Page 46 of Yes No Maybe

A pinched smile breaks through. “This is why I prefer the easy questions.”

“I get it.” His eyes fall to our linked hands as his fingers curl with mine. “But be proud of your scars, Rowan. Insideandout. They tell stories—stories worth sharing. You survived something difficult. You’re still surviving it. Your worldview is forever altered and unique. That doesn’t make you less than. It makes you badass. Abeautifulbadass. I feelmoreconnected to you knowing you’ve been through shitstorms—maybe that’s why I’m writing again.”

His hands are strong, like the rest of him, and calloused where he’s held a pen for too long—he writesandtypes to create his books. I have the same callous on the inner side of my right index finger from hand-grading thousands of essays, and he smirks when he finds it.

Absorbing his words, I smile. “Well, since you put it like that… then, sweet are the uses of adversity.”

Lacing his fingers through mine inspires a heat wave through my core.

“Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head,” he recites dramatically, his grip tight as he caresses my hands. “And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones and—”

“Good in everything,” we say together. Laughing brings us closer. I catch the piney scent of his cologne and the sweetness of his breath. Our foreheads nearly bump, bringing on more chuckles.

A shameful fantasy stirs—me tackling him to the floor with wild kisses, sex sparked by wine and Shakespeare. But I come to my senses. That road would only lead to a dead end and absolute humiliation. This thing between us isn’t like that, anyway.

I tug my hands from his.

Amused, he says, “There you go again. You and your dead white guys. But this time, I think Shakespeare would—”

My phone rattles on the coffee table. Dean lights up the screen, but I make no move to answer.

“Should you get that?”

The aftermath of Dean’s last call comes over me like a dark shade—I don’t want to feel like that again. “I should, but I don’t want to.”

Jack’s face twists with sudden discomfort. “Um, Rowan, I—”

“No, Jack, not because of you.” A chuckle bumbles out at his obvious distress. “Don’t look so horrified. Save yourlet’s just be friendslecture for your bed bunnies—I have no ideas about us.”

“Wait. What?” His discomfort switches to confusion. “That’s not what I was going to say—”

“It’s okay.” I flip the phone over as it stops ringing and take the food into the kitchen. “You don’t need to explain. I’m engaged,sort of, and you’re… well, Jack Graham.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He follows me with our empty glasses.

“It means I’m not your type.” I sort some plastic containers to put the leftovers away.

“Why not?” Looking amused and curious, he leans against the counter beside me, nudging me with his shoulder.

My eyes roll at the question. “What difference does it make?”

“For research purposes. Tell me… Why aren’tyoumy type?” His hand lays over mine, fiddling with containers, forcing me to look at him. “We’re around the same age. Unmarried. Accomplished professionals. And we’re both hot—”

“Not exactly,” I argue, tugging away from him again. But his words roll over mine.

“—So, either you think I’m too shallow to want you as you are, or you’re too insecure to think it’s possible.”

I stop my work and stare at him, feeling uneasy. “I don’t like these questions.”

“No shit,” he laughs. “But those are the most interesting questions to ask. Come on. Why aren’t you my type?”

“Fine.” My eyes narrow to slits. “You have a very lackadaisical attitude toward sex that I could never have. I’m not judging—just observing. Sex is just another fun party for you. But it’s a milestone for me. To get to that place where I feel close enough with someone… it means everything.” I shrug lightly, feeling childlike with my admission, like I’m flashing my badge of inexperience. “That probably sounds—”

“Don’t assume you know what I’m thinking.” He looks pensive—the amusement has vanished from his face. “You don’t know me.”

“Did I say something offensive? I’m sorry—” My phone rattles from the other room.

“You should answer it.” He takes the food container from my hands. “I’ll finish this and let myself out.”

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