Outrageously in Love by Jen Morris
12
“Hey.” Luke opens the door to his apartment with an easy grin, but I stand in the hallway, clutching my bag.
After my time in the salon yesterday, I decided to jump in head first with the wedding stuff. So here I am at Luke’s place, ready to knock out this seating plan. The only problem is, I forgot what it feels like to be around him. I may have underestimated how challenging this will be.
When he steps aside for me to enter, I hesitate. I take in the half-tilt of his lips, the scruff shading his jawline, the knitted gray sweater fitting snugly over his arms. There’s a flicker of heat in my body, and I feel annoyed at it for betraying me.
Right. Time to get back to the plan: acting like nothing ever happened between us.
“Hi.” I force a polite smile, skirting around him through the doorway.
“Wow,” he says as I pass. “Your hair.”
I place my bag down on his front table, pretending I don’t hear him.
“It looks beautiful, Harriet.”
I make the mistake of meeting his gaze. I swear I spot something in his eyes, but as quickly as I notice it, it’s gone.
I blush and glance away, ashamed that I’m still letting myself get flustered by his attention. “Thanks,” I say with a casual shrug, trying to keep my tone indifferent. “It was time for a change.”
He closes the door and I follow him into the kitchen, my breath stuttering. I might not know much about New York real estate, but this place must be worth a small fortune. A massive loft apartment in Chelsea? Small. Fortune.
Luke gestures to the fridge. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure,” I murmur in a daze, wandering further into the enormous space.
This is the kind of apartment you see on TV: high ceilings with exposed steel beams, and a whole wall of windows, giving the place a light, airy feel. The living room, kitchen and dining room are all in one open-plan space. The kitchen is gleaming chrome and white shiny surfaces, separated from the dining space by an island with a white granite countertop. The whole vibe of the space is industrial chic; the kind of effortless look that can only be achieved with careful consideration. And money.
Woah. He must be rich. I rack my brain, trying to remember what he said he did for work.
Wandering around the corner into the living space, I cast my gaze over the pristine interior. Then my whole body freezes.
Holy shit.
Stretching the length of the entire back wall, completely at odds with the rest of the decor, is a deep metal bookshelf, stuffed with, well, I don’t even know where to begin.
I step forward, my jaw hanging open as I take in the sight before me. The first thing that catches my eye is the Lego Death Star, nearly two feet wide. On the shelf above it sits a model of the DeLorean from Back to the Future, and a bunch offigurines—some from Star Wars, some from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Then I notice the board games and my heart does a little flip. He’s got loads of them, carefully stacked. I scan the titles, recognizing a few I love and a few I’ve never played. I want to pull them out and examine them further, but my eye is drawn to the books on the next set of shelves, and I tilt my head to skim the titles. They’re mostly sci-fi and fantasy—and a limited edition boxed set of the entire Harry Potter collection.
My heart is thumping hard as I turn back to him, seeing him through new eyes. I can’t believe this. He’s… fuck. He’s a total nerd. As I see his cheeks color under my appraising gaze, it occurs to me that maybe he’s embarrassed he’s such a geek. And for some reason, that’s kind of adorable.
Nope.I quickly catch myself. It doesn’t matter that he’s being cute, that he likes all the same stuff I like, that he’s the only guy who’s made me orgasm. He’s the reason I have to spend the next two weeks lying to my sister.
He holds out a can of Coke and I take it with a sigh. “I… like your apartment,” I mumble, at a loss for what else to say. Although if I’m honest, I don’t love the ultra-modern, shiny look. With the white carpet and walls, and the gleaming surfaces and LED lighting, everything feels kind of sterile. I prefer wood and soft fabrics, warm yellow lighting and squishy sofas you can sink into, somewhere to drink red wine without feeling like you might destroy everything in sight if you’re not careful. I glance at his angular white leather sofa. It doesn’t look like it’s even meant for sitting on.
Luke cocks his head to one side. “Really? I can’t stand it.”
“What?”
“Well,” he says, dropping down onto the sofa, “it’s not really decorated to my taste.”
I gingerly lower myself beside him, letting my eyes drift over the decor again. This must be Dena’s taste, then.
“Apart from the TV,” he adds with a grin. He reaches for a remote and presses a button. A gleaming white wall panel slides aside to reveal a giant screen and a cabinet with several gaming consoles.
I have to laugh. “You’re big on gaming.” Though after seeing his bookshelves, it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.
He chuckles. “It’s part of my job.”
“Right,” I say, turning to face him on the couch, being careful not to somehow rip the leather. Knowing me, I’ll probably slash a hole in it with my keys and end up owing him thousands. “What do you do, exactly?”
He draws a breath, eying me. “Do you really want to know?”
I frown, puzzled by his hesitation. “Well, I did. Now I’m not so sure.” An awkward laugh escapes me, then I feel all the blood drain from my face. “Oh, God. It’s not something to do with porn, is it?” I screw my nose up, recoiling. Come to think of it, he did say he works “in entertainment”—everyone knows that’s code for porn. Why is that only occurring to me now?
He barks out a loud laugh, taking me by surprise. When I don’t laugh with him, his face twists in horror. “You’re not serious?”
I shrug, my eyes darting around the apartment looking for… I don’t know, video cameras? Whips? Economy-sized bottles of lube?
“Jesus. No, Harriet.”
“Okay. Good.” I laugh with relief. “Then in that case, yes, tell me what you do.”
