Page 32 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

H uxley peeks his head in my office as if checking if I’m busy before strolling in and dropping a bag of takeout on my desk.

“Lunch?” he says casually before tipping my chin up and kissing me on the very corner of my lips. “I grabbed some Thai and thought you might be hungry.”

Butterflies explode in my stomach as I look up and smile. Somatic memories of our time together last night resurface, and I suddenly feel warm all over.

After we had sex, we spent the next couple of hours finishing the bottle of wine and exploring the sand dunes of Brazil via the remote drone. His easy smile throughout the night left me so giddy that I could barely sleep after we left the condo, and I returned to my hotel alone.

We didn’t necessarily talk about what this meant for us, but things definitely feel a lot more serious between us, even if nothing has been made official yet.

God, I should really tell Jamie what’s going on.

“Is that for me?” I say giddily as I take an exploratory peek inside the brown paper bag.

Huxley takes his usual spot on the couch.

“Of course. I didn’t know what you’d like,” he says, opening his own takeout bag. “So I got you a Tom Yum soup and some Pad Thai.”

“You’re too much,” I sing-song, taking the container of soup out of the bag, my mouth watering. “How much do I owe you?”

Huxley snorts. “Don’t insult me.”

I look at him from across my small office and grin. “Thank you, that’s really sweet of you — I was starving.”

He shrugs and looks down as if uncomfortable with receiving gratitude for any of his positive actions.

We fall into comfortable silence for a few minutes as we eat until Huxley speaks again. “So when can I see you next?”

The way he smirks and watches me from under his eyelashes with those deep green eyes tells me his question is loaded with shameless intentions.

A small thrill zips through my body, and I grin, poking at my Pad Thai distractedly.

“How about tomorrow night?” he presses.

I’m about to enthusiastically agree until I realize my dreaded influencer party is tomorrow, the day before Valentine’s Day.

I drop my shoulders along with my smile. “Ugh, I can’t. I have this stupid fucking event I need to go to for work and —” I stop in my tracks and lift an eyebrow as my grin returns. This time, far more conspiratorial. “You could always come with me.”

Huxley sits up a little straighter, brows lifting in surprise.

“As your … date?”

“Yeah, silly, as my date, what else?” I say, trying to sound as natural as possible while swallowing around a large lump in my throat.

Huxley’s eye turns suspicious. “What kind of event?”

“Just this influencer thing. We can leave early, I just need to make an appearance.”

Huxley quirks a smile. “Why? ‘Cause you’re so famous?”

“ As a matter of fact , I am,” I say, pretending to be insulted, my grin widening the more I speak.

He coughs a laugh, but I can tell he’s trying to conceal his nervousness.

Suddenly feeling insecure, I quickly add, “No pressure, obviously, we can always do something today instead. I just figured, why not? No biggie.”

Jeez, way to act casual, Connie.

“I can’t today.” He pauses as if considering what to add next. “I have therapy after work, then my woodworking class with Whit at seven.” He studies me for a second. “You actually want me to come with you?”

“Yeah,” I say expectantly.

Huxley’s smirk turns slightly mocking. “In public. Where people will see us together.”

I laugh dryly. “God,” I say with an amused smirk, poking at the noodles just for something to do. “You’re making me sound like a total jerk.”

Huxley smiles into his Pad Thai. “If the shoe fits,” he mumbles before taking a bite.

“Little shit!” I say, pretending to be gravely insulted while Huxley falls into a fit of laughter. “Do you want to come with me or not?”

His gaze lifts to meet mine. “I do.” His tone is a lot more serious than his earlier teasing, and my stomach flips with excited nerves. “But I don’t think I have anything appropriate to wear.”

I scoff, dismissing his worries. “It’s an influencer party, you’ll fit right in with your blue hair and prison tattoos.”

I cringe immediately.

Why did I have to say it like that? Huxley doesn’t seem insulted, but I still feel the need to appease him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound so rude. I just meant, like, influencers would pay a lot of money to have your look.”

He chuckles, playing with his food. “No offense taken.” He gives me another loaded look before speaking again. “So it’s a date then.”

He words it as a statement, but I can still hear the question in his tone.

I smile warmly, feeling my cheeks getting warmer before I answer him. “It’s a date.”

The comfortable silence returns as we take a few bites of our respective food. But I have another burning question sizzling on my tongue, and I don’t know if I’ll last much longer without blurting it out.

“So,” I tentatively start, trying to sound as casual as possible. “How are you liking therapy?”

He harrumphs, and the sound makes me think he’s immediately dismissing my question. When he answers, I hide my surprise by stuffing a bunch of noodles into my mouth.

“It’s okay,” he sighs. “I’ve only been to a few sessions. But she’s a little woo-woo.” Huxley lifts his gaze and smirks. “Kind of like you.”

I snort. “Okay, what does that even mean?”

