Page 39 of Rescue Me (Forget the Past 1)

I shrug, still not sure why he’s apologizing. “Someone being friendly is nothing to complain about. If anything, I envy her.”Shit, why did I say that?Now he’s going to think I’m mooning over him. Wanting what Teresa so clearly has. “Because I don’t talk to people. Well…I mean…I do talk to people. I just always seem to mess up what I’m trying to say.”

The way he smiles does strange things to my insides, like my heart is an engine and he’s slowly pressing the gas pedal. I’m inconveniently revving to life.

“That ever give you trouble at your job? Aren’t you supposed to make sure people’s writing is on the up and up?”

A fair question, and something I’ve pondered myself. I suck on my bottom lip for a minute as I attempt to figure out how to articulate my conclusion. When I think I’ve got it, I meet Dash’s eyes, only to find him focused on my mouth. There’s a strange intensity in his dark irises that matches the expression I noticed in Teresa’s earlier.

Curious.

I choose to ignore the mystery and power on.

“Words on a page? I can pick them apart, study them, apply rules to them, and test them out. They just work better that way. For me. And a lot of times the authors I work with enjoy writing in strange, interesting ways that don’t follow normal social conventions. My favorite author” —I glance around as if I might see one of the other writers I work with glaring at me from across the room in affront at finding out I have a favorite— “she crafts her stories in the most creative ways. If someone talked like she writes, you’d look at them like they’re a crazy person. But for her, and her work, it is perfect.”

I shake my head, realizing I’ve been using the present tense during my explanation when that is all in my past now. The memory of my author friend, Marianna Tweep, makes my heart ache. She’s a gorgeous woman, who always reminded me of Morticia Addams, but with a dash of Marilyn Monroe. I miss sitting with her in the dark speakeasy-themed bar she preferred, reviewing my editing suggestions for her latest memoir. Over the past few weeks, I’ve considered contacting her, just to check in.

But I held back. I try to convince myself that my hesitancy is because I don’t want to cause strain between her and her publisher.

Really, I’m just a coward.

What if she only liked me for my edits? What if she stopped even liking those and was happy to hear I’d been canned?

I’m not sure I could take the mortification of discovering Marianna no longer wanted to associate with me.

“Sounds like you miss it.” Dash watches my face, and I wonder what he’s looking for.

“I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, once I figured out you could earn a salary helping authors develop their books.” I think about the job applications I finally started to fill out. All of the positions were technically for editorial work, but none of the job descriptions sounded anywhere near as interesting as my old position.

But beggars can’t be choosers.

I take the final bite of my sandwich and wipe any trace of mayo from my lips. Even though this isn’t a date, it’s exactly what I would want to do on one if a man I liked asked me out.

Drinks, dancing, delicious food…and Dash.

Damn it. The realization that I’d like to end my night with a healthy dose of the guy sitting next to me has me berating myself.

This is not the time to lust after a man. This is the time to take a romance hiatus.

“Thank you. For offering to come out with me. You were right about New Orleans. I’ll have to spend more time exploring while I’m still here.”

He freezes in the act of wiping his hands. “You’re leaving?”

I shrug. “I’ll have to go wherever I find a job.”

Dash gives a curt nod before gathering our trash and dumping it in a nearby bin. I watch him. The guy is tall with ropy muscles that shift with each of his smooth movements. Why can’t he walk around like a dorky scarecrow? There’s nothing about him that detracts from his handsomeness. Even erring on the thin side just makes me want to take him out to dinner and watch him eat. Earlier, I had a silent celebration for every nacho chip he ate.

If only I could cook for him. The idea of creating a meal from scratch, placing it on a table in front of him, and getting to admire his long, calloused fingers carry my creation to his lips…

Who knew fantasizing about feeding a man could make me so hot?

I stand up and subtly try to fan a little cool air under my loose shirt to keep myself from sweating.

“I’ll walk you to your car.” Dash stands in front of me, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring down into my eyes.

For a moment, I’m stuck, feet adhered to the sidewalk, gaze latched on tight to the striking black of his eyes. Only they’re not black. This close, I realize the color is a deep brown. Like a piece of dark chocolate without an ounce of milk to dilute the cocoa.

“Paige?” My name on his lips is sinful. I want to lean forward, press my mouth against his, and have him whisper it again so I can swallow the sound. A slight pressure on my chin feels an awful lot like his rough fingers.

My eyelids flutter, wanting to close and memorize the contact, but also stay open to keep memorizing his angular face.

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