Page 27 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Twenty-Six

CYRUS

I hear music playing. Good, music usually means happiness. I no sooner make it into the living room where I’m bombarded with the delicious smells of the sausage rolls she’s been baking.

Where is she?

I squint as if to get a better look. It’s a struggle to see anything from this distance, even with my glasses on, but she isn’t in the kitchen so I check the living room.

My head tilts involuntarily seeing Holly sprawled across my sofa, half upside down with one of my best friends’ dark romance books in her hands, and rosy red cheeks.

Now, I’m a dark romance author myself, but that book is dark .

Very dark . Pitch black they call it—there’s no consent in that book, not like mine.

And yet, she’s… reading it upside down…

Pure glee creeps its way through my blood—she has no idea what kind of book she’s getting into. Actually, no, scratch that. She must know, because her cheeks are as pink as a bottle of rosé.

I recite a line from the book in my head. Hunt the girl, chase the girl, fuck the girl. All of us. She belongs to us.

I don’t believe for a second that this is the same woman who had the audacity to tell me to keep my distance yet she’s the one who keeps checking me out like I’m a piece of meat. She had no idea that I could see her in the reflection of the oven door when she was gaping at my ass earlier.

Aside from the complexity of her hue, and her quirks, I take comfort in knowing that Holly is making herself comfortable, given the situation.

That’s all I wanted. Deciding to take a shower to give her space after our moment in the cellar was needed—for both her and I.

My balls thankfully aren’t twitching for their release anymore… for now.

I figured if I orgasmed enough times then reading what I’ve written so far to her would be a whole lot easier to get through.

But unfortunately for me, I know that it won’t itch the scratch that I have for Holly.

It hasn’t since I first met her. There is not enough cum in me to accommodate the obsession I have for this woman.

“Do you normally read books upside down?” I finally say.

Holly jolts upright. “I’m not… I wasn’t…” She fixes her gaze upon me, moving down lower, and lower until she reaches the bulge of my dick that is inevitable whenever I’m near her. “Up… side… down.” Her blush disappears behind the upside down book in an oh, shit I’m busted for looking look.

Is it the gray sweatpants again?

It’s definitely the gray sweatpants.

“That may be so… anymore. But your book is.”

“I was just— I was just waiting for?—”

She peers over her shoulder toward the kitchen, but I cut her off. “Hey, if an orgy with three good looking masked men is your idea of waiting , be my guest. Who am I to judge.” I wink, but don’t allow her a second to respond. “It smells absolutely marvelous in here, can I help with anything?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. I’ll…” She stalls for a moment to look at her empty glass, then guilt runs across her eyes.

“Allow me to grab your refill. You grab dinner.”

I plant myself on the sofa adjacent to her so that we’re face to face, keeping our distance, and take my first bite of the sausage roll. The combination of flavors has a dance party on my tongue. “Holly, these are simply to die for!”

“Yeah-nah, they’re not the same without real dead ‘orse, sorry.”

“Who says?! I could live off these.” I gesture, dipping another sausage roll into the creamy mashed potato, then the ketchup, shoving it into my mouth as if I’m a starving orphan.

A giggle rattles her chest. “That’s funny, because most Australians do. These and servo pies. But this Ketchup is no Tomato Sauce.”

Sometimes I feel as if this woman speaks a whole other language. I fucking love it. “Servo?”

“Service station.”

… “Gas station. You know?”

I need to start writing these down. Tattoo them, maybe. “Servo. No wukkaz. Yeah-nah. Uroo. Dead ‘orse. Frog n’ toad… I’ve heard it all,” I mock.

“Not quite. Got plenty more up here in my noggin,” she taps on her head and pastry sprinkles down on her hair. “I keep it toned down a little because, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re posh compared to me. I’m just a country bogan with a good education.”

“Bogan…” Another mind-boggling term. “I thought I was keeping up with you for a second.”

“Yeah. Maybe Google that one,” she offers, taking another bite.

Bitter tomato tangs my tongue as I lick the ketchup off my finger and type what is a bogan into the search panel.

“Bogan is an Australian and New Zealand term to construe an unrefined or unsophisticated person. The term is most commonly used to define a lower class person by their income (low, or on Government incentives, what Aussies call on the dole, or dole bludger) , where they live, how they dress, or even how they speak.” I look back at her, frowning.

“Well, you’re hardly unrefined, nor unsophisticated, Holly. Quite the opposite actually.”

I almost don’t hear the words due to her having a mouthful.

“Thanks. It’s mostly my accent, I guess.

But…” She finishes the last of her roll, fingering the leftover sauce and leaving nothing on her plate.

“If you saw how I grew up compared to… well, this house, and you, then you’d probably agree with me. ”

Does she think so little of herself?

“Hmm. I see. Well now you mention it…” I stare at the speckles of pastry in her hair. “Do bogans usually put crumbs in their hair?”

Holly panic picks at her hair with a nervous laugh, scratching the scalp, but achieving absolutely nothing. “You’re taking the piss?”

I shake my head, and contentment settles a spot in my chest watching her scuffle, so much so that my teeth are on full display in a smile.

This feels so familiar. Like I’ve known her for years.

I could spend the rest of my life repeating scenes like this with her.

Silly little memories like this are what last a lifetime.

Things you take to your grave when you’re old and gray.

It’s here and now that I realize this woman means so much more to me than I ever anticipated.

She is my heroine.

I just need to find a way to make her mine without either of us losing our jobs.