Page 141 of The Rom-Commers

Maybe more than half.

But that was need-to-know information.

“And,” I went on, “I would really, really like to sleep with you. Specifically.”

Charlie closed his eyes with aWhat a nightmaresigh.

But I kept going. This was my shot, and I was taking it. “I don’t live a life where chances like this come along very often. I may never get a shot like this again. So you’d really be doing me a favor. I’m not saying we should date—or even stay in contact. Just for fun, huh? Just a little treat. All the good stuff, and none of the angst. My life doesn’t have time for real romance anyway. My schedule’s too booked with”—I couldn’t think of what it was booked with, and somehow I finished with—“worry and stress.”

There it was. That was my pitch.

For a tiny second, Charlie held very still—and I wondered if he was tempted.

I studied his earnest, writerly face and felt a little buzz of hope.

But that’s when Charlie said, “Absolutely not. No way in hell.”

I gave him a second to change his mind.

Then, when he didn’t, I asked, “Charlie?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you like me back?”

Charlie blinked, like he never in a million years saw that coming.

“Is it my hair?” I asked, already agreeing. “Is it the frizz?”

“No!” Charlie said. Like he was offended by the question.

“Is it the color?” I pulled one of the corkscrews straight to take an appraising look. “I get it. The way it scratches the backs of your eyeballs. It’s a lot.”

Charlie shook his head. “No,” he said. “I love your hair.”

Huh. Okay. “Is it my strawberry writing hoodie?” I asked. “I know it’s crazy. But my”—my breath caught unexpectedly here—“my mom gave it to me.”

“Your strawberry writing hoodie is adorable,” Charlie said, his voice softer now.

But I was searching for an answer. “Is it how I ripped your screenplay apart when I first came here? That couldn’t have been fun for you. Orhow I mocked you so much for trying to open biscuits with a can opener? Or how I keep rolling my eyes at your Mafia movie? I could revise my opinion on that. Maybe I haven’t been giving leather bell-bottoms a fair shot. Am I too chatty—is that it? Too opinionated? Too direct? Maybe if you tell me what it is, I could try to fix it.”

“Stop talking,” Charlie said. “You’re making me mad.”

“So it’s… not fixable. Is that what you’re saying?”

“You don’t need fixing,” Charlie said. “I’m the one that needs fixing.”

There was such impossible finality in his voice.

“You’re asking me what’s wrong with you,” Charlie went on, “but you should be telling me what’s wrong withme. I am not a catch, Emma. I’m an insomniac. I’m a misanthrope. I like imaginary people better than real ones. I haven’t folded laundry in, like, four years. This isn’t a rejection for you. It’s a lucky escape.”

What was he doing? Trying to argue me out of liking him?

None of those things were deal-breakers, but okay.

None of those things were deal-breakers… but maybethe fact that he was listing themwas. How fully, incontrovertibly, utterly uninterested in me must he be to construct a whole case against himself like that—to my face?

I took a five-point-five-second breath.

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