5. Amanda

CHAPTER 5

Amanda

" S o how did it go last night?" Ana asks me the next morning as I settle down at the kitchen table with my coffee and a protein shake. No sign of turnip pancakes to be found, though this morning I think she's been practicing her contouring because her face is looking mighty Kardashian with a bit of 90's RuPaul thrown in there.

When I came in last night after the library, Ana was still out and I was absolutely zonked, even though the minute my head hit the pillow my brain started churning over and over the meeting with Blake.

"It wasn't as bad as I thought," I tell her before taking a timid sip of the scalding hot liquid.

And that's true. I mean, it kind of started out that way. There was no way I was going to let him forget the email he sent, even if I had to eat crow for a moment over that morning. Then there was the fact that he so clearly knew he'd been a total jackass to me in the past and yet pretended like it had slipped his mind.

Ana raises one eyebrow, a trooper fighting the Botox on her forehead. "You want to have sex with him now? "

I spit my coffee right out across the table and start coughing, my face growing red, tears welling. Ana calmly hands me a roll of paper towel.

"You can admit it, I won't tell," she says.

I shake my head furiously, tearing off the paper towel and wiping coffee off the table and my chin. "No!" I finally get out. "That's the last thing I want."

"But the first thing you need," Ana sits down beside me, palming her mug. Now her nails are white with flamingos painted on them. I have to wonder when she has the time to get them done and if she ever pokes a classmate's eye out. I know she's come dangerously close to me and that was before she was wearing the gel talons.

I give her my deadliest glare but it doesn't do anything to her. At least with Blake I saw him flinch a few times and I was using it on him a lot. "No one is having sex. He's still a pig. Maybe even worse than before." I pause and in some ways wish I had nothing more to say. "But he's not as stupid as he seems. At least, he's good at ideas and plotting. And realistic characters. We'll see if he can actually write."

"I thought you've heard his stuff in class, no?"

"I wasn't paying attention," I tell her truthfully. "I assumed it would be crap and turned off my ears."

"See that's why I had to leave my husband," Ana says joyfully. "I couldn't turn off my ears to his blah blah blah." She makes a talking motion with her hand. "And I couldn't turn off my ears to his ooooh, oooh, OOOOH!" And she's now making loud, high-pitched orgasm sounds that only an animal could hear. She gives me a wry look when she's done. "You know, because he was screwing our neighbor."

I've heard the story a million times before. It explains so much about Ana, yet I know if I were in her shoes, I'd have trouble mustering half the joy and energy that she has.

"Anyway," I tell her, "I don't think it will be the end of the world. If I can just focus on the story and not him, then we'll be okay."

"Because you want to have sex with him."

"Drop it," I warn her, getting out of my chair. "Just because a guy is good-looking doesn't mean that he's my type."

"Who is your type, then?"

That makes me pause. Alan's face flashes into my head. Memories of us in California, staying at romantic vineyard hotels, us laughing, drunk as hell, going swimming past pool hours. It's funny how every memory of us laughing and having fun and doing something exciting – dare I say sexual – are the ones that pop up the most, the ones I hold on to. And yet they only represent five per cent of the relationship. Even Disneyland was completely for me, he always went along willingly, having a fraction of the fun. That time I suggested having sex backstage of It's a Small World, like Ross Gellar did? Not only did he not get the Friends reference, but he flat-out turned me down.

Then a new memory bursts into frame, the one of Blake last night in the library, taking off his jacket, the way his biceps popped beneath his T-shirt, how his forearms seemed so massive, almost rough, in the library's austere environment. Like he knew how take charge of something, anything…me.

Nope , I tell myself adamantly. Nope, nope, not that.

Never that.

"Well?" Ana prods.

"Tom Hiddleston," I tell her. "He's my type."

"Who? Is he your classmate?"

I laugh. "I wish. He's a British actor. Loki, from Thor and The Avengers ."

She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, Amanda, you really are a nerd ." She pronounces the word like she's proud to know what it means .

I shrug, learning long ago not to let that label bother me and making a mental note to never let her read my Reylo fanfic, nor my Benedict Cumberbatch erotica (in which, naturally, all the stories star me ). "Then I'm a nerd who will know what she likes, wants, needs when she sees it. The moment I find someone like Tom Hiddleston, I'll let you know."

"And if you don't?"

"Then I give you permission to hook me up to one of your dating sites."

