All the Feels, page 11
She needed to explain herself better. “It’s not right on a societal level or even a professional level, but it is fine on a personal level. It has to be, because otherwise I’d spend my life angry and sad, and I don’t want that for myself.”
Not that she’d successfully managed to avoid anger and sadness in her work, but that was a tale for another time, if she ever shared the story at all.
His hands were still curled into fists at his sides, and it was time to change the subject.
“Hey, Alex, I have a question for you. Are baps slang for something else in Britain? Because when we watch The Great British Bake Off, it seems like people get smirky when someone uses that term.”
Thoroughly distracted, as she’d intended—yes, she already knew baps meant breasts, not just hamburger buns—he proceeded to gleefully explain British slang to her, and the serious portion of their conversation ended.
That night, she’d lain awake again, wondering why he kept getting so angry on her behalf. Angrier than she’d ever been for herself.
She didn’t get it. But it did make her feel . . . warm.
Speaking of warmth, it was a chilly night in L.A. despite the daytime heat. She was making herself a cup of tea, and maybe Alex might want one too.
The door to the main house was unlocked. The alarm was off too, because obviously it was. Despite all his lectures and concern for her safety, the man refused to protect himself adequately. Since her arrival, she’d harangued him on the topic more than once as he’d rolled those expressive eyes of his.
He wasn’t watching a baking show in the great room, and he wasn’t working out in the gym, and he wasn’t reading in the library. There was no way she was venturing into his bedroom uninvited—or at all, she corrected herself; she wasn’t venturing there at all—so he was either somewhere on the grounds or in his personal office.
When she peeked inside the half-open door to that office, she spotted him behind his big desk, in front of his computer, typing away. After knocking lightly on the doorframe, she waited for a response and didn’t get one.
“Alex?” she called.
Still no answer.
Sometimes, he hyperfocused on certain activities, to the point where he wouldn’t respond to anything but physical contact. Accordingly, she came up behind him and reached out to touch his arm, only to see—
What in the world was he writing?
Because she was almost certain she’d just inadvertently read something about Cupid and lube and harnesses and dildos the width of a woman’s forearm, which—
Oh. Oh.
Her head gave a warning throb. “Are you writing fanfic, Alex? For your own character?”
That got his attention.
“What?” It was an absent question, devoid of his usual sharpness.
His head turned in her direction, his gaze fuzzy with interrupted concentration, and he sort of looked through her. Then his eyes focused and widened as he fully registered the situation. Immediately, he fumbled for the mouse and minimized his word processing screen.
“Oh, fuckballs.” He sighed. “How much of that did you see, Nanny Clegg?”
Letting out a breath through her nose, she pursed her lips. “Not much? Enough.”
“Hmmm.” He eyed her assessingly for a long moment before shrugging. “Eh. Whatever. I suspected you’d find out at some point anyway.”
All concern gone from his expression, he maximized the window again. “This is my first fic. I’m just doing final edits before posting. You’re welcome to read it if you want, but FYI, there’s some graphic content. As in, most of the story involves pegging.”
“I shouldn’t.” Dammit. “Alex, this is the sort of thing I’m supposed to report to—”
“I figured since you won’t let me have any fun in real life, I could at least have a good time in fiction.” He grinned happily at her. “I’ve been writing a few words a day. It’s been fucking amazing, actually. In the story, I work through a lot of my unhappiness about Cupid’s character arc and how Ron and R.J. completely slaughtered—”
She pressed a hand over his mouth, but he continued to speak.
“—Veebus mmmd Jupimmmmr are totmmmf manipumm—”
“Alex,” she said, raising her voice over his and doing her best not to notice how surprisingly soft his lips felt against her fingers, “stop talking. Ron and R.J. would want to know about this. The less you say to me, the less I can tell them.”
He licked her palm, eyes sparkling wickedly, and she jerked away from him with a glare.
