Page 20 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Twenty

CYRUS

I think I’ve found a thing: sitting by a crackling fire when the rest of the house is as quiet as a mouse, with a bottle of wine, no power, no devices, a snow storm roaring outside and a beauty of a woman sitting next to me who gives a sensation words could never explain.

Not even in a book. As good an author as I may be, and as much as I’ve written so far, I could never replicate this feeling onto a page.

And I’m not even touching her.

I’ve been trying to keep her calm by bickering over our favorite movies, and showing her how wine is correctly poured, and arguing about which is the correct side of the road to drive on.

It seems to have worked, her breathing is no longer erratic and the whites of her eyes aren’t popping out of her gorgeous little head.

But every time the howling wind hisses against the window, she flares back up again.

“So what books have you edited? Anything I’d know?” I attempt to redirect her focus on me again.

“Probably not. I worked with independent authors. But that was only a side hustle to make extra money. I was trying to save for a deposit for a house, but that dream’s gone now.”

“Why is it gone?”

She fixes me a look like I’m stupid for asking. “I spent every penny I own.”

“Oh, yes… that one night you got drunk. Why don’t you tell me about the magazine place, then?”

“Alright, well as you know I used to work for an Australian garden and interior design magazine. My job there was mostly editing, I was actually titled deputy editor, but sometimes I managed the styling template. I helped give what the writers and journalists were putting down a voice. It was the best job I’ve ever had, no offense. ”

“Some taken,” I joke sarcastically, and she smiles. It’s nice to see her smiling instead of scared or hurt.

The friction between us spikes again. If I let whatever is brewing between us continue for too long, it’s only a matter of time before I end up with my mouth on hers. I know she wants it too, and she does a piss poor job at hiding it. But I’m a man of my word. I’m staying away from her.

If she wants me, she will have to tell me.

“I loved it at the firm, everyone was a perfect fit. No colleague rivalry, everyone was paid well. And working for myself was strange, but amazing. I had some amazing authors I edited for. It’s hard for the Aussie writers to make it in the big world, so whatever I could do for them, I did. Even if it meant being paid less.”

“That sounds truly amazing. You have a passion for being engulfed in a good story, then?”

“I do. I’m a sucker for a good romance.”

“Me too,” I admit proudly.

“Do you read much?”

“Everyday. When I’m not writing, of course.”

“How is that going by the way?”

Holly hasn’t read what I’ve written so far, and I’m not even certain I want her to anymore. This one is even more erotic than the last one she read. If I see her feedback, or worse… arousal , I’ll?—

My cock wakes just thinking about it.

“It’s going… great.” You’re inspiring it. Writing fictional characters that do all of the things I want to do to Holly is the only thing I can do to stop the urge. “Tell me about the last story you worked on.”

“My last job?” Her cheeks flush. That spicy, huh? “I had only just managed to finish editing it before I… well, you know.”

“Before your life changed forever after getting drunk one night and deciding to move to another country but not knowing about it until a week later, then having all your panties thrown up in the air when you bumped into some strange, hot piece of ass?” I inhale my lost breath.

She rolls her eyes, toying with me. “You seem to remember that fact quite easily.”

“I may have heard it a few times.”

I still can’t imagine what she’s going through, and it was all thanks to some jerk. Anger surfaces through my veins, making me clench my fists. If I ever saw him I’d knock him seven ways to Sunday for doing what he did to her. And for a man built like me, Sunday would take him pretty damn far.

“Pfft, what an absolute fucking idiot,” I huff in disbelief. Holly is perfect, who in their right mind would hurt her?

“Gee, thanks!”

Her brows pinch as she moves away from me. The reflection from the orange flames hit her face in just the right way that it highlights her features. The bone structure of her profile holds the perfect amount of feminine and grace.

“I didn’t mean you,” I correct quickly. She turns back to look at me over her shoulder. “I meant that ex of yours.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, nah, he was the extra luggage that I didn’t need.” She mutters the next bit through her teeth, “That I didn’t know I had. But I see that now.”

There is not a single hair on my body that isn’t standing on its tips right now just from looking at her.

Thirty six years I’ve walked this earth and not one woman has made me feel the way Holly does.

“Good. You deserve better than him, anyway. So, as you were saying. Editing for authors must be better than the crappy jobs I give you.”

