Page 25 of Our Little Cliche
“Not really.”
I beam at her uncoordination. “You’re quite the calamity, aren’t you?”
“You havenoidea.” The way that she utters the words tug at my heart.Have I embarrassed her?“Please don’t fire me. I won’t do anything stup?—”
“How about I put on some lunch? Let’s can it for today. We can pick up again tomorrow,” I offer, walking to her desk andclosing her laptop. “Besides, I still haven’t shown you the rest of the house yet.”
“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
Chapter Twelve
HOLLY
Am I dead right now?
I’m sitting in the kitchen of a famous author’s house… an award winning,hot, best selling author who lives in a freaking mansion, and can carve wood, read,andcook!
How is it that the hot guy I literally ran into at the bar is now my boss? A boss who did theEdward Cullenmove on me: moving at great speeds to catch me from breaking a bone falling down the ladder. His reflexes were astronomical. And his hand on my boob? Jesus fucking Christ that was… inappropriate to say the least.
Not that I was asking him to take it off.
It takes too long to notice that I’ve been deep in thought toying with my lip while watching Cyrus behind the stove. “I won’t lie, I’ve never had a man cook for me before.”
I’m not even hungry, when I should be—I haven’t eaten. I’d blame the fact that it’s because my house only has a few things to eat in it, but that’s not the problem. It’s because my brain is still trying to comprehend that this guy is the same guy I ran into at the bar… the same guy I was flicking the bean to yesterday… . the same guy I now callboss.
And I am absolutely certain that he knows I was fucking myself too, by the way. I mean, his text addressing my breathing? Like come on, that’s a dead giveaway that he knewexactlywhat I was doing. What’s worse than knowing that he knew I was masturbating, is dealing with the fact that being caught was more of a turn on than it should be.
“Your man doesn’t cook for you?” he asks in a casualI’m trying to find out if you have a boyfriendkind of way. Desire warms my core in an instant, and radiates between us like an elastic band, ready to snap at any point. The feeling fades fast, thinking about “my man.” I don’t have a man.
I’m alone.
Lonely.
I sigh. “Don’t remind me.”
Don’t remind me that I picked a pathetic excuse of a man as a boyfriend. Don’t remind me that I was blindsided by his narcissistic, toxic love bomb stories, and excuses. Don’t remind me that I’m single, reckless and lonely in my thirties.
Don’t remind me that I’m nothome.
I drop my head on the marble counter, hiding from my long list of problems. There is no way or how I’m going to bring upthatfool. He’s the reason I’m in this mess. He’s the reason I?—
No.
I’mthe reason I’m in this mess. Adam is just easier to blame.
“That bad, huh?”
“Like I said, you have no idea.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The question throws me back for a hot minute because I’ve not actually told a single soul—other than a real estate agent—what I’ve done, or where I’ve gone. No one else knows a peep. And no one I know would care. I’ve been keeping all of this in my head, and it actually sounds like heaven totalk about it. It’sjust… where do I start? Would he judge me? Would he think any less of my professionalism and fire me?
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him.
Cyrus takes out the tomatoes from the oven that he had picked from the indoor garden, and throws them in the blender. The delicious smells of roasted tomato, garlic, basil, and fresh herbs tease my nose. It reminds me of a cozy cottage in the middle of a cold winter. Everything made from scratch, with love, and nature.
“Crikey, that smells amazing! Is that how you make tomato soup here?”
