Page 16 of Out of Focus

“I’ll load the dishwasher. You shouldn’t have to clean up alone after cooking.” She starts moving toward the dishes stacked next to the sink, and I breathe in too quickly, the scent of her shampoo filling my nostrils. Roses. She always smells like roses.

It’s my turn to clear my throat now since I’ve let the silence linger too long as it is. “Thanks.”

Yep. You are a great conversationalist. Fucking idiot.

We work in silence for a few minutes, me washing the pots in the sink, and her loading the dishwasher. She’s been chewing on her lower lip the entire time, looking deep in thought about something.

We both start speaking at the same time.

“I need to say something?—”

“So, listen, I was wondering?—”

We stop simultaneously.

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“You go first.”

In an effort not to have this go on any longer, I stop talking, simply nodding at her to continue what she was saying.

“All right, I’ll go first.” She clears her throat, eyes on me. “Thank you for helping me the other day. I didn’t say it then, but that was really nice of you.”

That’s not what I was expecting. Actually, I wasn’t expecting anything. “I thought you did. And it was the least I could do after being the cause of your fall.” All right, so the cause of her fall was her walking with her eyes closed, but if I wasn’t there, she might not have fallen at all, so it’s sort of my fault.

“I’m not finished.” She stops her movements and looks down at her feet, pulling that lower lip into her mouth one more time. “I’d like your help with something.”

I scoff. Loudly, too. Not because I don’t want to help her, but because I am shocked as hell at the sentence that just came out of her mouth. Regret hits me like a bag of bricks to the gut when I see her brows furrow as she takes a step back.

“Never mind. This was a terrible idea.” She shakes her head and walks to the other sink to wash her hands.

Fuck.

“No, Chuck. Wait.” I walk toward her and reach for her arm but think better of it and pull my hand back. She doesn’t seem to like being touched, or maybe it’s just being touched by me. Either way, I’m not about to make her uncomfortable. “I was just surprised. I’m sorry. I actually need to ask you something, too.” She turns her head, so I can see her profile. Her brows have relaxed a bit. “Can we please start over?”

She turns, and I hand her a tea towel to dry her hands. Our fingers brush in the process, and she flinches at the contact. We’ll think about that another time. I need to focus on easing this awkwardness between us.

“Want me to go first?” I ask. She nods, keeping her eyes on her hands. I take a deep breath and just go for it. “I’d like us to spend some time together. Get to know one another. I know I’m not related to anyone here, but these people are my family, too, and neither of us is going anywhere. It’s not fair to them for us to keep doing whatever this is. We owe it to them to learn how to be nice to one another.” She looks up at my face, never reaching my eyes but taking in my features like she’s studying me.

“Is this a joke?” Her brows furrow as she continues to watch me.

“What? No, of course not.” I keep my tone light, hoping she can hear my sincerity. “I thought maybe we could go for walks together, and I guess if you need my help with something, we can work on that too. What do you need my help with, anyway?” I can’t imagine how I could possibly help her, but I’m curious.

“Writing.” She takes a breath in and releases it slowly. “And something else.” This is obviously hard for her, but I need her to tell me what else, so I wait. “I’m just having a hard time describing the relationships my characters have with each other, whether romantic or otherwise.” When she breaks off this time, she doesn’t seem to have much more to add.

“I’m not sure I understand.” I really don’t know what I could do to help her write. And write what? She works in finance.

“I’m struggling with writing about emotions. This next series I’m writing is very heavy on family and romance, and I don’t have a ton of personal experience in either of those fields. I’m struggling to find inspiration. Writing sex scenes or any kind of intimacy is nearly impossible. That’s where you come in.” This isn’t making any sense.

My eyes are as big as dinner plates; I can feel it.

Did she just ask me for help writing sex scenes?

She looks up, and her own eyes widen as she realizes what she’s just said. “And where I lack experience, you have it in bulk. I just need you to help me with writing about it, not with having it myself. I don’t need help with that. I mean, I could probably use it, but not from you. I just need to use your vast experience as inspiration.” Nothing about her face or her body language indicates this is an elaborate joke. She actually looks a bit nervous, she keeps biting the side of her lip and wringing her hands together. She’s 100 percent serious. My brain is melting inside my skull, trying to process what she’s just said.

She just said she needs help with having sex. And she wants me to share my experiences for her book. What the fuck alternate universe have I entered?

“Ginger Spice, let me get this straight. You want me to tell you about my own experiences with having sex to inspire a novel. Is that it?” I’m not sure I’ll ever truly process the sentence that came out of my mouth.

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