Not that she’d successfully managed to avoid anger and sadness in her work, but that was a tale for another time, if she ever shared the story at all.
His hands were still curled into fists at his sides, and it was time to change the subject.
“Hey, Alex, I have a question for you. Are baps slang for something else in Britain? Because when we watch The Great British Bake Off, it seems like people get smirky when someone uses that term.”
Thoroughly distracted, as she’d intended—yes, she already knew baps meant breasts, not just hamburger buns—he proceeded to gleefully explain British slang to her, and the serious portion of their conversation ended.
That night, she’d lain awake again, wondering why he kept getting so angry on her behalf. Angrier than she’d ever been for herself.
She didn’t get it. But it did make her feel … warm.
Speaking of warmth, it was a chilly night in L.A. despite the daytime heat. She was making herself a cup of tea, and maybe Alex might want one too.
The door to the main house was unlocked. The alarm was off too, because obviously it was. Despite all his lectures and concern for her safety, the man refused to protect himself adequately. Since her arrival, she’d harangued him on the topic more than once as he’d rolled those expressive eyes of his.
He wasn’t watching a baking show in the great room, and he wasn’t working out in the gym, and he wasn’t reading in the library. There was no way she was venturing into his bedroom uninvited—or at all, she corrected herself; she wasn’t venturing there at all—so he was either somewhere on the grounds or in his personal office.
When she peeked inside the half-open door to that office, she spotted him behind his big desk, in front of his computer, typing away. After knocking lightly on the doorframe, she waited for a response and didn’t get one.
“Alex?” she called.
Still no answer.
Sometimes, he hyperfocused on certain activities, to the point where he wouldn’t respond to anything but physical contact. Accordingly, she came up behind him and reached out to touch his arm, only to see—
What in the world was he writing?
Because she was almost certain she’d just inadvertently read something about Cupid and lube and harnesses and dildos the width of a woman’s forearm, which—
Oh. Oh.
Her head gave a warning throb. “Are you writing fanfic, Alex? For your own character?”
That got his attention.
“What?” It was an absent question, devoid of his usual sharpness.
His head turned in her direction, his gaze fuzzy with interrupted concentration, and he sort of looked through her. Then his eyes focused and widened as he fully registered the situation. Immediately, he fumbled for the mouse and minimized his word processing screen.
“Oh, fuckballs.” He sighed. “How much of that did you see, Nanny Clegg?”
Letting out a breath through her nose, she pursed her lips. “Not much? Enough.”
“Hmmm.” He eyed her assessingly for a long moment before shrugging. “Eh. Whatever. I suspected you’d find out at some point anyway.”
All concern gone from his expression, he maximized the window again. “This is my first fic. I’m just doing final edits before posting. You’re welcome to read it if you want, but FYI, there’s some graphic content. As in, most of the story involves pegging.”
“I shouldn’t.” Dammit. “Alex, this is the sort of thing I’m supposed to report to—”
“I figured since you won’t let me have any fun in real life, I could at least have a good time in fiction.” He grinned happily at her. “I’ve been writing a few words a day. It’s been fucking amazing, actually. In the story, I work through a lot of my unhappiness about Cupid’s character arc and how Ron and R.J. completely slaughtered—”
She pressed a hand over his mouth, but he continued to speak.
“—Veebus mmmd Jupimmmmr are totmmmf manipumm—”
“Alex,” she said, raising her voice over his and doing her best not to notice how surprisingly soft his lips felt against her fingers, “stop talking. Ron and R.J. would want to know about this. The less you say to me, the less I can tell them.”
He licked her palm, eyes sparkling wickedly, and she jerked away from him with a glare.
“There. That’s better.” Turning back to the computer, he frowned for a moment, then changed a word. “Yes, thrust instead of rammed in that sentence. A vast improvement, if I do say so myself. And now the story is ready to post.”