Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (new books to read TXT) 📕

“Wel , I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then why was I researching premature ejaculation for you?”

Cam took on a prim, magisterial pose. “Characters can’t be two-dimensional, you know. They need … texture.”

“Texture? Premature ejaculation, genital herpes and chronic flatulence. That’s enough texture to keep Amy Winehouse’s hairstylist busy for a year.”

“They’re not al his.” Cam sniffed. “Ursula has the genital herpes.”

“Isn’t there, like, an ethics code for writers?”

“Writers? Ethics?”

“You know, someday the shoe may be on the other foot.”

“That’s the beauty of being an author. I don’t worry about feet.”

“I’m just saying, authors have a responsibility to be fair, especial y a biographer.”

“Fict ographer. You should have seen the way Nel Gwyn looked at him while he worked. Come to think of it, I’ve seen pictures of her son, and he bears an uncanny resemblance to Lely.” She pul ed a pen from behind her ear and dashed off a note.

“I’m not saying he isn’t deserving, Cam. But the world has a funny way of balancing things out. You take a couple swings. Maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn’t. But you don’t want that swing coming back and knocking your teeth out.” She held two fingers over her front teeth and gave her boss a goofy smile.

“Hm.”

“You know,” Jeanne said, “just because she was married to him doesn’t mean she’s a bad person.”

Cam glanced again at the portrait of the winsome, doe-eyed redhead.

“Maybe,” Jeanne said, “she left him because she thought she didn’t love him—or because she thought he didn’t love her. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t deserve any of it. Or maybe he deserved to be left but didn’t deserve any of the other pain she put him through after that.”

Cam pursed her lips, stil looking at the painting.

“Maybe she’s one of those women who isn’t quite sure what she wants. I’ve heard they exist.” Jeanne saw the gentle jab hit home. “Breaking it off completely can be better than letting him stay and think he has a chance. And maybe he real y does love you.”

Cam froze and then Jeanne froze. She turned. Jacket stood in the doorway, in a weathered leather coat, holding a to-go bag from Crepes Parisiennes and a large, steaming cup of coffee in his hands.

“Hey.” He nodded at Jeanne and gave Cam a warm smile. “I didn’t see you this morning.”

Jeanne couldn’t tel if he’d heard them or not. As usual, his tough-guy eyes were pressed into narrow, constipated slits.

“I brought breakfast,” he said.

Jeanne hoped it included fiber. “Oh dear, is that the executive director cal ing me?” She cupped a hand to her ear. “Better run.”

“Wow, this is just what I needed.” Cam buried her face in the coffee’s rising steam, hoping Jacket would attribute the pink on her cheeks to it.

Jacket twisted the Crepes Parisiennes bag, staring at his boots. It was not like him to display any sort of vulnerability, and Cam felt an inexplicable desire to protect him.

“Christ,” he said in that devastating Brixton growl, “I hope you know I love you.”

She found herself in his arms, his warm mouth over hers, a waterfal of emotions crashing in her head. She thought of that first night at the gal ery, his husky asides in her ear; the time she’d twisted her ankle on the way to the fourth shoe store of the day in New York and how he’d carried her—

carried her—al the way to the Lenox Hil emergency room; and the last time they’d been together, before she knew he was sleeping with the jewelry designer, when he’d surprised her with Fourth of July cup-cakes from Potomac Bakery decorated with sparklers—“a Brit’s attempt to be American.”

Oh God, could she trust him again? The lips were easy.

The heart was harder.

He fished the coffee out of her hand, placed it and the bag on her desk and swept her back into his arms. “I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve waited and waited. Tel me you’l marry me.”

“Jacket …” she said into the soft leather. It would be so easy to fal again. He smel ed like an Arabian prince and tasted like honey. She made an uncertain noise.

“Tel me at dinner,” he said, “after the gala.”

They had agreed to celebrate at Eleven, one of their favorite Pittsburgh restaurants, with a late-night dinner after the party ended.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” His face broke into a smile so big it made her heart hurt.

“Yes, I’l tel you after the gala,” she said, nearly unable to get the clarification out. What chance did she have, looking into eyes like that? She might as wel just tel him yes now.

“Bril iant.”

He hugged her tightly again. She felt the ring, stil on its chain, press into her chest.

37

“Cam.”

She jerked, realizing Lamont Packard