How to End a Love Story(67)

“Fine,” he says.

She pauses. “Nicole and Saskia know we’re . . . something. I think maybe they suspected before I said anything,” she says.

He lifts a shoulder. “Considering I’ve been staring at you like a teenager with a crush for weeks, that’s not surprising.”

She flushes then, the word crush lighting up in her brain like a Broadway marquee sign, and she clears her throat.

“We set an end date after the writers room wraps in March,” she says. “A week afterward, maybe.”

“With an option to renew if both parties consent?” Grant counters. “That’s pretty standard language in most of the contracts I’ve had my lawyer write up.”

Helen taps her fingers on the desk nervously. “Option to mutually renew on a week-to-week basis.”

Grant lets out a short exhale that sounds like a laugh. “Fine.”

“But there’s a hard cutoff on contact once production ends and I’m back in New York,” she feels the need to add. “The goal is that when this is over, no one can say they were surprised by anything and it’s quick and . . . and painless as possible.”



Somehow, Grant doesn’t think painless is going to happen, but he doesn’t say it.

“So once you leave town, we both move on and pretend this never happened?” he clarifies. “No tortured three a.m. drunk voicemails, no texts when one of us is in the other’s city, no . . . anything.”

“Correct,” she says.

“Hm,” he says. “When would we start?”

Helen swallows. “Now, if you want.”

He taps a pen on the desk, watching her intently. “I want.”

She tilts her head, as if considering her next move. He thinks suddenly of playing Connect 4 with her, the lazy concentration on her face as she’d studied him and the grid. He’d won that game, but maybe she’d been playing something else entirely in her mind. Then she reaches for the bottom of her cropped sweatshirt and he stops thinking at all. She slowly removes the sweatshirt, revealing a thin sports bra underneath. He can just make out the shadow of her hardened nipples as she walks around the table toward him. He swallows as she stops a few inches from him.

“I have some addendums,” he murmurs, staring up at her.

She kicks off her shoes.

“No more casting directors,” he says. “Or actors, or camera operators, or other writers. Or anyone. If we’re doing this, it’s just me and you.”

She nods as she hooks a finger into the elastic of her yoga pants and peels them down, before stepping out of them. She’s wearing plain black cotton underwear, the same material as her thin sports bra, and he’s never been so turned on in his life.

“If I do something you like, you have to tell me,” he says, as his hand reaches out and traces the side of her thigh.

Her eyes drift closed and she bites her lip, then nods.

“And if I don’t, you tell me that too,” he says, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss into her palm.

Helen hums her consent.

“And finally—while we’re together,” he murmurs, his lips skimming her stomach, “I don’t want to talk about how it’s going to end. I’d rather not waste the time I have.”



Helen nods, her hands gently falling to his shoulders.

In a fluid motion, he lifts her up and places her on the table in front of him. He looks up at her like she’s a feast and he’s deciding where to start. Her legs dangle off the edge and he massages her calf, then bends his head and kisses the inside of her knee.

She exhales at the unexpected pressure and he stands, his hands running up her thighs and brushing past cotton and along her sides. His thumbs catch at the bottom of her bra and she shudders at the feeling of his fingers teasing under the elastic band.

He watches her intently, his thumbs sweeping the swelling sides of her breasts.

She inhales sharply as she meets his gaze—some molten-hot feeling floods her insides.

“More,” she tells him, and his thumbs brush her nipples beneath the fabric.

She used to be selfconscious about her small breasts and remembers worrying in high school about the moment she’d have to be naked in front of someone else for the first time, revealing a disappointing lack of soft curves. The men she’s been with in the years since have never said anything, often skimming past them after an initial curiosity-satisfying exploration and dwelling instead on her other, more welcoming parts.

Still, there’s a moment of hesitation every first time, as she braces herself for inspection.

Grant pauses, in the middle of pressing a kiss to the side of her face.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s stupid. I just . . . don’t like thinking about how my boobs measure up to other boobs.”

Heat flames her face as he pulls away to look at her. She’s painfully aware it sounds like she’s fishing for a compliment and decides the best way through this is to reassure him quickly, “Forget I said that. I love my body. You’re very lucky to be here. Come back.”

Grant listens. She submits to another long, drugging kiss, and his fingers come up to sweep her jawline and skate down her neck and shoulders.

His lips follow his fingers, and he kisses down to the scoop neck of her sports bra. She feels the warm, soft lick of his tongue against the fabric, scraping onto skin. She inhales sharply, and she’s certain he can hear the insistent tattoo of her heart against her chest.