Page 15 of Flog Me, Sir

“What are you writing?’

“A story.”

“Hmm.” He sat on the ground beside me, arms bulging beneath his t-shirt as he slung them over his propped up knees. “What type of story?”

Heat crept up my neck, and I fiddled with my backpack’s zipper. “Romance.”

“Sweet or spicy?”

I focused on his face, my interest piqued. “You know the difference?”

“I’m a closet book whore,” he whispered with a wink. “But don’t tell my friends. I’ve got an image to uphold.”

I stared, searching his eyes for the mischievous glint to let me he joked with me.

“I’m serious,” he said, leaning back onto his hands and stretching his legs out on the ground. He lounged, his smirk and flexed shoulders—never mind the perfectly rumpled dark hair on his head—drawing me in like a damaged hero tugging on every empathetic string in my head and heart.

I longed to know his backstory, the same as he’d learned mine. I wanted to skip to the final page of his book to see if he got his happily ever after, but more than that, I wanted to travel the path of his life, learning him, what made him tick, what made him strive to better himself and why.

I had found a new book boyfriend, but he was made of blood and bone rather than words and another’s imagination.

“Why do you read?” I asked, finding myself relaxing enough I didn’t feel the need to pick at a non-existent hangnail or loose thread.

“Escape.”

My brow furrowed. “What do you possibly need to escape from?” I asked as Mrs. Hummel’s healing word echoed in my head.

“Daily anxiety. Stress. The truth of a lonely existence.”

The first two I could understand considering he was a CEO of JAG, but a snort escaped me as I remembered the two women hanging all over him the night before. “I doubt you’re hardly ever lonely.”

“Just because there’s people around doesn’t mean one can’t feel alone in the world.”

I studied him as he studied me, the squirrels taking back up their chitters and chatting. “It’s easier talking to my characters than real people sometimes,” I finally said, wondering what it was about Garret that made my mouth open and the words pour out when I was usually tight-lipped.

“And sometimes, it’s easier living a fictional character’s life than the one fate chained us to,” he said, making me realize he did read to escape.

“Do you believe there’s a lock on those chains?” I asked, and he turned away to watch the arguing squirrels. A perfect profile—nose not too big, not too small, set above perfectly bowed lips. The square jawline and cheekbones screamed model—and also tugged on the feminine strings in my body, warming me through.

“I think you can make your own life what you want it to be,” he finally answered, turning his dark eyes back on me, “but we are powerless to change what we couldn’t control as a child.”

“I shared my shit—want to share yours? I’ve got a great ear for listening.”

He flashed an uneasy grin. “Going to take notes for a future character?”

I smiled, my insides melting a bit over the first trace of insecurity I’d seen from him. “In my head, perhaps.”

“Promise to give me an HEA?”

I found myself laughing, surprised by his words revealing he read romance of all genres. I’d expected mystery or suspense. “I promise to give you a happily ever after.”

His eyes took on a different glint, one that shifted me on my tree trunk seat.

“Will I get the girl I want?” His low tone rumbled through me, pebbling my nipples.

“You’ll get the girl you need to help heal the wounds of your past,” I said, my heart in my throat.

“Heal, huh?”

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