At that she starts tapping her fingers together at a rapid rate, her smile stretching across her face, making her cheekbones pop out and her eyes nearly disappear. "Oooooh, I can't wait!"

Yikes. Is it too early to add whisky to my coffee?

I don't hear from Blake that day, which is what we agreed upon. We'd both work on our first chapters by ourselves and then make plans to read them over and discuss. But when the rest of the day turns into the next day and the next and then suddenly it's Sunday and I still haven't heard from him, I'm getting worried.

I hate to pester him. No, I hate to even talk to him, but I don't think I have a choice. Our class is tomorrow and the last thing I want is to go in there unprepared. Besides, I've written – and rewritten – my first chapter (which is technically chapter two, since his POV starts it off) a hundred times already and am itching for some feedback of any sort, even if it's from him.

So, while Ana sets out her makeup on the kitchen table and is about to attack my face with some new techniques she's learned, I send Blake an email (obviously we're not at the texting stage yet).

Hey Blake,

I have my chapter done and wondering when you want to get together to discuss. If it's easier, I've attached it here. Just wanted to touch base on the project and see where it's all fitting together, before class.

Amanda.

There. Short but not curt. Just enough for him to get the message.

Ana has just finished sponging on primer that feels like wet cement to my face when my phone rings. We both jump and stare at it while an unknown number with our area code flashes across the screen. I glance at her, brows raised. That couldn't be Blake, could it?

I turn away from her to answer. "Hello?" I ask gingerly, prepared to hang up if it's a telemarketer.

"Hello peach," Blake's British accent comes storming through. "Catch you at a bad time?"

Ana is already smiling like an idiot. I bet she can hear him through the speaker.

"Um, not really," I tell him, "though I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me peach ."

"You don't think it's fitting? I can always go back to Big Red."

"I think Amanda is fitting," I say crisply. "Why are you calling?"

"You mean why aren't I emailing you back or texting like a normal person?"

"Stop answering questions with questions."

He chuckles warmly, although I can hear his insincerity coming through. "Why email and text when I can call you direct and make a plan? Sorry…didn't mean to make that a question too."

Well I can't exactly argue with that. Must be his British genes coming through, doing things the proper way, even though Blake is anything but.

I turn away from Ana even more. "Did you read what I sent you?" I ask, trying to sound as blasé as possible over his potential opinion.

"No. Not yet. Wanted to wait. What are you doing right now?"

"She's getting a makeover!" Ana yells over my shoulder.

I push her away, trying to shush her while Blake asks, "Who on earth is that?"

"My roommate," I tell him. "And she's about to put a shit ton of makeup on me for beauty school practice."

"Is that a metric shit ton?"

Lord help me, I'm almost smiling. "Yes, a metric shit ton."

"And when do you think this will all be over?"

"An hour," Ana shouts before she goes back to rifling through her stuff. She holds up a brush like a serial killer wields a knife, and just as manic.

"Make that an hour and a half," I say to him. "It's going to take at least a half an hour to scrub it all off."

"All right, well give me your address and I'll come pick you up."

"And go where? The library is closed."

"But my apartment isn't."

I'm not sure how I feel about that. "How about a café?"

"How about a bar?"

"Caffeine is better than alcohol."

"That's not what Hemmingway said."

"Hemmingway shot his own head off," I remind him. "And I believe his quote was write drunk, edit sober . We're plotting and reading, practically editing. "

"You're no fun, anyone ever tell you that?"

Ouch. That stings more than it should. In fact, I'm more pissed off by the fact that it hurt than the fact that he said it.

"I'm plenty of fun," I tell him, trying to sound flippant. "I just prefer a more intelligent way of expressing it."

"Of course, of course," Blake says, his tone bored now. "Just tell me your address and I'll come to you in an hour and a half. Figure it all out from there."

I give it to him and hang up the phone, pushing it away from me across the table.

"That was weird," I comment, staring at my cell.

"Mmmmm," Ana muses, wiping the brush across the back of her hand. "Weird but a good sign."

I sigh and stare up at her. "Don't tell me it has to do with sex."

"It's a good sign that he cares enough about your little project." She steps back and her eyes volley between my primer-spackled face and her platoon of makeup spread out over the table. "Though perhaps we'll put off my class practice for another day. Tonight, I'm going to make you look so beautiful you're not going to want to wash it off."

"Please, don't," I implore her. "I have no one to impress. Just do whatever crazy thing you were going to do. I'm your guinea pig. Go nuts."

