicious. I’ve grown up on expensive wine my entire life, and I can tell that whatever this might be, the bottle was a pretty penny.

Tyson focuses on melting butter in his cast-iron pan before he looks up at me. “Does that mean you’re an actress?”

I stare at him wide-eyed because, apparently, he really didn’t search my name online. “God, no,” I manage to get out before letting out a snort. “I can’t act to save my life.”

“What were you in art school for, then?”

I love how curious he is about me. He seems genuinely interested in getting to know me, and it’s refreshing. I can’t help but smile because the attention feels good. “Writing. I’m an author.”

His lips part before his face breaks into a wide grin. “Really? That’s incredible.” He stares at me for a few moments, as if he really thinks my job is the coolest thing ever.

I shrug as my cheeks heat. I love my job—maybe not as much right now after my publisher hated my original manuscript—but as far as jobs go, he’s definitely far more successful in his than I am in mine.

He moves the butter around in the pan, this time careful not to burn anything. “Would I recognize any of your books?”

Now my entire body feels hot. I stare at him through wide eyes as my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Um, probably not,” I mutter before letting out a nervous laugh. “I write romance books.”

His smile doesn’t falter. He continues to stare at me like I’m the most interesting person he’s ever met. The way he looks at me makes me feel things low in my belly I wasn’t expecting. “I typically read a lot of nonfiction, but maybe I’ll need to give fiction a try with your books.”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. You’re not allowed to read them.”

Tyson lets out a low chuckle. The sound of it has me gripping my wineglass tighter because it’s so sexy, and I feel it everywhere.

“I didn’t realize you were the boss of me,” he teases. He throws one salted filet onto the pan and then another, his attention somehow evenly focused between me and the food he’s preparing.

“I’m not the boss of you,” I rush to get out, hoping he can’t see how red my cheeks must be at this moment. “I just…I don’t think my books are for you, is all.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I still have to look you in the eye, and I don’t know if I can do that, knowing you’ve read my books.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “And what’s in your books that has your cheeks turning the most beautiful shade of pink, Josie Russell?”

Oh God. Him commenting on the pink rushing to my cheeks only makes me blush even harder.

I should’ve lied and told him I had any other job than the one I do. Then I wouldn’t have to explain to him how my books aren’t only romance books, but there’s some spice in them, and I could never look him in the face if I knew he read them.

“They’re romance books,” I remind him, hoping that’s all I need to say for him to drop it. I’m still trying to figure him out. He seemed like the quiet, more reserved type when I first met him. I didn’t think he’d be someone who’d press this matter. But then again, he’s also different, because the man who openly flirted this morning and the one pressing for more details doesn’t seem shy in the slightest.

“So? Maybe I love a good romance.”

My head falls into my hands as I let out a groan. I don’t know if he can hear it over the sound of the steaks cooking in the pan. I hope he can’t.

When I finally get the nerve to look up again, I find him watching me with an upward tilt to his lips.

“We’re neighbors and barely know each other. You can’t read my books because there’s sex in there—sometimes a lot of sex—and like I said, I want to be able to look you in the eyes for the rest of the summer.”