Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
I tap my nose. “Exactly. Learning about all sorts of backgrounds helps me. I’ve devoured stories from Carly Simon, Patti Smith, Steve Martin.” I rattle off the non-celebrity stories I’ve enjoyed, then shift back to his day. “How was your tourist time with a work friend?”
“It was good. Alex and I went to Buckingham Palace.”
“Is Alex . . .?”
“He’s a friend. Born in Kenya, raised in California, just transferred here from our Beijing bureau. Speaks about fifty languages. A real badass. He covers London tech. So, we geeked out as two non-Londoners.”
I hide my smile as best I can. “Cool. The palace is cool,” I say, and I’m not cool at all because I’m so damn happy Alex was not his date.
I hope TJ never dates a single soul the entire year he’s here.
“It is. I like London. I’ve been checking out some fascinating places—Aldwych station, the Hardy Tree, the Greenwich Foot Tunnel—and it’s been great,” TJ says.
I think I understand him more now. I’d bet my callback those places are part of his novel somehow. Maybe he’s writing something about spooky London?
Maybe I can help him with his unsaid dreams. “The city has so many wonderful places to explore. Like Samuel Johnson’s house. The writer. It’s down a secluded alleyway,” I say, then dangle an enticement. “Supposedly, he worked on the dictionary there.” The gold flecks in his eyes seem to dance. “I knew that would hook you.”
“It’s only one of my favorite books.”
“Of course it is,” I say, then cycle through other places he might like. “The Vaults near us are great—right under Waterloo station—if you’re into the whole underground tunnel thing. There’s some cool graffiti down there too. For us artsy types,” I say with a wink.
“Thanks. I’ll add those to my tourist list.”
“I could take you some time,” I volunteer.
“Yeah?” He sounds like he likes the idea.
“Of course. I mean, we can do London and bands and books and clothes.” I dart out a hand and run my finger down the buttons on his shirt. “Nice eggplants, TJ.”
He just smiles. Doesn’t say anything more. But I know he wore the shirt for me.
“Let’s rehearse,” he says.
“Right.” I get down to business. “You have the new scenes I emailed?”
“Got ’em.”
He clicks on his phone and begins. We work through the first two new scenes easily, practicing a few times, then we get to the third.
TJ clears his throat. “So, what are you doing about this last part?” He sounds more nonchalant than I’ve ever heard him.
“Oh, the kiss with Lyra? My robot creation?” I ask, and wow, did my voice just pitch up or what?
“Last time, you said you didn’t do the kiss. The scene ended right before it. But here, it continues. There are a few lines afterward. Do they want you to kiss the actress tomorrow?”
“Yes. I have to kiss the woman they cast as Lyra. They want to know if we have chemistry. But it’s like a tease of a kiss. Full of restraint.”
My neck goes hot, and it’s not from thinking about robots.
“Okay. So we’ll just . . .”
TJ doesn’t finish. Instead, he reads her lines, and as we get closer to the kiss, he’s slower with each sentence, more deliberate with every word.
“I’ve been thinking about the other night,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask in character as the scientist, though I know damn well what my robot means.
“Our kiss. The one we never got to finish.”
“What about it?” I ask, wanting the kiss but knowing how risky it is.
“What if it lasted longer?”
And this is when our scientist gives in to his desires. “I think about that too,” I say, breathy and hungry.
And curious.
TJ’s still looking at his phone, not at me. But I’m studying him. The way he swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, the stubble lining his jaw. I’m recording every detail, staring at the man next to me and wanting him so much.
TJ raises his face. “And then you kiss the robot,” he says robotically.
“I do,” I say, and my skin is on fucking fire.
He glances back down to the screen, licks his lips, and reads his next line. “I wanted to—”
I shut him up when I grab his face.
His eyes lock with mine. His brown irises darken.
“Practice precedes perfection,” I whisper.
Give me your permission, TJ. I want it so badly. Want to kiss you so very much.
My roommate’s quiet, just breathing as he looks at me, my eyes, my mouth. He darts out his tongue, flicks it across the corner of his lips.
My breath catches, and I slide my thumb along his stubbly jaw. The scrape of his beard drives me wild.
He drives me wild.
Another few seconds tick by. He closes his eyes briefly, opens them, and angles his face.
Then, the American crushes his lips to mine.