The Rom-Commers(69)

“For research!” I said, like that made it better.

“It’s creepy.”

“It’s for the sake of art.”

“This script is hardly art.”

“It could be. If you would take it seriously.” Then I had an idea. “What about your ex-wife?”

“What!”

“You’ve kissed her before,” I said, like No big deal.

“You have lost your mind.”

“I’m just trying to get you past this mental block.”

“This is not the way to do it. I’m not going to proposition random actresses, or—god forbid—my ex-wife, to do something that literally nobody on earth could possibly even start to understand except for another writer.”

It was meant to end the argument.

But as soon as he said that, we both knew who my next suggestion would be.

“That settles it, then,” I said.

“Settles what?” Charlie asked. “How?”

“Me,” I said, without even stopping to think.

“You?” Charlie asked.

“I’m another writer.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You just said nobody would understand this except for another writer. And I think you already know this, but, just in case”—I pointed at myself—“I am another writer.”

If I’d paused to think it through for any length of time, I would never—never—have suggested it. But I was caught up in the momentum. We’d been arguing all afternoon. He’d been pooh-poohing kissing, and me, and love itself all day. I wanted to get past this. I wanted to shake him out of that stubborn head of his. My kissing-for-research idea was a good one—though I could also see how, for anyone else in the world, it might seem a bit bananas.

In truth, I was kind of the ideal person for this job. I did a ton of research. I understood how important it was. Plus, this circumvented the whole creepily-propositioning-a-random-woman issue. I was propositioning him.

This was the perfect answer.

If the last person Charlie had kissed was the wife who’d left him when he got cancer, maybe he needed something—anything—else to replace that last association. I was no pinup dream girl, fine. But I had to be better than cancer.

I would’ve told him to go find a girlfriend—but we didn’t have time for that.

I could do in a pinch.

“This is a great idea,” I said to Charlie.

“Absolutely not.”

“This is the breakthrough you need.”

“I don’t need a breakthrough.”

“Yes, you do.”

Charlie was backing up now. “Emma, this is nuts. We work together.”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s why it’s perfect.”

“This doesn’t—” Charlie said, shaking his head. “This isn’t—”

“I can do this. I took two weeks of scuba-diving lessons to write my mermaid screenplay with a very handsy instructor named Karl. Five minutes of kissing is nothing.”

“Five minutes of kissing?” Charlie said, like I’d just proposed we run a marathon.

“The point is, you’re right.”

“I’m right?”

“I really am the best person for this job. And I’m fine with it. So let’s go.”

But Charlie was shaking his head with a frantic no way in hell vibe.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said.

“We can’t,” Charlie said.

“We can.”

I took a step toward him, but he took a step backward. Then I stepped closer, and he stepped back. “Emma? Don’t. Hey—this is a bad idea. Hey! I’m serious.”

At that, Charlie reached for a pair of tongs on the counter, and he held them up like a weapon.

A weapon of self-defense.

Something about that visual stopped me.

I suddenly saw the scene from a different vantage point: a predatory female writer advancing on her coworker as he defended himself with kitchen utensils.

Wow. He wasn’t kidding. This guy really didn’t want to kiss me.

Like, at all.

To the point where he would brandish a pair of kitchen tongs.

The sting of rejection hit me, and I held still for a second, not sure how to respond.

I dropped my eyes. Then, to the floor, I said, “You really are horrified by this idea.”

“Not horrified—”

“Repulsed, then, I guess.”

“No, I—”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. I squinted at the window, instead. “I had no idea that I was such a revolting option.”

“Come on, Emma. That’s not it.”

But it really did seem like it was it. At least, it felt that way.

“Okay,” I said, feeling everything in reverberations. “That’s fine.”

I turned around and started walking away.

I didn’t even know where I was going, to be honest.

Hell of a rejection, huh?

Charlie didn’t even want to kiss me for research.

How unappealing are you, exactly, to not even qualify for a research kiss?

How stomach-turning must you be for a man to take up arms against you?