The Hone-Don't List the sweetest new romcom from the bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners - Christina Lauren Page 0,57
on my lap and cycling through what we said and did, trying to find where it fell apart. It doesn’t take a lot of emotional intelligence to figure out that Carey needed an outlet last night … and that outlet was me.
Am I okay being used for sex? Generally, yes. In this case, though, it’s complicated by the reality of our future forced proximity, and the genuine feelings I’ve developed for her. I like her. I like her laugh, and how competent she is. I like her teasing humor that doesn’t mask how much she’s always taking care of everyone else. I like her mouth, her body, and her skin, too. I like her vulnerability—as much as I know I shouldn’t be drawn to it, I am—and I like what I realize is her complete creative genius.
I put her coffee on the desk and step out onto the balcony to drink mine. Am I really that surprised that she vanished? More easily than imagining her waiting for me, I can picture her in my bed, the stress of ignoring her phone mounting until she finally got up and dressed, heading to her room to shower and wipe the slate clean for the day. We’ve been friendly for only a matter of days, and yesterday’s meltdown aside, I doubt she’s ever shirked responsibility for an hour.
In truth, we barely know each other, and what we do know tells me we don’t have much in common. She might want to stay in Jackson forever; I live in a tiny studio that I’ve barely furnished because I don’t expect to be there for more than a year or two. Relatedly, I don’t let Melissa and Rusty hit me anywhere emotional, because it’s just a job. But Carey’s life is all tied up in theirs; their circus is her entire world.
And yet, despite these problems, I can’t immediately shake the way being with her felt totally right, even if it was for only twelve hours.
We have a late start this morning because we’re only going to Sacramento to sign some books for store stock before driving to spend the night in Medford, Oregon. The leisurely start to the day means I have time to shower, pack, and then figure out what to do with myself. Rusty is, as usual, sleeping until the very last minute before we leave. Thankfully I won’t sit around thinking about Carey or feeling useless: Melissa texts me a to-do list.
James could you take care of the following:
-Pick up some Alka-Seltzer for Russ
-He also needs a pack of plain white undershirts
-The bus could use a humidifier
The air is bright and sharp; the wind catches me off guard. I knew that San Francisco could be cold, but it’s still disorienting to feel the chill on my face with the iconic backdrop of a brilliant blue sky over the Golden Gate Bridge. A stress headache pulses at the edges of my temples.
It’s not a terrible thing if this fling with Carey turns into nothing. If I can just keep my head down and focus until the second season is rolling, I’ll have a great focal point on my résumé. Rather than citing my duration on the job, I’ll be able to say I worked on season five of New Spaces and the first season of Home Sweet Home. Rusty will give whatever recommendation I need him to give, I know. From here, I can move on to another position—an actual engineering role. While I don’t enjoy the cult of personality in the entertainment world, the pace and variety are so much better than the lifeless humdrum of my cubicle at the old job. If I could someday leverage the connections from Comb+Honey to get a job on a show that actually values science and engineering—something on the Discovery Channel—I would be thrilled.
Halfway up a steep hill, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
A clashing blend of relief and unease bubbles through me: it’s Carey.
I lift the phone to my ear, turning my back to the wind. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
For a breath, I want to laugh. Now she’s asking where I am? I look up, searching for a landmark or street sign. “Kearny Street?”
“I don’t know why I asked,” she says, laughing. “I have no idea where that is.”
A small ache presses into my chest as I register the dichotomy of this immediate, easy conversation and the complexity of our present relationship. “I don’t really, either,” I admit. “I’m just following Google