Write Me A Love Story

Chapter Nine:

If you do, you should follow it.

*

After just selecting a random show on my Fire TV, Reece and I hopped back on my beige couch and made ourselves comfortable. He gave me a few minutes to change out of my jeans, into pajama pants and matching slippers, but once I'd returned, he'd taken off his sweater and waited for me. I hadn't even taken a sip of my wine and I already felt intoxicated, just by looking at him.

"So," Reece sipped from his glass as I sat down next to him, my thigh brushing against his leg, "what got you into writing?"

I took a sip from my glass, too. Straight into the writing talk, I couldn't complain. This was nice. As the short show intro music played, I smiled at Reece with a shrug. "I always liked stories," I said. "Then one day I thought... what if I wrote a story that I wanted to read, you know? Stories with characters that looked like me, like people I knew, with a world and background that was familiar to me. I thought it would be cool if I could do that."

"Aren't you?" Reece lifted his brows. When we locked eyes, he chuckled. "I can tell you like dystopian stuff, which is cool. Everyone likes a good cyborg-take over the end-of-the-world story. But yours has depth."

I took another sip. "I haven't written it yet."

"I know," he said. "But it's obvious in your notes and ideas," he used his glass of wine to motion to the air, "it'll happen, I know it. And I can't wait to read it."

What he said last made me blush. He really was a fan, huh? I never thought I'd have one. And for it to be the hot librarian, how could I complain? He was intelligent as he was beautiful.

Reece noticed the cup in my hand as I took another sip—more like a gulp—and grinned. "Should I bring the bottle here in case you want a refill?"

"Ah," I giggled at my glass, "sure, why not?"

Reece didn't wait. He pushed himself up from the couch and walked into my kitchen. In one swoop, he went to the table, grabbed the bottle, then returned while strategically avoiding Francesca's eager prances around his feet. He returned without stumbling and put the bottle on the coffee table in front of us. He also reached my glass in my hands. "Let me get this for you," he said.

And I let him. Slightly shifting in my spot, I turned my body to face him more. I watched as he turned the bottle before pouring the alcohol into my cup. Once it reached just before the rim, he held it, turned it too, then handed it back to me with a big smile. It was extra, but it was cute.

"Thank you," I giggled, taking my cup back. "I appreciate it."

"Anytime," he said as he refilled his glass, too, then sat beside me.

The awkwardness deep within my belly decided to make an appearance. I wasn't sure what to say to him next. He made himself comfortable and smelled like heaven, yet my brain was sputtering like an old car with a faulty motor. What was I supposed to say next? Were we supposed to continue the writing conversation? Should we watch the show that we paid no attention to and I had no idea of its title? Or should I—

"You're beautiful, Camila," Reece blurted out, yet it was also sensual and suave. As I stared at my full glass, my brows lifted as high as they could go. I took in a deep breath. And then he chuckled, placing his glass on the coffee table. "Sorry if that came off strong," he said.

"No, no!" I squeaked, shaking my head. It wasn't strong. I liked strong. I liked him strong. Biting my lips, I wondered if his hands were strong, too. Kisses, maybe. Was this the wine talking? Had to be. I wasn't one to think like this about someone. But as I looked at him, watching his hand pass over his neck as he huskily chuckled and reached for his glass, I couldn't help it.