How to End a Love Story(52)

“Writing,” Suraya says. “We send writers out of the room when they’re on script.”

“Oh,” Helen says, feeling silly. Of course. Why had she imagined they’d all sit and type scripts shoulder to shoulder, in the same room till the bitter end, like they were studying for finals?

She finds herself walking by his office on her way out that day before she can stop herself. The writers’ individual offices are a line of glorified walk-in closets along the back wall of the bullpen. She’s never seen Grant in his room before and she’s surprised to catch sight of him through the open door. He’s frowning at his laptop, leaning back in an ergonomic swivel chair.

“Knock knock,” she says, and is immediately embarrassed.

His eyes flit over to her, then return to his laptop screen.

“I just wanted to check in and see how it’s going.”

He looks up and she feels the full intensity of his stare for the first time today. She thinks suddenly of a time when she was young and running inside from the winter weather: a rush of warmth, followed immediately by the unpleasant jolt of falling against a cold, hard floor.

“Not great. I’ve been distracted.”

“Oh,” Helen says.

She lingers in the doorway, uncertain. The corner of Grant’s mouth kicks up as he watches her.

“Shut the door,” he says.

Helen hesitates, then pulls the door shut behind her. Grant taps a pen idly on his desk, still watching her silently. She leans back, holding on to the handle of the doorknob a little anxiously.

It occurs to her then that he might have meant for her to shut the door on her way out. Shit.

“I, um, I should let you—”

“Come here.”

Her legs obey the command before her brain has time to argue, and suddenly she’s standing in front of him, her knees a few centimeters away from his, the fabric of her wrap dress flirting with the denim of his jeans.

Grant looks up at her, a lazy tension in the way he leans back into his chair.

“When’s your date?” he asks.

“Six thirty.”

He glances at a clock on the wall, where it reads a quarter past five p.m.

“So I have a little time,” he murmurs, and stands as he pulls her into him.

Helen suddenly finds herself pressed against his chest, which rises and falls as he buries his face in her hair and inhales deeply. His fingers spread into her back; they rub up and down in a soothing, stroking motion that pulls her steadily closer, closer into the frame of his body, as if the goal is to eliminate all space between them. It’s so much and not at all enough. Her body faintly hums at the contact—we missed this, her limbs seem to be singing, and her skin prickles with awareness.

“I’m sorry,” she says, though she’s not sure what she’s apologizing for.

He laughs into her hair and she feels him press a kiss to her temple.

It’s soft, a peck. She could still extract herself from his arms now and leave, she thinks, and that would be that. They could move forward without too much awkwardness, a hug and a kiss on the forehead saying what words can’t seem to.

Start walking, she tells her limbs, but they don’t seem to want to listen.

“Poor Helen,” Grant murmurs, and presses another kiss, this time to her brow, then another over the corner of her left eye. “So conflicted.”

His thumb draws slow circles against her arm, and he brushes his lips to her cheek.

“I don’t know why . . .”—she trails off as he moves to kiss her other cheek—“I keep ending up here.”

Grant drags a knuckle slowly across her lips, staring at her mouth with naked want in his eyes. He swallows, hard. Then he bends his head and kisses her on the jawline instead, moving up toward her ear.

“Maybe you missed me,” he says, and she exhales sharply as he catches one of her earlobes between his lips.

She shakes her head slightly—or maybe she’s just shaking, full stop. “I’ve seen you every day this week,” she says.

“Hm.” His fingers run up her arms, leaving pale marks against her flushed skin. “I remember it differently.”

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to her pulse point and her hand flies up involuntarily to bury in his hair.

“I’ve seen you,” he says into her neck. “I can’t seem to stop, in fact.”

He pulls away from her abruptly and she wants to cry from the loss of contact. Her hands lean back and grip the edge of his desk, so they don’t reach out for him.

He drops down into his chair then, and she thinks maybe she’s about to be dismissed. Instead, he studies a bit of yellow floral fabric in his hand and she realizes he’s holding on to the edge of the tie string to her wrap dress. Suddenly there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room.

“How much am I allowed to see, Helen?” he asks softly.

Slowly, so slowly, she lifts a palm off the desk and pulls at the other dangling piece of the wrap dress tie front. It loosens the bow and she feels the dress slacken against her body, held loosely in place by gravity and a sorry excuse for a knot.

Grant’s eyes seem to flare with something hot and cold and dangerous and he tugs at the fabric in his hand until the loose knot disintegrates. He releases it and she whispers a silent thanks to the gods of wardrobe that she put on matching underwear today as her dress falls open and exposes a straight column of skin and black lace to him.