“There. That’s better.” Turning back to the computer, he frowned for a moment, then changed a word. “Yes, thrust instead of rammed in that sentence. A vast improvement, if I do say so myself. And now the story is ready to post.”
She rubbed her forehead hard enough to hurt. “Alex. If Ron or R.J. found out you were publicly criticizing the show, even under a pseudonym and through a fictional story, they’d probably have grounds for legal retaliation. And what would other directors and producers think? Would they still want to hire you if they knew you’d insulted your own production?”
His career. He was jeopardizing his entire career for the sake of a story about pegging, and she didn’t understand. Maybe she would after she read the entire thing, but not now.
“Look, I’d rather you not report me to Ron, but do what you have to do. You’re an honest person, and I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.” He swiveled to face her. “I’m going to post the story, though, no matter what, so don’t bother arguing with me about that. I need to do this, and I will.”
This day was always going to come. She’d known it from the beginning.
Her duty had finally collided with her personal loyalty to Alex.
She tried to clear her head. What is the right thing to do?
With him so close, storm cloud eyes intent on her, she couldn’t corral her thoughts, and she didn’t have any idea how a good, honorable person would choose to act in this situation.
“I need to think,” she finally told him.
Then she turned on her heel and fled the mini-castle as if the evil undead from Tartarus were chasing her.
LATE THAT NIGHT, she checked AO3 and found his story.
She read it and tried not to wonder which of his exes might have inspired the character of Robin. Then she went back and rewatched scenes from the last several seasons of Gods of the Gates. Specifically, the scenes involving Cupid, Venus, and Jupiter.
She bookmarked CupidUnleashed’s account on her laptop.
She sent Alex a pissy, one-sentence email: I hope Cupid’s partner uses less lube next time.
She went to bed, sincerely hoping the next day would be easier.
What she didn’t do: write Ron or R.J.
Texts with Marcus: Saturday Night
Alex: Found out tonight that various men have called Lauren a bitch or a shrew
Alex: If I knew who they were, I swear to God, Marcus
Marcus: You’d . . . what? Join them? You call her a shrew all the time. Also a harpy.
Marcus: Also a killjoy.
Marcus: Also your dour jailer.
Marcus: Also a harridan.
Marcus: Also a spoilsport, wet blanket, sourpuss, nemesis of joy, enemy of lightheartedness
Marcus: “Maria from The Sound of Music only terrible and incomprehensibly short and without apparent musical inclinations”
Marcus: “if Jane Eyre had been like Nanny Clegg, Rochester would have thrown her into a river instead of pursuing a bigamous marriage with her whilst keeping his poor wife locked in an attic—never mind, I don’t think I want to be Rochester in this scenario”
Marcus: “if this were Les Misérables, I’m totally Valjean, and she’s definitely Javert”
Marcus: “I’ve never related so intensely to Harrison Ford in The Fugitive”
Marcus: “she’s essentially the Terminator, pitiless and unstoppable, and I’m Sarah Connor”
Marcus: “someday, epic poems will be written about my sufferings under her despotic rule”
Alex: Well, I don’t mean ALL the things I say, you know that
Alex: Besides, she thinks my bon mots are funny
Alex: I can tell, her mouth twitches like a millimeter
Alex: Although that could be a nervous tic she’s developed because of me, come to think of it
Alex: Hmmm
Alex: Never mind, it’s definitely a smile, I’ve decided for certain
Alex: And I’ve never called her a bitch, that’d be rude
Marcus: [sarcastic clapping]
Alex: Traitor
Alex: Go on, leave me to suffer while you indulge in yet another sloppy display of public affection with your April
Marcus: Don’t mind if I do
Alex: Marcus?
Alex: MARCUS!!!
Alex: Some best friend you are
Alex: If I’m Julius Caesar, you’re 1000% Brutus, dude
12
ALEX’S NORMAL SLEEPING PROBLEMS TOOK TWO WEEKS TO find him in L.A.
