All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(10)

In her training, she hadn’t specialized in the disorder. Still, she knew the basics. His medicine would help him direct his attention where he wanted it for longer stretches of time, but executive function issues would persist despite the meds. On a daily basis, he likely battled time management difficulties. Disorganization. Impulsivity.

Lack of adequate rest and excessive stress made managing ADHD much, much harder. Under the circumstances, then, it was a wonder he was still making it to work on time and getting through his scenes every day.

The cookbook on the seat beside her featured a gorgeous loaf of bread on its cover. Absently, she ran a fingertip over that golden boule, squinted into the distance, and considered everything she’d observed.

He had a curious mind, as well as a sharp tongue. He was a hard worker. He was friendly to coworkers beneath him in the show hierarchy.

He was—

He was awake. Staring at her from his bed, gray eyes alert and watchful.

When had she turned to face him? And exactly how long had he been watching her watch him without saying a single word?

“I, uh …” Flustered, she tented her fingers and tapped them together. “I was just noticing how much your bruises have faded.”

He didn’t move. “Were you?”

His voice. It was—it was sinuous. It could wrap around words, twisting them into a purr or a plea or the crack of a whip, and even though she’d been studying him continually for five days straight, she had no idea how.

She swallowed hard, unable to muster any sort of coherent response while those intent eyes remained locked to hers.

The weight of his gaze blanketed her. It dragged at her mouth, parting her lips. It turned her limbs heavy. It transformed her thoughts into a distant hum.

Then he finally glanced away, toward his laptop on the floor. Her next inhalation audibly shook, and her chest hurt—had she actually stopped breathing at some point? Wow.

No wonder the man got a huge freaking trailer. That was raw star power at work.

Thank goodness he’d chosen acting instead of, say, founding a cult.

He sat up, and the fleece blanket covering him fell to his lap. “Fanfiction. Discuss.”

Her muscles all seemed to be functional again. Which was convenient, since tilting her head in confusion required their assistance. “Huh?”

“Fanfiction.” He spoke slowly, as if to a dunderheaded child. “Fiction written by fans, featuring favorite characters from books and television shows and movies.”

“Oh.” Her best friend, Sionna, read fanfiction sometimes, if Lauren remembered correctly. “What about it?”

“I wondered whether you’d read any before. What you thought of it. If you subscribed to any specific writers.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’d hoped for an intelligent conversation on the topic, but alas.”

Brushing the blanket off his lap, he stood. “Someone I know writes fanfic, and he—they want me to help proofread and give feedback on their stories. But I can’t give useful feedback unless I know what a good story looks like, so I’ve been reading fics about Cupid. The ones with the most kudos.”

She rubbed her forehead, making a mental note to research fanfiction and its related terminology on the plane ride back to L.A. “Kudos?”

“Lord, you’re slow.” He rolled his eyes. “Kudos are basically a thumbs-up. The more you have, the more people who liked your fic.”

Ah. Those sorts of kudos. “And after all your reading, have you figured out what a good story looks like?”

His face split into a self-satisfied smirk. “Maybe not, but I’ve found out what a popular story looks like, at least in the Cupid/ Psyche fandom. And I wanted to ask your opinion. When you think of Cupid, do you …”

He paused, lips pressed together.

“What?” Absently, she straightened the couch cushions and stacked the paperbacks on the coffee table into a neat pile. “Do I what?”

“No.” He gave his head a little shake. “I shouldn’t.”

Alex had hit some sort of conversational limit? Alex?

She had to know. “Tell me.”

“I can’t.” His voice wasn’t a purr or a whip crack now. It was a whine. “You’re not my employee, but you’re still working, and I can’t.”

She studied him. “Is this something sexual?”

It was the obvious conclusion, based on one simple fact: Other than their very first meeting, when he’d sneeringly suggested calling her Mistress Lauren, none of his endless mockery had ever involved sex. Not a single time. Which didn’t precisely make him a saint, but it certainly removed him from the circle of hell reserved for sexually predatory men.

Come to think of it, ever since that bird reference during their first, fraught standoff, he hadn’t mocked her appearance either, other than her height. Alex Woodroe was damnably hard to pin down sometimes.

Not in this instance, however. He bowed his head, and that was her answer.

“So, yes, it’s sexual.” She closed her eyes for a moment, already knowing her next words were likely a mistake. “Fine. I won’t be offended. Just tell me.”

He peeked at her through a dangling lock of his obnoxiously lustrous hair. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” When he still hesitated, she spread her hands in exasperation. “Well, I’m not going to beg you, Alex.”