Placing his takeout container on the small table next to him, he leans back onto the couch.

He folds his arms upward so that the back of his head is resting against his palms. The movement makes his shirt lift, and a sliver of skin appears just above his jeans.

My gaze darts down and then back up before he notices my distraction.

“She says that I have a bad case of negative self-talk.” He rolls his eyes as if that statement is ridiculous. “And that I should practice gratitude and recite positive affirmations in the mirror or some shit.”

I conceal my laugh in my hand. “I’m sure that was just a suggestion. Positive affirmations don’t have to be so corny.”

“Oh, because you’re an expert on gratitude and positive affirmations?” he says from his sprawled-out pose on the couch.

I chuckle. “Well yeah, I did live in LA for years, where do you think I picked up all that woo-woo shit.” I lift an arrogant brow. “As you like to call it.”

He snickers under his breath but doesn’t add anything to the conversation, and I realize he’s waiting for me to continue. I think about what I should say for a few seconds, and an idea pops into my head when I spot his pack of cigarettes.

“Pass me those, please,” I say, pointing at them.

“Why?” he says suspiciously. “You only smoke when you drink.”

“Can you just — Please .”

My stare is steadfast as I hold out my palm, hoping he’ll stop being so stubborn. Eventually, he lets out a long exhale before grabbing the pack and throwing it at me from the couch. I catch it and grin, opening the pack and dumping all the cigarettes on my desk.

“I bought that pack today,” he grumbles. “Besides, I’m not sure what this has to do with what we were just talking about in the first place.”

“You’ll see,” I say with some exasperation. “I’ll give them back to you. Promise.”

After placing the cigarettes into a neat line, I look up at an inquisitive Huxley who’s now perched on the edge of the couch, his forearms against his thighs.

“So the trick is to make it as painless as possible, especially for someone who thinks everything is cringe.” He flashes me an unimpressed look, and I laugh, tonguing my cheek.

I grab a cigarette and a pen. “You’re a smoker, so why not incorporate it into something you already do daily?

So tell me one thing you’re grateful for? ”

Huxley’s face turns comically blank as if I asked him to tell me the meaning of life. “I don’t know,” he mutters with an indecisive shrug.

“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?” I say teasingly.

“You have to stop taking it so seriously, it’s pretty simple, really.

For example,”—I point to the takeout— “I’m grateful for this Pad Thai, I’m grateful for Jamie, I’m grateful for my health.

You see where I’m going with this? Whatever brings you joy, however small.

” He slowly nods as if too busy thinking to be fully present. “Now your turn.”

“I’m grateful for DK,” he finally says.

“DK? What’s that?” I ask, but still write it down on one of his cigarettes.

The Surgeon General probably frowns at people inhaling ink, but he’s already a smoker—I’m sure a few words on his cigarettes won’t kill him. He chuckles softly and rubs a hand over his buzzed head as if slightly embarrassed.

“It’s short for Dumpster Kitty. He’s my cat. I rescued him from a dumpster over the holidays.”

I blink, a nauseating warmth blooming inside of me at the visual he just painted. Luckily, my head is still down, and I can conceal my reaction before looking up.

“And you called him Dumpster Kitty?” I scoff with a smirk.

He smiles wryly. “It suits him.”

We grin dumbly at each other for a beat before I break the spell.

“Alright, next?”

Huxley stays silent for a few seconds, then says, “Freedom.”

I diligently write the word onto another cigarette, trying not to dwell on the heavy feeling that one word must mean to him.

One by one, we go through all his cigarettes, sliding them back into their rightful place as we work through the pack. Huxley lists his gratitude, and I continue to write it down until we’re left with only two cigarettes.

“Okay, two more things and we’re done,” I titter, somewhat giddy about how fun this little exercise turned out to be.

Huxley lifts his gaze to the ceiling, most likely running out of things to list off at this point.

“My vinyl collection and —” He pauses, his eyes finding mine. His Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. “You. I’m grateful for you.”

My pen hovers in the air as we share a quiet but very loaded stare, my stomach exploding with butterflies. I don’t have time to comment before I hear a rap on my open door.

It’s Nacho, looking slightly disheveled and clutching his huge binder.

“Do you have a minute?”

I glance at Huxley, then back at Nacho, and smile.

“Of course, we were just finishing lunch. Come in.”

Quickly, I write vinyl collection on the second to last cigarette, and then hurriedly jot down my name with a small sun on the final one, sliding them both into Huxley’s pack, hoping Nacho isn’t paying that close attention to what I’m doing.

Huxley jumps to his feet, giving Nacho a quick clap on the shoulder, then grabs his takeout, strolling up to my desk.

“I’ll take those off your hands,” he says casually, sliding his pack of cigarettes into his back pocket before grabbing my bag of takeout. He smiles shyly. “See you later, Connie.”