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The barista calls out my name, and I retrieve my drink. As much as I’d love to catch up with Harriet and spend time with Sloane, I’m still very behind on my writing goal for the day and should leave them to continue their discussion about Scotland. Once I have my latte, I pop back over and tell them I’ll see them later, then head back to the hotel.
I spend the afternoon outlining a chapter that’s been pissing me off when there’s a knock at the door. I never confirmed definitive plans with Sloane for tonight, but I also haven’t heard any movement or voices next door since I got back to my room. With how the morning went, I doubt it’s her and assume it’s Ethan. I get up to answer it, but when I check the peephole, it’s Sloane, nervously wringing her hands.
Opening the door, I don’t have a moment to greet her before she launches in with, “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I assure her. She’s been doing a lot of apologizing this weekend, and honestly, it’s wearing me down a little.
“I clammed up at the coffee shop and have spent the past few hours obsessing over how you must think I’m a total bitch.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Are you a total bitch?”
“I… I think so. At least when it comes to this.” She gestures between us.
“And this is…”
Her words come out in rapid succession. “I don’t know, but I’m starting to like you, which is inconvenient for me, seeing as if this ends badly, not only do I have to worry about seeing you at other book events, but we both live in LA. Also, what if you hate my book? What if we run into each other?” She takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “I don’t know if we should have dinner together.”
“Only starting to like me?” I tease, chuckling to myself. “Guess I need to work a little harder then.”
“Ugh, you’re impossible! So much for having great attention to detail. I literally just told you why I shouldn’t go on a date with you.”
“But you like me.”
“Starting to like you.”
“Well, I already like you and would like to get to know you better. And you can’t expect every person under the sun to love your book. Hell, you could hate mine. Would it hurt to know that? Absolutely, but that’s why we won’t talk about it.” I check my watch. “I’m getting hungry, so I’m going to save my draft, then take a rideshare to a Mexican restaurant Ethan suggested—Tres Hermanos. Feel free to join me, as a date or just as friends. Or don’t come at all. Either way, I’m going to stuff my face with a burrito.”
Her eyes search mine. “What if it’s the worst date ever?”
“What if it’s the best? Do you really want to go the rest of your life wondering ‘what if’?”
With a resigned sigh, she admits, “No. But if something goes wrong, can we just pretend it never happened and spend the remainder of the weekend as acquaintances?”
“Absolutely.”
11
SLOANE
Ever since the workshop this morning, I’ve been on edge. I can handle constructive criticism from my editor or alpha readers, but have always struggled with my peers reading my work for fun. Still, Wyatt is right; I can’t make everyone happy when it comes to my stories. Once a book is out in the world, my job is done, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when someone I admire doesn’t love it. A regular reader hating my book doesn’t bother me. A man I’m interested in quitting halfway in because he hates it? It’s quite possibly my biggest nightmare.
I’m tempted to change into a dress, but if anyone spotted the two of us together, it would definitely look like I’m on a date. Unsure if he’s coming to me first or going straight to the restaurant, I throw on a cardigan and refresh my makeup, then make my way back next door, knocking twice. As Wyatt answers, my breath catches. He’s also added a sweater, looking like a model for a college brochure. It’s giving sexy librarian in the best way, and I have to keep myself from drooling.
“Just so we’re on the same page, is this a date, or are we having dinner as friends?” he asks carefully.
“Why don’t we just see where the evening takes us?”
“Fair enough.” Wyatt takes out his wallet, double-checking he has his key. “You have yours?”
“I do.”
“Shame,” he chuckles softly, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
Closing the door behind him, he guides me for a few steps with a hand at the small of my back. The simple touch has my heart racing, and the moment he pulls it away, disappointment sears through me. I wouldn’t consider myself touch-starved, but I also can’t remember the last time a man gave me butterflies like this.
On the elevator ride down, he orders a rideshare, and thankfully it’ll be here in a few minutes. We make our way outside to the pickup area, and a gust of freezing-cold wind whips around us. I wrap my arms around myself, regretting not bringing a jacket. In an instant, Wyatt pulls me to him, rubbing my back and arms to warm me. Being this close to him, I get a whiff of his cologne, body wash, or whatever makes him smell entirely too good. It’s woodsy, a little smoky, and I have to keep myself from burying my face in his neck.
The car arrives, and still no words pass between us as he guides me to it like he did down the hall. Just like before, I feel empty the moment he stops touching me. He rounds the car and slides in. A big part of me wants to reach across the small space to hold his hand, but I’m certain if I do, I won’t ever want to let go.