His best guess: He was so exhausted when he arrived, even his stubborn brain had to give up and let him sleep soundly for six or seven hours at a time.
But then, after two weeks, he began waking up at all hours of the night again, his mind racing. Or he’d take forever to fall asleep in the first place, staring at the ceiling as his damn thoughts refused to stop churning. It was torture. Especially since he couldn’t handle it the same way he’d done for years now, not without either disturbing Lauren or breaking a promise to her.
To calm his asshole brain enough for sleep, he tried everything else he could think of, but reading fanfic didn’t work. Writing fanfic didn’t work. Using his home gym didn’t work. Masturbating didn’t work. Even watching GBBO didn’t work, which was genuinely painful to acknowledge.
After another week, he couldn’t stand it anymore.
Just after two in the morning, he got up and got dressed. Once downstairs, he deactivated the alarm Lauren had nagged him to set for the night—Your safety is important too, you know, blah blah blah—and opened the front door, locking it behind him.
He tried not to make any noise as he walked to the edge of the property, but the damn motion-sensor lights kept illuminating along his path. Stopping for a moment, he squinted in the sudden brightness and waited for his eyes to adjust.
Then the lights above the guesthouse’s entrance flickered to life as well, and the door opened, fuck it all, and Lauren poked her head around the wooden slab. “Where in the world are you going at this time of night, Alex? Are you okay?”
He could pinpoint the exact moment worry turned to annoyance.
She stepped onto the stone path in front of her door, her feet bare, her fists on her hips. “For that matter, where are you going without me? Because you promised I would accompany you any time you left the property, and you seem to be headed toward the side gate. I.e., off the property.”
Her eyes were puffy with sleep, and she was squinting against the glare too. Her hair was rumpled, one strand sticking straight out above her ear. She wore a nightgown that was essentially an oversized tee, so faded the color was no longer obvious, so big the exact shape of her body was a mystery.
Somewhere over the past three weeks, though, he’d apparently pieced together enough clues to make a good guess. And now he had a much better idea of what her lower thighs looked like, so that was another bit of the mystery unraveled.
Not that he cared about solving that particular case. He was just naturally curious.
Her legs might be comparatively skinny for her frame, but they still looked round and soft. Sticking out from under that inadequate nightgown, they were . . . vulnerable. So were her feet.
“If you’re stepping outside, you need to put on some damn shoes, woman.” He scowled at her. “Even toddlers know that.”
She didn’t budge. “Don’t change the subject, Woodroe.”
“I have trouble sleeping. Long walks help.” He jerked his chin toward the guesthouse. “I hereby promise not to participate in any joyful revelry that might occur along my path. Go back to bed.”
Her eyes closed, and she took a breath. Two.
“Okay. Okay.” She held up her hand to stay him, small palm out. “Just give me a minute to get dressed, and I’ll join you.”
He glared at her. “That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s my job.” She disappeared inside, only to emerge a couple of minutes later, clad in her BIG HARPY ENERGY tee, leggings, and sneakers. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Her soft chin was set, her posture resolute. After almost a month together, he knew she wasn’t going to be swayed from her decision, no matter how tired she might be. And while he’d tried his best not to disturb her rest, he couldn’t say he didn’t welcome her company.
Still, he had to point out the obvious. “With your Smurf legs, I’ll have to walk in slo-mo up and down the stairs. They’re literally twice your height.”
“Without having seen them, I can’t say for sure, but I’m guessing that’s literally not true.” Her cheek was still creased from her pillow, and he kind of wanted to trace the lines. “Unless each step is ten feet tall.”
He scanned her up and down, then raised a brow. “Ten feet? Really?”
“Fine.” Oh, that scowl. It looked good on her. “Nine feet, ten inches.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said smugly.
Heaving a gusty sigh, she locked the door behind her and set the alarm, then handed him her keys, phone, and ID. “I don’t have a pocket.”