“It’s not going to sound all that exciting now,” he says wryly. “I create video games. We released a game on PC earlier this year, and soon we’re putting out a console version.”
“Wow, that’s so cool!” I crack open my can of Coke. “You’re not working today?”
“No, I’m off for a couple weeks with the wedding coming up.”
“Work doesn’t mind you taking all that time off?”
“One of the perks of being your own boss, I guess.”
I pause, my drink halfway to my mouth. “You’re the boss?” He nods, and I don’t know why, but that knowledge sends a little thrill through me. “It must pay very well.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I cringe. I know it’s not classy to talk about that stuff.
He shrugs, leaning back on the sofa. “We’re doing alright. I’ve only been at it a few years. I bought this place back when I was in software development and making a lot more.”
Well, that makes sense. You can make loads doing that sort of stuff, can’t you?
“I was going to redecorate when—” he breaks off, glancing at me. “Anyway, I just haven’t gotten around to it. It’s been like this for years.”
“I like the bookshelves.”
His eyes rest on mine for a second, as if trying to read me, then his mouth tugs into a lop-sided smile. “They’re a new addition.”
I adjust my glasses, glancing back at the shelves. “You just… went out and bought all that stuff?”
“No. Well, some of it. A lot of it had been in storage for years, and last month I just decided—fuck it. I live here alone now, I should be able to have my stuff out.”
I sip my drink, reading between the lines. Dena didn’t want him to have this stuff out. I mean, it doesn’t go with the rest of the space, but what kind of wife won’t let her husband have his possessions in his own home? Sympathy trickles through me and I push it away.
“What’s your favorite book?” I rise to my feet, perusing the titles. He has everything from Neil Gaiman, George R. R. Martin, and Tolkien, to George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Arthur C. Clarke. It makes sense that he loves fantasy and sci-fi if he spends his days creating video games. I wonder what his games are like.
“Do I have to pick just one?” he asks. But before I can answer, he adds, “I guess if I had to choose, I’d say Ready Player One. Oh, and Ender’s Game is good, too.” He gives me a sheepish look. “You must think I’m a total geek.”
“I do.” A grin stretches across my face before I can stop it. “But Ready Player One is good.”
His eyebrows spring up. “Wait, you’ve read it? Or have you just seen the film?”
I raise a hand to my chest in offense and turn back to the shelves. “I’ve read it, thank you.”
“Really?”
I touch the book spines, debating how much I want to share. After the way I was teased in high school, there are some people I don’t share this side of myself with. But I’m sensing I won’t be judged here. My gaze lands on a small stuffed badger with a yellow scarf around its neck and my heart softens. Of course he’s a Hufflepuff, like me. I think back to the plane—to the way I felt a sense of connection to him, even as a complete stranger—and suddenly understand why. We’re cut from the same cloth.
“Yes,” I say, sinking back down onto the sofa. “And Ready Player Two. I’ve read most of the books on your shelves. That Harry Potter box set is awesome.”
Luke gazes at me with a funny expression and I swallow hard. I’ve been so full of anger about this situation we find ourselves in, but the longer I sit here, talking to him about the things he loves—the things I love—the more I let my guard down.
And that is not good.
“We should get on with the seating plan,” I mumble, peeling my gaze away.
“Yes. Right. Hold on.” He stands and wanders out of the room. I lean across the couch, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of his bedroom or—is there an office back there?—but all I can see is darkness beyond the door. He appears a moment later and I scramble back to where I was, hoping he didn’t notice.
“So, I was thinking we could use these.” He places a large piece of card down on the glass coffee table, along with a stack of Post-Its. Then he holds out a bunch of pens in different colors. “We could color code the plan, to make it easier. Like, blue for the wedding party, red for family, green for friends. That sort of thing.”
Oh, fuck. Is this gorgeous man talking to me about stationery and color-coding? Forget the plane; this is the sexiest thing to ever happen to me. How am I going to make it through this in one piece?
Luke mistakes my silence for reluctance and his cheeks flush. “Sorry, that might be too much. Whatever you think.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” I gulp in some air, trying to stop the traitorous surge of heat flowing through me. I’ve always loved stationery but I had no idea it could be so… erotic. I guess when it’s in the right hands. My gaze drops to his big hands, clutching the pens, and my breathing quickens.
I shake my head, desperate to snap out of it. Grabbing my phone, I pull up Alex’s email with the guest-list, then hand it to Luke.
“Okay, so we know there are tables of eight, plus the bridal table.” He draws some circles on the card, and sticks some of the Post-Its down.
I try not to feel disappointed when he places Dena’s name on a table. At least she isn’t seated at the bridal table with us, but does she really have to be there at all?
I reach for the Post-Its, feeling my irritation return. “You didn’t put my date down,” I snap.
He’s surprised for a second, then I catch a spark of amusement in his eyes. “You have a date to the wedding?”
“Yes,” I say forcefully, glaring at him.
“He’s not on the list.”
Shit. Of course he’s not on the list, he doesn’t bloody exist. But there’s no way I’m going to sit through this entire wedding while Luke feigns marital bliss without at least having a date on my arm.
“Well, leave a space for him.”
Luke narrows his eyes. “What’s his name?” His lips twitch as he watches me, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was enjoying this.
“I don’t know yet. But I will have a date, don’t you worry.”
He snorts, then writes “Harriet’s weirdo” on a Post-It and places it onto the board with a dramatic eye-roll.
That’s something for Harriet 2.0 to do: find a date to Alex’s wedding. Fast.