Page 70 of That Geeky Feeling

So all I could afford was this tiny studio apartment. But it was shiny and new and the first place I was able to get for myself. And it was mine. I might be able to nearly reach the fridge from my bed, but I still love it as much now as I did the first day I saw it.

Obviously, Greg didn’t work out. He might have found my planning so annoying it drove him out of lawyering and into a meditation school in India, but I found his inability to make a plan, and his persistent refusal to decide what we should do till the last moment, intensely annoying too.

So, while he didn’t last, my little home did. And it’s even cuter and cozier at night when, like now, I’m snuggled up under the duvet with just the bedside lamp on.

The laptop makes it a little less cozy, but there’s work to do.

I’m about to go over my checklist for the bazillionth time when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

ELLIOT (09:53 PM)

Thanks for the plane tickets. Sorry I didn’t reply to the email. Got busy.

The sight of his name on my phone, in my personal space, as I lie in bed so close to the sofa he sat on to watch me fall asleep when I was sick, makes my belly flip.

I was so furious with him in the hallway yesterday. And probably rude. Certainly unpleasant. And yet he’s still being so nice to me.

Our only contact since I virtually yelled at him has been work-related. Like earlier, when I emailed him his flight details to get to the First Byte launch on Monday. I figured his lack of reply was deliberate and down to him being pissed off with me.

I probably did fly off the handle too quickly. But even though I’ve had time to calm down enough for part of me to accept he was trying to do a good thing by talking to Max, I still know it’s better for us to keep our distance. The less contact we have, the easier it will be to get him out of my system.

Another text follows immediately.

ELLIOT (09:54 PM)

And my spine thanks you for booking me first class.

Oh hell, why do even just a few words from him make my insides do a little dance? How is it possible to stay even a little bit angry with him? And why is he being cute, even after I was horrible to him and told him I didn’t trust him?

Holy hell, why does he have to be such an all-around good and perfect man?

Actually, maybe that’s not the real question. The real question is, why does this all-around good and perfect man have to be my boss’s brother?

I fully intended not to have any interactions with him that aren’t one hundred percent work-related and one hundred percent necessary. But reading his name and his words tugs at something deep inside me.

Only someone who really likes someone would bother to be this kind to them after they’d been yelled at and told there was no hope. I have to admire his persistence and belief that we could be more than friends, to value it, to realize how lucky I am he feels that way.

If he’d sent just a quick thanks-for-the-tickets message, I would have had the strength to ignore it. But I’d have to be dead inside not to respond to this one.

I smile to myself as I tap out the reply.

ME (09:56 PM)

I also booked you a much better hotel. One where you’ll get to sleep in an actual bed.

I hit send and instantly my insides sink like a lead weight, with more lead tied to it, dropped into the ocean.

That sounds so flirty. What the hell is wrong with me? I yell at him yesterday, and now today I send him a flirty message that includes the word “bed”. It’s confusing. For him and for me.

Shit. I push the duvet down to my waist, suddenly extremely warm.

I just meant he wouldn’t have to sleep in a chair this time. But it sounds like I’m trying to remind him of what happened on the bed at the Highway Inn.

He doesn’t need to be reminded. And neither do I. Lord knows the memory of his muscles under my hands, his light touch on my thighs and hips, and my hot, wet, desperate center hovering over the hardness in his boxers has been impossible to shake from my mind.

It’s there when I’m scheduling meetings. It’s there when I’m having lunch with Vivian. And it’s definitely there every night when I climb into bed. At that point, it merges with the blurry memory of chicken-dumpling night and him taking off my skirt and tucking me under the covers, as well as me pulling him so close to my delirious face I could have kissed him.

Shit.

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