Page 53 of The Write Place

“I didn’t really tell anyone this, but I had about a third of it done when I got here. I wrote it last year when things were… well, when things made more sense in my life, and then it just sat there as everything started going downhill.”

I look at him suspiciously, but I make sure my tone is teasing. “First you give me a fake name, then you tell me last night you haven’t been completely honest with me about wanting to be friends, and now I find out you actually had a third of this novel written before you got here. What else are you hiding, Daniel Evans?” I want to ask him about the things Joey mentioned last night, too, but now doesn’t feel like the time.

He frowns, tilting his head. “I’m not hiding. I’ve kept some things close to the vest, which I believe is something you’ve done as well, Miss Glass House.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but I have to admit that’s fair. He tosses his phone on the pile of his clothes and flops himself on the bed next to me. I bounce from the force of it and squeal. He presses me down into the bed with his body. He kisses me so deeply that there’s no mistaking the honesty of it, and I let myself get lost in the feel of him again.

We squeeze every minute we have out of that hotel room, and by the time we leave and drop our bags in his car, I’m starving.

“I can’t believe you would make me exert myself so much and not feed me,” I whine as I bounce from foot to foot, trying to keep warm at a stoplight. Daniel has been holding my hand since we left the car. He brings our joined hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles, eyeing me with amusement.

“I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll prioritize food before sex.”

“Well,” I stop bouncing, pretending to think. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.” He lets out a low laugh, bringing our hands back at our sides as the light turns green and we cross the street. He leads us inside a small breakfast place where, by some magic of the hunger gods, we are seated immediately.

“I’m going to order five stacks of pancakes and three omelets. And endless, hot coffee. I hope you are prepared to witness this,” I warn.

“I’ll try to stay out of the way. I’d hate to lose a finger.”

“I’d also hate for you to lose a finger,” I say suggestively, and he cackles. Then, he brings his fingers to trace the line of my jaw and my eyelids flutter closed. “Your hands are ridiculously soft,” I joke lightly, trying to retain my composure in this very public place. “How much time do you spend on skincare in a day?”

He senses what I’m doing and drops his hand to the table. He studies his fingernails, then says, “Probably more than any self-respecting man should.”

“I’d say you have a lot of self-respect to take such thorough care of yourself. I don’t even bother painting my fingernails.” I study my hands with disdain, but he covers them with his own and I look up at him.

“You don’t need to. You’re naturally beautiful.” His expression is entirely sincere, so I just smile.

When we are back in the car after brunch, he turns the heat up to full blast, then gazes at me, resting his cheek against the back of his seat. His gray-blue eyes are full of longing, and my breath catches.

“I’m not ready to leave you,” he admits, “but I do have to get some writing done today.”

My heart falls a little, but I try to keep the mood from going too sour. “You know we have an hour-long drive, and you are still coming to school every day, right?”

“You know what I mean,” he insists, and I do. There’s a little nagging part of my brain that wants me to believe this budding relationship will turn into a pumpkin at midnight or something.

“You could work at my place?” I offer, hopeful. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

“I will be acutely aware of your presence at all times,” he insists, “but that sounds better than working alone.”

We chat a little on the way back, but we hit some pretty intense traffic on the highway, which takes a while to get past. I try to keep up a conversation, but the lack of sleep from the previous night is getting to me. We are silent for a long time, and I close my eyes. I feel Daniel take my hand and weave his fingers through mine, and I smile softly as he brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. I feel so content that I doze off for a little while.

When we get close to our exit from the highway, I jolt awake, embarrassed. “Oh wow. I’m sorry.” I wipe the side of my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling. Daniel just grins and kisses my other hand, which he is still holding. The embarrassment lingers a little, but I’m struck by how easy this is. I’ve dated before, and I’ve slept with enough guys to know what I’m doing, but I’ve never felt comfortable enough to let someone in like this, or to fall asleep next to them on a long car ride. I let myself admit that it feels really good as I gaze out the window, smiling secretly.

When we finally get back, Daniel sets up his laptop and notebook on my couch without me prompting him to do so. He sits with his feet propped up on the table, and I sit facing him, my back against the armrest, with a book resting on my knees, my feet on the couch cushions next to him.

Without taking his eyes off his computer screen, he reaches over and grabs my feet, pulling them so they are resting on his lap. He starts typing again, his arms resting over my legs. It’s an effortless and intimate movement, but for a second, I can see a future like this sprawled in front of me: lazy weekends reading and working, enjoying each other, unhurried and happy.

The magic of the next few hours shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I feel completely lulled into a trance of warmth and comfort, and I let myself bask in it. I don’t even want to move for fear of breaking the spell, but I can’t ignore my rumbling stomach any longer. I stretch dramatically, rolling my neck and announcing, “I’m hungry.”

“Seems to be a theme with you,” he teases, his fingers slowing on the keyboard.

“I’m a human being, Daniel. I need to feed my body at regular intervals. I know you’re probably used to those scrawny New York women who think a side salad is a meal, but us Midwesterners need actual meals three times a day. And snacks,” I add as an afterthought. Daniel laughs heartily.

“How many ‘scrawny New York women’ do you know?”

“None. I’m making an assumption based on your reaction to my reasonable request for sustenance.”

“Oh, it was a request? Sounded more like a demand.”