Page 79 of I Just Want to be Yours

His arm rests on the back of my chair as he starts to read over my shoulder. I can smell the subtle spice of his cologne and there’s a lingering hint of soap like he showered recently. I can feel the warmth of his presence behind me andsuppress a small shiver as I get to my feet. “Here, you take the chair.”

He doesn’t even look at me as I get up. His eyes stay locked on my words as he easily moves into the now empty seat. Watching him read my subpar work has my nerves on edge, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m pacing the small office and biting my thumbnail as I wait for him to get to the end of the piece.

It only takes minutes, but it feels like hours have passed by the time he looks up at me. “Margot.”

I stop pacing, but I can’t get my thumb out of my mouth. I grimace, bracing for the worst. “Yeah?”

“Margot.”He shakes his head, looking back at the screen. “You’re an incredible writer.”

“But it still needs something,” I point out.

He nods. “It does, but first I need you to know this is great work.”

“Thanks.” I nod, but I can barely enjoy the compliment while I wait for whatever he’s about to say next.

“Great work,” he says again, holding my stare to make sure it sinks in. “But this doesn’t read like your blog.”

“You read my blog?”

“Yeah,” he says absently as he shifts his attention back to the screen. “Look.” He points to a few paragraphs, and I walk back around the desk to get a better view. “Like here, you talk all about the bookstore, but it doesn’t feel like you’re there. It sounds like you’re speaking remotely. If this were your blog, you’d make the reader feel like they were standing between the shelves with you.”

I frown. “I see what you mean, but the blog is so casual.”

He nods. “I’m not saying you have to get rid of your professional edge here, but I think you can combine both styles a little more.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, it feels like there’s ashift in my mindset. Even though I’ve been here for longer than I’d like, I’m suddenly excited to sit back down and take another crack at it. The idea of blending my two writing styles has me buzzing because I suddenly know exactly what I need to do. It will give the article more flare, but still envelope a style of writing that will meet the expectations of our readers.

“Braden!” I say, clapping him on the shoulder excitedly. “You’re a genius.”

“Yeah?” He turns to look at me, and I’m vaguely aware of how close we are.

“Yes!” I nod enthusiastically, my eyes still glued to the screen, skimming for all the places I can give the article more of a personal touch. When I do eventually look over at him with a grin, I’m taken aback by how happyhelooks. It isn’t an outward burst like the rush I’m experiencing. His happiness is subtle—quiet. It’s there in the way his eyes spark and the slight lift to his lips. It comes from within, and even though it’s innocent, it goes beyond the bounds of friendship.

I quickly stand up straight, removing my hand from the back of the chair. “Thank you. Really. I should be able to get those changes done and wrap things up.”

He shrugs, back to looking casual. “Of course. Always happy to help.” Getting to his feet, he steps around me and reaches for the pizza and cookies, keeping them neatly stacked. “Want me to leave you a cookie or two? No promise there will be much left later.”

I shake my head. “No, I figured they’d be my dinner, so I already had plenty. Thanks again for the pizza.”

He smiles, and the warmth that radiates from him hits me in the chest again. Nodding toward the door, he says, “Do me a favor and lock up behind me. I don’t like that you’re here alone this late.”

I follow him to the front, and once he’s outside, I stand withthe door cracked. “Thanks again. I owe you one.” With a laugh, I add, “Two if I count the pizza.”

Braden lets out a chuckle. “I’m just glad I could help.”

My lips lift. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Margot.”

Closing the door, I turn the lock. The office feels eerie without his presence, but I make my way back to my desk and try to hold on to the spark he lit while he was here. But when I stare at the screen, I’m not thinking about the words I should be changing and rearranging. I’m thinking about the way he looked at me.

Tapping my phone screen, I see a text from Jackson a little while ago.

Jackson:

Just thinking about you.

Even though I’ve done nothing to warrant it, guilt settles heavy in my stomach. Jackson has no idea Braden likes me because it never felt like something I can confirm. It was only a look. It’s only ever a look—well, that and a subtle comment here or there. It’s innocent, but I wonder if Jackson would mind. I wonder if he’d care that I was here alone with a guy who increasingly makes it clear he has feelings for me.

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