“Some days it’s all an illusion,” she says in a quiet voice, with a soft sigh. She snaps out of it in a nanosecond. “What are you afraid of?”
I look up. “Not needles.”
“What then? Spiders? Open spaces? That the Blackwing pencil company will go out of business?”
I point my finger at her, and wink. “That one.”
“For real, Nick,” she presses, using that voice of hers that is vulnerable, free of snark, and just works its way into me. That voice says she wants to know me more.
I stop drawing, and focus on her, laying bare my deepest fear. “That it will all fall to pieces—the job, the show, the success. I’ve been really lucky. Most cartoonists barely make a living, and I’ve landed an awesome gig. The stars all aligned. But success can be so fleeting. It could all go away tomorrow in the blink of an eye.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have to believe that. It keeps me on my toes. Keeps me focused on doing the best show I can. That’s why I just roll with Gino’s bullshit. Because I want all this to continue,” I say, tapping the drawing on her arm. “I want to keep doing this for as long as I possibly can.”
“You love it,” she says, and it’s such a simple statement, and an obvious one, and yet it resonates inside me.
“I love it more than showers. And I really fucking love showers,” I say, completely serious. In this moment, I don’t mean shower as a euphemism. I mean it for the complete and utter awesomeness of turning the water on high after a good, hard workout, or shortly after you wake up, or following a long, sweaty afternoon in bed with the woman of your dreams.
She cracks up. “That’s amazing. I really love showers, too.”
Lest I loll around in the shower zone too long, I school my thoughts, return to the design, and force myself to be her tutor. “How was it? Your date.”
“It was fine. He was nice, and we talked.”
“What did you talk about? As your coach, it’s important for me to know these details,” I say.
“Bowling. College. Work.”
“Sounds like what we just talked about. Minus the bowling.”
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “We talk about stuff that’s deeper, don’t you think?”
I meet her eyes, try to read her expression. But this is a woman who’s had to perfect the art of not revealing. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, feeling, or wanting, and it’s starting to drive me crazy because her words seem weightier than usual. “Do we?”
She doesn’t look away. Her blue eyes stay fixed on me, and she answers simply. “Yes. Didn’t we just do that?”
And she’s right. We did. I nod. “Do you like him?”
“He asked me to go out next week. For dinner.”
My muscles tighten, and I grip her arm harder. “What did you say?”
“I said yes. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? You told me to try with him, coach. So I can learn how to date and not be a complete buffoon.”
I laugh at her choice of words. “I’d hardly call you a buffoon.”
She squares her shoulders, taking a beat. “What were your dates like with the romance novelist? Can you tell me so I know I’m not totally flailing around?”
I shake my head. “We’re not talking about me right now, Princess Not-a-Buffoon. We’re talking about you. Are you starting to like him? You didn’t answer the question, and it would help me prep you for your dinner if I knew the answer,” I ask again.
She quirks her lips, considering. “I don’t get that crazy fluttery feeling in my chest when I look at him or talk to him. I suppose I probably should if I like him?” She makes it a question, her gaze locking on mine.
My own crazy, fluttering chest gives me the answer. “It’s not a bad start.” Then, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I press on. “Do you feel that way when you’re with Simon?”
Her eyes widen, and she shrugs.
“That’s not an answer,” I say gruffly. Evidently, I really like abuse.
“I haven’t spent any more time with him. You gave me orders not to see him,” she says, tossing the ball back in my court. “Though, I did talk to him on the phone earlier this week.”
My pen stops. A bolt of red-hot jealousy slams into me. I’m so damn glad I’m looking down, because I don’t want her to see my face, or that it drives me crazy that she’s into him. “Yeah?” I ask, in my best cool and casual tone as I return to the blue lines on her skin. “How was that?”
“Fine. We just talked about Hayden’s party in a couple weeks.”