Page 32 of Business or Pleasure

My whole life, I’ve been the kind of person for whom “living in the moment” simply didn’t exist.

Well, here’s my moment.

“I guess—I guess I could give you a few pointers,” I say. Maybe this will be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but at least I’ll have done something. If it helps me forget about Wyatt, that’ll just be an added benefit.

Plus, I’ll be doing a mitzvah for the next woman he has in his bed. A double mitzvah if it’s on Shabbat.

Finn’s shock is etched into the soft curve of his mouth and the creases at the corners of his eyes. He recovers quickly, standing straighter and raking a hand through his hair. “Well. Uh. That’s—wow. Okay. This isn’t where I thought this conversation would go.”

“Me, either,” I say, laughing. “I have no idea what happens now.”

“Should we... should we shake?” He extends a hand, but then immediately withdraws it. “Nope, that feels weird.” A scratch at the back of his neck. It’s similar to what Hux does in the clip of him and Meg at a campus formal Noemie showed me, right before he tells her he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as she is and that he might die if she doesn’t dance with him. Only in real life, it’s even cuter—because it might be real.

“Maybe a hug?” I suggest, because at this moment in time, a hug seems innocent. Something you’d share with a friend or a professional collaborator-slash-sexual-experimenter.

His features relax as his arms fall open. The instant my chest meets his, something loosens inside me. Relief or anticipation or satisfaction, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just a reaction to his scent, that lovely mix of earth and spice. I knot my hands behind his neck, relishing the warmth of his skin against my fingertips. You are so fucked, the practical part of my brain tells me, the part I decide to ignore. His exhale hums through me as his hands settle against my lower back, thumb stroking shivers up my spine.

Whatever semiprofessional boundary we still had earlier today: it officially no longer exists.

JUST MY TYPE

INT. GO FONT YOURSELF OFFICE—DAY

EMMA is in the conference room with CHARLIE. She gazes at him, bewildered, while Charlie remains calm and clearheaded.

EMMA

I don’t get it. All these designs, all these amazing fonts... and you still don’t want the promotion?

CHARLIE

He strides toward her, taking her hand in his. Both their hands are covered in ink.

Because it was never about the promotion, Emma. Don’t you get it? Every single font choice—every glyph, every stem, every serif—all of that was for you.

chapter

nine

PHOENIX, AZ

I expect the regret to hit me hard the next morning, a torrential downpour of what the fuck and there’s just no way and this is absurd. And yet when Finn calls a car and helps me with my suitcase, sliding me a half smile as I settle into the backseat, it doesn’t.

It doesn’t when we go through airport security and I fumble with my bag of three-ounce containers, a bottle of shampoo spilling everywhere and earning me a little one-on-one time with TSA.

It doesn’t when our flight is delayed two hours and Finn guests me into the airport lounge, where he drops a cherry tomato while going through the salad bar, causing the woman next to him to trip and fall face-first into a bowl of spinach, prompting our immediate removal from the lounge.

It doesn’t when our Uber driver drops us off at the charming house in a suburb of Phoenix, where we’ll be spending the next few days until Canyon Con, Arizona’s biggest comic book and pop culture convention.

And then, when we’re finally alone after six hours of travel, really truly alone for the first time since that Seattle hotel room, I’m still not sure I regret it. I feel awkward as hell, that’s for sure—but not regretful.

If the strained smile on Finn’s face is any indication, he’s feeling it, too. It’s thoroughly unfair that after the car ride and the waiting at the airport and the flight, he looks disheveled in a rugged way, shirtsleeves wrinkled and eyes a bit droopy, which only accentuates his long russet lashes. In sharp contrast, my bangs started sticking to my forehead the moment we touched down in Arizona, as though immediately protesting the weather.

“So, uh,” Finn says, gazing around the space. “I’m gonna go unpack.”

I place my backpack on the floor. “Right. Me, too.”

The Airbnb is a minimalist two-bed, two-bath with a shared kitchen and signs everywhere that say No Pets, No Guests, No Parties. It was cheaper to put us up here than flying us back home and then out to the con. Oddly enough, this job is kind of the perfect scenario for the plan we devised in Portland. Well—as “perfect” as agreeing to hook up with an actor to help him hone his skills in the bedroom could possibly be. We’re already on the road together, sharing hotels. Everyone to report to is back in New York or LA.

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