Page 26 of Business or Pleasure

Even though I should be in my element, I can’t get over the fact that just a week ago, he was kissing me in front of a bookstore.

“That wouldn’t be too much?” he’s asking, after I mention that I should probably watch as much of his work as possible, including the entirety of The Nocturnals. “I don’t want to work you too hard.”

I quietly burst into flames. It’s criminal that he’s not seeing the innuendo.

And that’s when I realize I cannot keep reacting to him like this.

Because even if Finn is acting perfectly professional, the history between us is a swath of cotton in my throat, a fist wrapped tight around my lungs. Every time his eyes meet mine, an electric current rushes up my spine and I remember how he pressed me against the door. How his frantic fingers searched and searched and searched.

Despite all the faux pas, he knows me, intimately, in a way only a few other people do. And now he’s right in front of me, pretending he doesn’t.

If I can’t get past this anxiety, I’m not going to be able to write the book.

“Everything okay?” he asks. “You look a little queasy.”

I blink myself back to reality. “I feel like... we might need to talk about the thing we said we weren’t going to talk about?” I hate the way my voice tilts upward at the end, but I push forward. “I know we said we were going to forget about it, but I just want to make sure it’s not going to be an issue. That both of us are on the same page.” A nervous laugh slips out. “Literally, I guess.”

I’m not prepared for the full force of his gaze, hazel eyes intently focused as he studies me. Cheekbones sharper than any of the swords I saw at the con today. I assume Finn wears contacts, but no wonder they had him wear glasses on The Nocturnals—otherwise, Caleb Rhodes, the werewolf protagonist played by former teen heartthrob Ethan Underwood, might have had some competition for leading man status. If my face is growing warm, it’s only because Friday night is now playing on repeat in my head. The way he took in my body. The weight of him on top of me. All that lube and oooh, there it is.

“I don’t see why it has to affect our working relationship,” he finally says. “What’s one night of mind-blowing sex between coworkers?”

A kalamata olive lodges itself in my windpipe as I lose myself to a coughing fit. In my rush to reach for my glass of water, I knock it over, sending ice cubes skidding across the table. Cold water floods Finn’s plate, turning his falafel into a sad, soggy mess.

If this is how Finn and I are going to deal with our past, we’re going to be banned from every restaurant on this tour.

A server swings by somewhere in the middle of my fiftieth apology, promising Finn she’ll have a new plate as soon as possible, even as he assures her that it’s fine and I contemplate launching myself into the sun.

When I finally regain my composure, it occurs to me that I have a chance to shut this conversation down again. Let it all go.

Instead, I make a thoughtless, fatal mistake. A silver bullet straight to my jugular.

“Mind-blowing,” I repeat. “That really blew your mind?”

Finn’s eyebrows push together in confusion. “It didn’t blow yours?”

“We’ve got to stop saying the word ‘blow.’ ”

“I’m serious, Chandler,” he says, that seriousness painted all over his face. Thirty seconds ago, he didn’t want to talk about it, but now his interest is piqued. “Is that—is that why you left? I wondered about that all day, even after I met with you and Joe for lunch.” His voice is level. Quiet but concerned. Then he brings a hand to his throat and swallows hard. “If I did something to offend you, or god forbid, hurt you—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly, cutting him off. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I stare down at my plate. I wanted only to clear the air between us. I didn’t want the actual truth. “I—I’m sorry I left without saying anything. I’d never done that before, as you know, and I just didn’t know how to navigate it, I guess.”

Now this conversation is treading dangerously close to the truth, and while I haven’t had much experience with actors, I have a feeling telling one that he’s not very good in bed might spark a reaction I’m not entirely ready for.

At the very least, it’s enough to get me booted from this assignment. Blacklisted from publishing.

The server returns with a new wrap, extra tzatziki. Finn barely glances at it, instead flicking his eyes around the restaurant to make sure no one’s paying attention to us. Then he asks in this low, uncertain voice, “So was it... not good for you?”

A dozen lies wait on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pick a single one.

My silence gives me away.

“Holy shit.” He leans back in the booth, running a hand down his face, along the reddish stubble that’s just started to reappear. “It was that bad?”

“No, no, no,” I rush to say. The restaurant isn’t busy, and yet I’m suddenly certain everyone in here knows what we’re talking about. A neon sign declaring This Mere Mortal slept With a Beloved Actor and Had the Gall to Insinuate He Was Anything Less Than Godlike.

“But you sounded like...” Finn trails off, the pieces seeming to come together. My forced gasps. My faked orgasm. The escape.

I stare down at my nails, picking at the burnt-orange polish I applied the night before I left solely so I’d have something to keep the anxiety at bay. This is how I die, I think: confessing to Finnegan Walsh over falafel that he did not rock my world.

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