But from the voracious gleam in her eyes, I wish I hadn't said that.

I'm not really sure what she attacks me with. After she removes my glasses, it's all kind of a blur of pointed, colorful instruments jabbing me in the face.

When she spills heavy duty eyelash glue all over the desk and then cries out what I have to assume are Estonian swear words, there's a knock at the door.

"What the hell time is it?" I say, fumbling for my phone but knocking it off the table. It's already dark outside but time couldn't have gone by that quickly.

"Oh, it's him, it's him," she says in a giggling hush. "He's here."

"Ana, go answer the door," I wave at her, trying to get up. "Stall him."

"But you look so beautiful sweet one," she's coos. I can barely see the devilish smile come across her face. "But if you insist."

Oh god no. There's no way I can let her talk to him alone.

"No wait, I'm on it!" I cry out, pushing her out of the way and running to the door. I fling it open and hope that whatever she did to my face looks somewhat decent.

Blake is standing there, laptop sleeve in one hand, cardboard coffee cup in the other. He seems somehow taller and manlier standing on my stoop with the dark of night behind him, a grey cargo jacket atop jeans and grey Vans. There's a peculiar twist to his dark brow and he seems surprised by my ambush but he's not looking at me any stranger than normal.

"Good evening," he says in an overly formal voice. "Is this where the brilliant author Amanda Newland resides?"

"Very funny," I tell him. "You're early."

"Actually I'm not," he says. He raises his coffee, gesturing to my face. "But I can see you're ready to go. Your roommate did a nice job, by the way. Very subtle. Suits you."

I watch him carefully. He at least looks sincere. "Okay, give me a second."

I hear him say "Sure," as I close the door on his face and run back inside. I scoop up my phone and grab my purse hanging from the back of the chair.

"You're really not going to invite him in?" Ana asks, hedging toward the door.

"No," I tell her adamantly. "There's no reason to and he's not meeting you. You'll be telling him how hot he is or how badly I want to have sex with him within a second."

"So you do want to hump like chickens."

My disgust turns to confusion. "What? Chickens?" I shake my head. "It doesn't matter."

Then I head for the bathroom because there's no way I'm leaving the house without seeing what she's done to me.

I flick on the light and a gasp escapes my lips. It really should have been a scream.

She's done the Kardashian contouring that almost looks passable when I'm looking straight on but the moment I turn my head, you can see the thick stripes of brown and white marking up my cheeks, my nose, my chin. I look like Lichtenstein pop art. It doesn't help that my lips have bright red matte lipstick shellacked on them, my cheeks look like they were splattered with coral sparkles and my eyes…my eyes make me look fucking crazy. My brows appear to have been whited out with concealer and then drawn on again in thick auburn arches and she's attached two false eyelashes to my lids. None of them match, not the brows and not the lashes, one of which seems to be climbing half-up my lid, making my eyes appear to be looking in two different directions.

"You like?" she asks, appearing in the mirror behind me. There is so much hope and worry in her overly-lined eyes that I don't dare break her heart or confidence.

"It's beautiful," I lie, flashing her a smile that makes my lips crack. "Thank you."

She beams at me and lets out a sigh of relief and I know that I can't take an ounce of it off my face until I'm out of the house.

Speaking of, somehow Blake was able to look at my face earlier and show zero shock or revulsion. I'm not sure if I should be worried that he's that good of a liar or impressed that he was able to hold back a millions barbs. Then again he did compliment me, which I now realize was layered with a metric shit ton of sarcasm.

I quickly grab my laptop bag and head for the door, ignoring Ana's gleeful noises. Blake is still standing where I left him and I quickly shut the door behind me.

"So I guess we're going somewhere," he says before taking a slow sip of his coffee. "I'm afraid I've surpassed my caffeine allotment for the day, so it'll either be a bar or my place."

I give him a pointed look – which has to look extra emphasized thanks to my runaway eyelashes – and push past him into the night, walking down the gravel path that goes through the backyard and up the side to where we have our own gate.

I can hear him following me, shoes crunching on the gravel, his presence at my back. Something about it all makes a nervous shiver run through me, as if I'm realizing that I'm alone with him for the first time. I'm not sure what it means, but since I know my face looks hastily put together, the feeling doesn't last long.

"So," he says, clearing his throat as we head up the driveway. "How long has your roommate been studying makeup for?"

