Page 35 of More Than Words

The attraction had been building since my first interaction with her when Vivid hired me, and it’d simmered for five years. Five years where I’d thought she was an uptight shrew who couldn’t take a joke and five years where she’d bought my world’s biggest jackass routine.

I had a long route to convince her that my attraction wasn’t just another thing I’d done to mess with her, and I was tired of watching her from afar. Without our brief dalliance at the publisher’s conference, I would have continued to think my attraction was one-sided, but once she flipped the switch on me, I couldn’t turn it off.

She was guarded, no-nonsense, and sexy as fuck in a way that I couldn’t resist. I was tired of the meaningless hookups or younger women hitting on me because I dressed like I had more money than I did. I wanted a real woman. Someone who had worked hard and made something of herself, and Isobel checked all the boxes.

Sam had sent me all his notes on the pages we’d received so far, and I was amazed at how quickly Chase and Evan had been able to restructure the scenes. I thought he’d fight it, and it’d take weeks of drawn-out collaboration, but with Chase’s help, Evan’s writing had a spark behind it I’d never seen before. It reminded me of Evan’s earlier work, not the sex part, but the inspiration behind his writing—before he’d met Simone and she’d driven him into a life of seclusion with her toxic manipulating bullshit.

My mind started racing with possibilities of the two of them continuing their writing collaboration past this book, but I felt Isobel would be dead against it. She guarded her authors like a junkyard dog, and I had no desire to be bitten.

At least not in anger.

Maybe in sexual frustration.

Because I was feeling lots of that since we left Maine.

Isobel’s door was closed when I walked the floor after my weight-lifting session during my lunch hour, but she hadn’t canceled on me yet. I knew I’d fought dirty by goading her into meeting with me outside the office. I needed to see if this pull I felt toward her was only because she didn’t seem to want me and I was rising to the challenge. Or if it was because once she let her hair out of those tight buns and sleek professional ponytails, she was attracted to me too, telling me it was definitely not one-sided.

I debated on changing after leaving the office at 5:00, but I needed to take a trip to a specialty wine shop on the other side of downtown if I was going to fulfill her demands. After fighting rush hour traffic, and barely finding a spot to park on the street, I hurried to pick up our food.

The restaurant had my order packed in an insulated travel container in just enough time for me to make it to Isobel’s apartment. Despite giving her a ride to and from the conference and then home from the gym, I’d never been inside.

Balancing the bags containing our meals, I buzzed the intercom, waiting for it to connect and hoping she would let me in. It’d be a bitch move to let me plan all this and bail, but I couldn’t blame her for punishing me for my past misbehaviors.

I began to worry when the buzzer disengaged and the speaker went silent. Shifting nervously as I scanned the windows above for signs of Isobel peeping out at my discomfort, I steadied the bags again and pressed the button for a second time.

A few long seconds later, the speaker crackled to life. “Keep your pants on. I’m coming.”

Laughing at the way she sounded out of breath; I couldn’t hold in the obvious joke. “I think you’d enjoy it more if my pants were off.”

The intercom went silent, and I wondered if I’d pushed too far, but the lock on the door to my left buzzed loudly, and I heard it disengage as Isobel’s voice floated over the line. “Doubt it, but I’ll let you up anyway. You better have my wine. You know I’ll need it to deal with you. I’m in 306.”

Thankfully, her modest brick building had been updated and had an elevator, so I didn’t have to trek up three floors with my arms full. At least it was leg day, so my arms weren’t tired, but I hadn’t expected to get a second workout for the day with our dinner. Although I wouldn’t be opposed to a third if this working dinner went how I wished it would. While our brief tryst had been quick and slightly frustrating, I could tell Isobel would be a handful in bed. And I wanted to fill both hands.

I took a deep breath before transferring all the bags to one hand and knocked on her apartment door. She kept me waiting once again, my pulse picking up as I waited for the door to swing open. When it did, I wasn’t expecting what I saw.

Isobel was fresh-faced, with her wet hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. A soft-looking turquoise sweater hung to mid-thigh, and her long bare legs peeked out underneath.

“Eyes up here,” she chuckled while I perused her casual outfit, my hand flexing against the handles of the bags so I didn’t do something reckless, like drop to my knees to explore all that smooth bare skin with my lips.

“No big boy this time?”

She rolled her eyes, pulling the door open further as she stepped to the side, my shoulder brushing hers when I stepped into the apartment. “You don’t need your ego inflated any more than it already is.”

It was a stark contrast to her office as far as the color palette, but just as chaotic. A fireplace surrounded with built-in bookcases lined the far wall of her small living room, stuffed full, with no visible order to them. I thought of my bookcases at home, with the titles neatly stacked upright and organized chronologically by release for each author who were placed in order alphabetically. Hutch often teased me for my OCD tendencies, and I typically spent at least an hour combing my shelves for the one book he tried to hide out of order after he’d been over to my place.

As I scanned her modest living space, the only similarities we seemed to hold were the number of books we owned. She’d surrounded herself with creature comforts, cushy-looking furniture, plush pillows, pops of bright color mixed with the warm tone of the exposed brick walls, and several lamps interspersed to give it a homey feeling. It made me glad we’d decided to work in her environment, not mine. I knew she’d never be able to resist giving me shit for my stereotypical bachelor pad filled with leather couches, sleek furniture with clean lines, and stark white walls.

My apartment was a little smaller than hers, but they were day and night, sort of like the two of us. We both had sharp edges, but hers were rounded where mine were jagged.

“Quit being weird. You can run a full stalker analysis on my living room later. My food better still be warm.”

“I would tell you to keep your pants on, but I can’t tell if you’re wearing any,” I smirked, nodding toward the long hem of her sweater.

“I’m wearing shorts, you ass.” She swatted at my arm before she turned and moved toward the kitchen while my eyes studied the creamy expanse of skin exposed on the back of her thighs.

Every exchange of words between us lately seemed to be laced with sexual tension.

“Did you get my—?” she trailed off as she looked back at the table, and I pulled out the bottle of wine at the top of her list. It wasn’t a fancy blend, but I was glad I’d stopped at the specialty shop because it wasn’t something I could have picked up at the street market near our office.

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