Page 114 of The Rom-Commers

“Wecan.”

I took a step toward him, but he took a step backward. Then I stepped closer, and he stepped back. “Emma? Don’t. Hey—this is a bad idea. Hey! I’m serious.”

At that, Charlie reached for a pair of tongs on the counter, and he held them up like a weapon.

A weapon of self-defense.

Something about that visual stopped me.

I suddenly saw the scene from a different vantage point: a predatory female writer advancing on her coworker as he defended himself with kitchen utensils.

Wow. He wasn’t kidding. This guyreallydidn’t want to kiss me.

Like, at all.

To the point where he would brandish a pair of kitchen tongs.

The sting of rejection hit me, and I held still for a second, not sure how to respond.

I dropped my eyes. Then, to the floor, I said, “You really are horrified by this idea.”

“Not horrified—”

“Repulsed, then, I guess.”

“No, I—”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. I squinted at the window, instead. “I had no idea that I was such a revolting option.”

“Come on, Emma. That’s not it.”

But it really did seem like itwasit. At least, it felt that way.

“Okay,” I said, feeling everything in reverberations. “That’s fine.”

I turned around and started walking away.

I didn’t even know where I was going, to be honest.

Hell of a rejection, huh?

Charlie didn’t even want to kiss me for research.

How unappealing are you, exactly, to not even qualify for a research kiss?

How stomach-turning must you be for a man to take up arms against you?

I could dwell on feminist-y questions like why the hell Charlie Yates of all people got to be thearbiter of my personal appeallater. Right now, only one thing was clear: I’d been fully willing to kiss him. And Charlie Yates—most definitely, most emphatically—hadnotbeen even the tiniest bit willing to kiss me.

Fine. Fine.

The rejection descended into a burning humiliation. All I could think of to stop it was to flat-out flee the room. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t care—but I felt so rejected, I couldn’t even do that.

“Emma,” Charlie said, following me.

“I get it. It’s cool,” I said, walking faster. “I’ve just gotta—I just need to—” But my mind was jumbled. What did I need to do? What out-of-nowhere pressing issue could serve as the pretend reason I was leaving?

There was nothing. Nothing convincing, anyway.

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