“Is this my life now? Am I a mere pack mule?” Mournfully, he shook his head as he deposited everything in the left pocket of his track pants. “I imagine you’ll expect me to carry you up and down the steps too. Which, again, will tower over you like monoliths, but I shall persevere. Perhaps I can rig up a pulley system of some sort.”
Her jaw was making an odd, grinding sound. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”
“But you don’t know, do you?” He grinned at her. “Have you ever seen this set of secret stairs before?”
Her face lit, her irritation temporarily forgotten.
She swiveled her head, scanning his property. “The secret stairs? We’re near those?”
The name wasn’t entirely accurate, as many people—locals especially—knew about them. But since the century-old sets of narrow, steep, public stairs on the mountainside cut between the private estates of various wealthy and/or famous people, his neighborhood didn’t exactly advertise their presence.
“Evidently, you haven’t gone out the side gate yet.” He waved her ahead. “After you, Smurfette.”
Their steps shushed over the pebbled path as they walked, and he shortened his stride, then shortened it again. For all her bustling, she didn’t get anywhere quickly. And for all his restlessness, he didn’t seem to mind. The steady sway of her ample backside was both calming and oddly mesmerizing.
Wait. Was he watching her ass? What the fuck?
Lengthening his steps, he hustled until they were walking side by side, and he no longer had a rear view. “I’d hoped to reach the stairs before dawn, woman. Channel your shrew nature and scuttle faster.”
He’d been gunning for a middle finger, but all he got was an eye roll. Disappointing.
No matter. Perseverance was good for the soul.
They reached the edge of his estate a minute later. A stone wall lined this side of the property, with faux turrets bracketing the lone, heavy door made of dark wood.
She paused to eye those turrets. “Really?”
“If you can’t properly commit to a theme, Nanny Clegg, that’s a flaw in your design, not my estate’s.” He stood in front of the gate and fished out his own keys. “Anyway, this set of secret stairs runs alongside my property. There are hiking trails nearby too, but they’re not officially open after sunset, and they’re not lit. That’s when they have the best views of downtown L.A., though, with all the lights.”
Her eyes closed for a moment. “Please tell me you don’t hike alone at night on unlit paths.”
“Well, I don’t anymore.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll have you with me now.”
She groaned.
Even through her tee, the warmth of her skin heated his palm and tingled in his fingertips, and it was absurd. An overwrought response born from exhaustion, clearly.
“I’m sure the coyotes will be excited to meet my new companion.” He removed his hand and beamed at her, determined to ignore his baffling overreaction to such glancing physical contact. “Also the possums, skunks, raccoons, and snakes.”
Her skin was going to wear off if she kept rubbing her forehead so hard. “Holy crackers.”
“What?” He tilted his head, the picture of innocence. “NoHo doesn’t have coyotes?”
“No,” she said emphatically.
“NoHo,” he corrected, just to earn another glare. Which he did.
He unlocked the door and ushered them both through before shooting the bolt closed again. On his own, he wouldn’t have bothered securing the property during a relatively brief, late-night jaunt, but with Lauren living there . . .
Well, it was different.
She stood in silence for a moment and contemplated the stairs, which both ascended and descended into darkness.
He didn’t rush her. “When you’re ready, we’ll head down. That’s where my favorite section is.”
When she turned to face him again . . .
That smile. Oh, God help him if she ever realized what he’d do to elicit that brightness in her astounding eyes and that sweet curve of her mouth.
“I’m excited to see it.” She waved a hand. “Why don’t you lead the way, and I’ll follow behind?”
The steps were too narrow to walk abreast, and yes, perhaps it was safer not to allow himself the sight of her ass again. But something in him rebelled at the thought of not being able to see her easily and evaluate how she was doing.
“The steps are steep and made of granite, so if you fall, you’ll do some damage.” He frowned down at her. “Hold on to the rails.”
“Yes, Dad.” She blinked up at him, eyes wide.
