Page 18 of Unwrapped
“Thank you,” I whisper, as the invisible band around my chest tightens and my eyes start to burn in warning.
Once upon a time, he was my best friend. Now we’re strangers dancing around our history.
“I mean it.” He brushes his thumb over my knee, and we sit in silence for a few beats. “So, tell me about your hero.” When I give him a puzzled look, he adds, “The guy in your story.”
“Oh, um ...” Panic flares in my gut when I realize he’s about to figure out my inspiration for the heroine’s love interest. “He’s, uh, a bit of a cinnamon roll.”
“A what?”
“He’s one of the good guys.”Like you.Minus the whole vanishing from my life part, obviously. My subconscious is quick to remind me of my own missteps, and I cringe.
Noticing my discomfort, Dean pins his gaze to mine. “You give me the girl’s entire life story, but when I ask about the dude you compare him to a pastry?” He nudges my arm. “C’mon. You gotta give me more than that. What are his core wounds or whatever you called them?”
“He’s too focused.”
“OK, now we’re getting somewhere. What does he do for a living?”
Oh, fuck.“He’s ... in the medical field.”
“Perfect. You know all about that. I imagine it’s easier to write what you know.” He places his elbows on the counter and rests his chin in his hands. “OK, so, medical field. Is he a pharmacist too?”
“No.”
“A dentist then?”
“No, he’s—”
“A nurse? An optometrist? A proctologist?”
I giggle despite my rising panic, hiding my face in my hands instead of answering.
“You’re really not gonna tell me?”
I peer between my fingers at him. “He’s a doctor.”
“Nice. What kind of doctor?”
Deciding there’s no way I can humiliate myself worse than when I tried to unsuccessfully kiss him, I drop my hands into my lap. I stiffen my spine and look him square in the eye. “Doctor Sean East practices emergency medicine. He’s emotionally unavailable and hates praise. He enjoys single-malt scotch, baked potatoes, and a good steak. He’s afraid of moths, slugs, snails, eels, and swimming in lakes and ponds—the latter two, courtesy of his fear of leeches. He’s also well aware his distaste for slimy things makeszerosense, given his chosen profession. But that’s another story. Anyway, his mother neglected him, so he never learned to appreciate his worth. He has a shitty habit of putting himself last. Anything else you’d like to know?”
An electric current charges the air between us as realization kicks in. Dean stares at my face but doesn’t speak, his shoulders rising and falling faster than before. I hold my breath, waiting for him to retreat like he did in college, but he doesn’t move.
“I have another question,” he finally says, his deep voice rumbling down my spine. “What does he look like?”
“Use your imagination.”
His gaze darts from my eyes to my lips, then back again. “For the record, I’m not afraid of moths. Their powdery wings gross me out. It’s a texture thing—the same reason I hate chalk.”
“Would you let a moth crawl on you?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then you’re afraid of them,” I announce smugly.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” He twists my stool so I’m facing him head-on. “But I do agree with something you said last night.”
“And what’s that?”
“I owe you an apology. If I could go back in time, there are a lot of things I’d do differently.”
