He nods to my phone. Of course. He means is there online speculation that we’re having an affair.
My cheeks redden. “Not yet. It’s only a matter of time, though.” I mean the online speculation, too. Obviously.
Nathan looks at me a moment too long. “Looking forward to it,” he says.
25
Katrina
? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?
Nathan scrutinizes me from the armchair while I read. He does not look relaxed, which is unusual. Generally, Nathan lavishes in having his work read—not that he’s categorically a narcissist, he’s just rightfully proud of his writing, and others enjoying it exhilarates him. Right now is the exception. I’m sprawled on the couch, reading the pages he handed me this morning, fresh from the printer.
It’s a sex scene. It’s the sex scene. The only once. Nathan wrote the first pass of what is probably the most momentous scene in the novel, where Jessamine and Jordan give in to their passion. It’s the first time we’ve done this. Nathan and I have never until now collaborated on a sex scene like this one.
Reading it with him nearby is . . . challenging. Especially when he’s bouncing his leg and intently watching me flip pages.
“Could you not stare at me, please? It’s making this weird,” I say, not pulling my eyes from the page.
I don’t have to look to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Be professional,” he replies.
Now I glance over for half a moment. “I am! It’s just hard to read while you’re . . . fixated on me.”
He huffs. I don’t know if it’s a laugh or a noise of protest. Without further warning, he stands up and crosses the room, sitting down right next to me on the couch. He commences reading over my shoulder.
“How is this better?” Despite my consternation, I can’t help smiling a little.
“Katrina, please!” he implores me. “Read the scene and tell me how it is. Put me out of my misery.”
I wait hopefully for him to return to his chair. When he doesn’t, I realize I have no choice except to comply. “It’s . . .” I hesitate, fidgeting with the edge of the page I’m holding. “It’s hot,” I finish, not dishonestly.
Nathan snorts. Once more I diligently ignore his expression, his inevitable grin.
“I mean, the writing is great, too, of course,” I go on.
“Naturally.”
I fight the impulse to shake my head scornfully. I won’t give him the satisfaction. “But it’s—yeah, it’s effective.” I cross my legs. It’s a lot to read about Jessamine’s hands on Jordan’s body, her mounting pleasure, knowing every word was considered, chosen, and typed by Nathan.
“Effective,” Nathan repeats, evaluating. “It’s not the worst review a woman could give, although I usually aspire to amazing, even earth-shattering.”
Heat pounds in my cheeks. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I welcome constructive criticism,” he replies immediately. “What would you prefer?”
I exhale, hoping it’s inconspicuous, hoping it hides how the pace of my heartbeat has picked up. The pages in my hands feel like they’re waiting for me. I have writing preferences—punctuations, word choice. And I have other preferences. “Me?” I ask. “Or Jessamine?”
He pauses, eyes fixed on me. “You.”
The word sounds larger than it is. I want to break our stare. I resist, holding his gaze. When I speak, my voice is steady. “I’d speed things up.” I’ve seen Nathan react with skepticism or disappointment when I’ve critiqued his writing. What passes over his expression now is something different.
“Not one for savoring it?” His voice is unreadable.
“The second time, yes. If there was one,” I say. “The first time . . . after all the waiting, I wouldn’t want to wait longer.” I swallow. “If I were Jessamine.”
Nathan’s the one to end our eye contact, clearing his throat. I’m instantly aware of how close we are. His shoulder is pressed into mine. When he breathes, I can feel his chest against my side.
What is this? I feel knocked off-balance, like I’m unsteady on my feet even though I’m sitting down. We’ve ventured into dangerous territory somehow, ignoring every sign we should stop. The worst part is, I don’t even know exactly what territory it is. Who are we talking about? Surely not ourselves. Not while Nathan’s married.
I reverse, hard. “I’m going to work on the scene where they’re caught,” I say, standing up.