“You mean like twiddling my thumbs in my peasant’s office booking you flights around the country, or cooking and cleaning,” Holly retorts, glaring over her shoulder again, and ignoring my question completely.

When she notices that my eyes have not broken from her, she speaks again with a tilted brow, “That job?”

Smartass.

“Wow, do I keep you that busy? God, I ought to go easy on you. Thumb twiddling is way out of your qualifications, Miss Cate.”

The last of my chardonnay melts into my throat with ease, the gentle sweetness fuses perfectly with its dryness, sending the temperature in my body to rise… unless it’s her that’s causing it.

She tilts her brow, then stirs that dangerous playful manner. “Well I’d like my job better if I was keeping an eye on that manuscript of yours,”

“I bet. But it’s not ready. What about your last one?

” I repeat the question, diverting from my current book at all costs.

God, I’m so stupid. Why did I think continuing to write a book that looks, sounds, and feels like her was a good idea?

And when she reads it—for oh I don’t know, her fucking job— she’s for sure going to think I’m a freak. Or worse, tell Quinn.

No. That won’t happen. She won’t know it’s her.

“I’d rather not bore you with the books I edit, it’s not exactly a genre that you like.”

Oh, sweet angel. You have no idea what I like.

Stupidly, I close the distance between us while she faces the other way, just enough that my cheek is lingering by ear. “And how would you know what I like?” The skin of her shoulder is soft as the back of my hand brushes across it to reach over her. “You’ve never asked me.”

I wonder if she’s thinking about my genre. She never brought it up after that night I saw her… preoccupied… other than telling me it was different, a good story, but different .

Tension cracks through the air again, far stronger than the last. I lean into her heated body a little more, reaching for the bottle of wine that is inches from where she sits, using that as a decoy for my movement.

She wants me to make a move. I can feel it by the way her shoulders drop, and her once steady breath now at a complete halt.

Evidence of her sheer disappointment is her sigh when I retreat, thinking that grabbing the bottle is all I was trying to do. Am I teasing her, or myself at this point?

Great.

Now my cock is throbbing.

I sit in the same spot I was a second ago, staring at her shoulder blade and side profile. When she finally speaks her voice is broken, hanging on the edge of sexual frustration. “I just assumed you’re more of a… dark roman?—”

I tsk. “Miss Cate, you assumed wrong.”

“What is your genre, then?”

“I love love. Particularly where he falls first. I’m a sucker for a pining romance.

But now that we’re on the subject of dark romance, you didn’t give me much feedback on In The Shadows .

What did you actually think of it?” She toys with her bottom lip, but doesn’t bite down, her eyes looking anywhere but me.

“I… umm.” She shifts and I tilt my head, waiting for her to answer, or look at me at least. “I?—”

“Did you actually read it or were you just saying it was good,” different but good, “to shut me up?” I ask, even though I know that she did read it. I saw her with my own two eyes, and it’s a vision that’s burned into my memory.

Her face glows to a shade similar to the tomatoes on the vines in my garden.

“I did. Yes…” The way her voice comes across is almost like she has revolt stuck in her throat like she hates the book, but then clenches her thighs together.

Is she ashamed of how much she liked it, or did she come to her senses and actually not like the book?

“Was it that bad?”

I frown, scratching my head with a tense jaw. Have I gotten this all wrong again?

“No. No, it’s just?—”

“You can be honest with me. If it was too dark then I understand, I won’t be offended if you didn’t like it. But if you didn’t then you probably won’t like any of my future books either.”

“It’s not what you think, Cyrus,” she hesitates, twisting the hem of her sleeve.

Hearing her say my name the way that she did sends a direct signal to my balls. “Then what is it?”

She turns to face me fully, taking a big breath inward, holding it for a moment.

“It was my first dark romance. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it to be honest. I actually loved it.

That’s the problem.” A resounding breath escapes her mouth again like she has just taken the weight of her shoulders.

Then why is she acting like she hated it?

“Why would it be a problem if you enjoy my writing?”

“Because…” She pauses, twiddling with her fingers. I wait for her to continue, giving her the time that she needs. “Because, Cyrus, it turned me on so much that I haven’t been able to look at you properly since.”

Oh. My cock tents my sweatpants instantly.

Fuck.