Page 112 of Business Casual
“I’ve never been anyone’s favorite,” he whispers.
“Well,” I say, feeling defensive. “You’re mine.”
He leans his body across the table and cups his hand around my face, hauling me to him. His kiss is slow and deep, a methodical undoing of every last hesitation I have.
I fall into it happily.
“Nova,” he whispers, somewhere against my mouth. “I don’t think my feelings are business casual.”
I sigh into him. I hold on to him wherever I can reach. “I don’t think mine are either.”
24
CHARLIE
What are yousupposed to do after you’ve confessed to feelings you promised you wouldn’t catch? What is the morning-after protocol for that? I’m familiar with the fun and the fucking, but not this part.
I think I was high on adrenaline or endorphins or maybe just the way it always feels to have all of Nova’s attention on me. Like lying in a sunbeam or taking a shot of tequila. She finished the tattoo on my wrist, and everything came tumbling right out.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, so I’m making pancakes.
I’m making pancakes and staring at the batter sizzling in the pan like the crispness of the edges will determine the fate of the free world. Nova is somewhere behind me, lounging in an armchair I’m confident Stella stole from Luka’s mom’s house, peeling apart an orange and drumming her feet against the ottoman. I spin the spatula in my hand and watch her out of the corner of my eye, specifically the stretch of her bare legs where they peek out from beneath the hem of the shirt she confiscated, the crescent moon on her right thigh bracketed by an imprint of my teeth.
I took her home after the studio last night and backed her up against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the guesthouse, hands shaking, desperate to soothe the buzzing in my chest. I peeled her out ofher clothes until it was just Nova in the moonlight, the flowers on her skin a match for the one she drew on mine. I wrapped her legs around my waist and fucked her against the window until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t see anything but her. And then I carried her upstairs and tucked her in my bed, grabbing another blanket out of the closet because I knew she’d end up stealing all of mine.
And now I’m standing here wielding a spatula, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
Does she want to talk about it? Does she want to forget it ever happened? Did she say it because she meant it, or was she just trying to make the sad sack in front of her crying over a flower tattoo feel better about his emotional deterioration?
I’ve got no clue.
“Ready for the festival later?”
I startle so hard I almost send the pan flying from the edge of the stove. The batter goes tilting to the side, and the pancake I decided to make in the shape of Mickey Mouse loses an ear.
“What?” I yell the question, for some reason.
Her husky laugh drifts over my shoulders. I try to fix the ear with more batter, and the mess in the pan turns into a giant blob. The pancakes seemed like a reasonable way to channel my feelings, but they’re starting to manifest whatever is bumping around inside of my rib cage instead.
One big, messy blob.
“The festival,” she says. “The thing we’ve been planning. You’re gonna go, right?”
“Of course I’m gonna go. Someone has to make sure the floral arrangements are symmetrical.”
And that Gus and Montgomery don’t murder each other, or a random citizen, when trying to erect their pumpkin sculpture.
I’ve seen the drawings. The odds aren’t good.
Nova slips from her chair with a sigh. I hear the pad of her feetagainst hardwood and then a single finger traces up my bare spine. She commandeered my T-shirt as soon as she woke up this morning, muttering something about coffee and yanking the blankets over her head.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks. She curls her arm around my waist and rests her cheek against my bicep. A half hug. The palm of her hand rubs up and down my side. Right now, I’m thinking about how much I like her like this, soft and free with her affection. Wearing the shirt I’m supposed to be wearing, her warm skin pressed to mine. It feels like we’re in a bubble—in this house, in Inglewild, in the terms of the relationship we set for ourselves—and I’m afraid of what might happen when we step outside of it.
“I’m thinking about using whipped cream to make a face on this pancake.”
Her fingernails bite into my skin. I sigh and tilt my head, brushing a kiss against her messy hair.
“I’m thinking about how I have to leave in a couple of days,” I say instead, deciding to be honest.
