Page 78 of Say You Hate Me
I never want to fall asleep any other way.
44
Natalia
A few weeks later,I walk into our new office with Samantha, and we begin our first day at Fling—our up-and-coming agency. With the help of my magazine connections, the authors who wanted to transfer with us, and the publishing houses we’d been in touch with, we were already off to a great start. It doesn’t hurt that Samantha’s financing went through, and our investor was on board and already helping us with our immediate needs. As I look around the small, modern office, I smile.
This is mine, and I answer only to myself.
The day is spent going over our current author portfolio and forming a list of books we want to represent. That means pushing a few of the releases up, and several of them back. It’s only the two of us for now, but we hope to hire an assistant to handle submissions.
As six o’clock rolls around, Samantha and I share a small bottle of non-alcoholic champagne. Turns out, Samantha is pregnant, so we’ll need to find someone else before she goes on maternity leave.
I can’t stop smiling the entire drive home. Ever since the plane crash, as horrible as it was—I feel at peace somehow. Nathan moved in with Luca, and they are planning a road trip up to Canada next week. Quite frankly, it’s hilarious to see the person who loathes camping prepare for such a big camping trip. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nathan roll his eyes so much. And Anderson is taking some time off, doing alotof yoga—or as much as his injuries will allow—and dabbling in cooking. He brought up the idea of writing a cookbook last night, so of course I had to give him advice from the agent side of things.
As I pull into my driveway, I turn my lights off and head inside. A text from Anderson pops up.
Be dressed and ready in ten minutes.
My stomach flutters, and I bite my lower lip as I respond.
Me: What should I wear?
Anderson: Preferably nothing. But really… something fancy that I can tear off later.
Heat pools between my thighs, and I push the front door open. Kira is sitting on the couch, sipping wine. One thing that’s surprised me is how much we have in common. I had no idea she loved romance novels, so I make sure to text her suggestions whenever I remember. We also have a weekly book club with Samantha, wherein we go to Laurel Tavern and nerd out over swoon-worthy heroes and alpha male hotness over a few Vegas bombs. And yes, I usually end up at Anderson’s on those nights, so he started keeping pajamas and a toothbrush for me at his house.
“Going out?” she asks, giving me a puppy dog frown. “I thought we could re-watch the first episode of Gossip Girl.”
I tilt my head and smile. “I have plans with Anderson, but Samantha suggested we go to Palm Springs this weekend. Her family has a vacation house there. What do you think?”
She nods vigorously. “I need this, Natalia. Make it happen,.” She claps, and we laugh. My heart swells, knowing I have friends—actual, tangible friends that I make plans with. For so long, I skirted by, never revealing too much, never getting too close in case they disappeared. But the more I’ve opened my heart, the more love I feel, and for that I will be forever grateful.
I get dressed quickly, changing into a skimpy, creme-colored dress and black stilettos. I don’t have time to do my hair or makeup, so I rub some red lip tint on my lips and spritz my wild hair with salt spray. As I flip my head back over, I hear Anderson knock on the door. Grabbing my clutch, I say goodbye to Kira and open the door, closing it behind me as Anderson’s eyes rove over my body slowly.
He’s still a little bruised—mostly around his eyes—but the blue spots make him look like a bad ass. He’s wearing a white button-up and dress pants. His brown, leather belt is the same shade as his shoes. His hair is longer now—messier—mostly due to not being able to do much after his surgery. It’s the same reason he’s sporting some major scruff.
I am loving the unkempt version of Anderson.
“Amazing,” he murmurs, leaning down as he leads us to his car. His lips graze my neck, and a low moan echoes in my throat.
I refused to have sex with him after his surgery. The nurses all advised him to take it easy for a couple of weeks, so I held off, much to the chagrin of Anderson. We’d done other things to each other—fun things, both in his office on my last day at Gather, and in the soft sheets of his bed. Things I’d never do in front of any other human. But we haven’t had sex. I am waiting until he feels better. Which, as he watches me with hooded eyes… might be tonight.
We drive down Topanga Canyon to a small place in Malibu, the sunset turning the beach pink as we drive along PCH. It’s warm for the dead of winter, but I don’t hate the fact that I don’t need a jacket in January. During our dinner, we talk about Gather—about how Kelvin and some of his employees are now co-mingling with the Gather employees. All the people Luca had hired opted to stay on, and Gather—now a part of Whole Foods—is thriving.
I tell him about our first day at Fling, and he buys us a nice bottle of champagne to celebrate. He hardly drinks any of it, citing the winding road home, so by the time we get into his Tesla, I am buzzing.
It’s dark as we wind through Malibu Canyon, and Anderson turns some music on—a song by Band of Horses, which I find out is his favorite band. I smile as we weave past cars, feeling light and effervescent. My hand migrates to Anderson’s thigh, and before I know it, I’m working my hand farther up, and he hisses when I grip the hard, solid mass in his pants.
“You’re going to make me crash,” he says, his voice uneven. I grip his cock firmly, moving my hand up and down. He lets out a deep growl. “I’m serious,” he adds, his breath catching as I move my other hand to his balls.
“You don’t think you could drive this car and come at the same time?” I chide, quirking my lips to the side as I throw his exact words back at him.
“That,” he groans, “was a completely different scenario.” His chest rises and falls rapidly.
“What did you say to me again?” I unzip his pants, pulling him out and sliding my hand along his shaft. “You’re really wound up, Anderson.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters, but when I look at him, he’s grinning.
