“It’s up to you, Bo-Bo.”
He chews on his bottom lip for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I should.”
He’s right. I don’t like it.
“But you know what this means, don’t you?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“You really need to get onto pointing out the dumb things I do. Fast. Because if this works out, crush gone.”
Crush gone. “And as flattering as it is, I think that’s for the best.”
14
Beau
It’s for the best.
I keep repeating Payne’s words to myself the whole day while he’s at work.
He didn’t say it to be a dick, and thankfully he isn’t treating me any differently than usual, but he also hasn’t walked in and told me he wants to bone me, so I think it’s time to acknowledge that is solidly off the table.
Now I need to convince all of me of that.
Because my dick disagrees in a big way and is determined to harden the fuck up every time Payne walks into a room. Because lucky me, suddenly my body is on normal people time, which means seeing him in the morning wearing those tight shorts and the polo for Ford’s Garage, and then again all afternoon while we eat dinner together and settle in front of the TV for the night.
I thought for sure Payne would come up with every excuse under the sun to avoid me, but so far, he’s doing the opposite. Like he enjoys my company, but that can’t be right.
He’s also taken my book like he said he would. That bare space on my shelf is haunting me, and I want to ask him what he thinks, but I also really, really don’t.
It’s one thing to have a bad review by some random person on the internet; it’s another to have the guy you’re pining for think your life’s work is trash.
I’m still making progress on the next book, but it’s frustratingly slow. I know I can be done by the deadline if my muse hits, but struggling with a few hundred words a day is painful.
So instead of working on what I should be working on, I open another file and smash out a few thousand words on betrayal and heartbreak without a second thought. It’s a waste of a few hours though, so I reluctantly close the window I’m working in and turn back to my book.
Maybe if I skip this part and write a scene I’m excited to write, that might help?
A sword fight, maybe?
My hero, Jaciel, is one of the best, and I include at least one sword fight with Tombra in each book. They’re usually my favorite scenes to write because the antagonism brings it alive. They might be fighting with the intent to kill the other person, but the way Tombra plays with Jaciel is a fun dynamic.
They’re also scenes that take forever to write because logistically it’s a balance between making sure it works and writing it in a way where it’s not bogged down with details but shows just enough.
I plan it out, research the steps, then jot out on paper the beats I want to hit. Now, to make sure they’ll work.
I’m nothing if not thorough. When I have a scene where there are a lot of steps, I like to walk through them. I grab the umbrella I have next to my desk specifically for this purpose—buying an actual sword seemed excessive—and walk through it.
Two steps forward, one back. Block. Swing. Lunge to the left. I’m caught up, seeing it play out in my head, when the front door opens and Payne walks in to find me kneeling on one knee, umbrella held above my head like goddamn Simba.
Oh, fuck my life.
Payne’s lips twitch as I shoot to my feet. “Am I interrupting?”
“No.”
He doesn’t look convinced and my heart sinks as I realize that first, I’m going to have to explain this to him, and second, I really need to pay better attention to the time. “Fine. I have a sword fight coming up, and I was working through it. There’s just this one part …” I glance back at the paper and raise my umbrella, trying to visualize how Jaciel will block and slice consecutively.
Then I realize the umbrella is in the air again, and Payne is still watching.
I drop my arms. “Nothing to see here.”
“I dunno. Seems fun to me.”
I sag. “Funny, you mean. Shit. This is one of those things, isn’t it? That normal people don’t do?”
Payne gets this crease between his eyebrows as his stare runs over me. I can tell he’s thinking. Maybe trying to come up with a way to tell me I’ll never be dating material.
“I have no idea what you mean.” He spares me a grin before heading for the hall.
I assume he’s giving me privacy to finish this, but I’m not so sure I want him walking about again and finding me in who knows what position. It’s lucky I hesitate too because he’s back a moment later.
Carrying a broom handle.
He points it at me. “You’re on, Bo-Bo.”
“Wait. What?”
“Let’s work through your scene.”
“You’re going to help me?”
“What are roommates for?”
Yep. Just like that, I’m in love.
My face is hot, but I’m smiling wide as I teach him the steps I’ve choreographed. The more we practice, the better we get, and it highlights the parts that work and the parts that don’t.
“What if instead of this”—Payne swings upward—“it’s more like—” He spins and slices upward.
It’s clear he’s an athletic guy because he makes even sword fighting with a broom handle look hot as hell.
“Yep, that works,” I say, jotting it down and trying to pretend like I wasn’t checking out the way his arms muscles flexed with the movements. “I think we need more terrain though. For some of the jumps.”
“I got you.” Payne tilts the couch back and moves the coffee table toward where I’m supposed to jump onto a bench. That should work.
“From the top?” he asks.
“This is so much easier with a second person.”
“Well, sword fighting usually requires two people.”
“Both types, in fact.”
It takes him a moment to get it, but when he does, his eyes fly to mine. Instead of awkwardness, I detect interest there. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried that kind of sword fighting.”
“You’re missing out.”
“You have?” He sounds a second away from laughing.
I point at my face. “Weird, remember? Let’s just say I tried it once and never again.”
“Why?”
“The guy I was with said it ruined the mood.” I shrug because it’s no big deal, even if I was embarrassed at the time.
“Well, he was a moron. I bet you’re an awesome sword fighter, euphemism or otherwise. You’ve written enough of them.”
And I’m not sure what catches me off guard most—the sex talk or him mentioning my book. “Ah. You’ve already, umm, read some?”
“No idea what you mean.” He winks. “I’m not reading anything. I definitely haven’t smashed through the first half of this awesome book when normally I can’t make it through a few pages.”
I simultaneously love every word out of his mouth and wish he’d stop talking immediately because I struggle with compliments. “Okay. Good. Definitely not reading.”