I glance at him briefly over my shoulder. "Don't even say it," I warn.

"What?" he asks innocently.

I roll my eyes and we stop by a black muscle car parked in front of the house. "This your car?" I ask him.

He nods, the streetlights illuminating a tiny smile on his lips. "This is Mr. Mean."

Judging by the car's round headlights and shark-like nose, the name suits the car. "A Camaro?"

"1972 Challenger," he corrects, going around to his side and smacking the roof with his palm. "Used to be my uncle's and when I moved here I snapped it up for a song. Eats gas like a motherfucker though but it's brilliant fun to drive. You don't get rides like this back in England."

He does seem like the type to drive an obnoxious car like this, vintage and all. Yet another reason why the girls must flock to him. Luckily I could give a rat's ass about cars.

I open the passenger door and eye the pile of textbooks on the seat, as well as an assortment of random stuff such as a large plastic sword that a knight would use, a baseball cap, a kit you'd get from a Halloween store with prosthetic elf ears, a half-full growler of beer, various fast-food containers and a small white cardboard box that seems to be emitting a chirping sound.

"Sorry," he mumbles and I stand there and wait as he quickly puts everything in the back seat. I don't even bother looking back there.

"So many questions," I comment as I step in and buckle myself, very aware of how close we are to each other. There's not a lot of room up here, at least that's what it feels like.

He leans in close, too close, and nods at my eyebrows. "You're not the only one." He squints at me and I try not to breathe in his smell. Too late. His scent is herbal and fresh, like sage and sea salt and for some reason it makes me happy, like it's conjuring up hot summer days by the sea, full of freedom and youth.

"Are you sure you want to go to a café like that?" he adds.

Ugh, he's right. I can't go out in public like this. I twist away from him in my seat, push my glasses to the top of my head and try to rip off the eyelashes. Only they won't come off. Good lord I hope Ana didn't use Krazy Glue. My eyelids are being stretched uncomfortably.

"Are you all right?" Blake asks and I'm so aware of him next to me and the fact that it looks like I'm trying to remove my eyeball .

"This fucking eyelash glue is like cement," I grumble, trying to not sound panicked.

"Guess I'll be taking you to my place," he says, starting the car. It responds with a roar and he waits till I'm done trying to fight with my eyes before he peels out onto the street. "I have to feed Fluffy anyway."

The Raconteurs "Broken Boy Soldier" starts playing but it's not loud enough to hide the silence between us as we head into downtown Victoria. I actually have no idea where Blake lives and this isn't making things easier. I want him to turn the car around and take me back home but I'm the one who sent the email and he's just doing exactly what I asked.

I think back to what he said last. "Who is Fluffy?" I ask.

"You don't want to know," he says gravely.

"Your cat?"

He tilts his head at me. "Why did you assume I have a cat and not a dog?"

"I don't know," I say, shrugging one shoulder. "You seem soulless."

He laughs softly. "Yeah, I suppose that might be true. Cats are wankers, too." He smiles at me and against better judgement, I'm smiling too. His smile is infectious.

Then again, so was the plague.

I quickly turn my face to the window and see that we're heading down toward the harbor, the lights of the bay sparkling in the night. We pass by various pubs and oyster bars filled with warm light and laughing people and something inside me pinches, a strange bout of loneliness that hits me sometimes.

"Not too late to grab a pint," Blake says, as if he knows what I'm thinking, though he couldn't, not quite.

I point to my face and don't say a word.

His lips press together, suppressing a smile. "Fair enough," he says. "But this is British Columbia after all. No one would bat an eye. Except for you."

"Ha," I say dryly. "Where do you live anyway?" As we leave the downtown core, we hook a right along the water, heading toward the ferries that go to Washington State. "Don't tell me you're in a houseboat."

"I'm not telling you anything, darling," he says with a smirk and a minute later he's parking on the street next to an apartment building that seems all glass, reflecting the harbor lights and the houseboat colony beneath. "Not quite a houseboat but I get seasick, so it works out."

We get out. It's a fairly new building and he takes me to his third floor apartment, my pulse beating against my wrist, my nerves coming into play again. Is it possible that I haven't been around a guy in so long that my body is freaking out over Blake against my will? I mean, sure his smile is charming…a little less shit-eating than I'd always thought…but he ain't Tom Hiddleston.

Though he does have one hell of a nice body , I can't help but think as we pause outside his door.

As if he hears my thoughts, he glances at me. I hope my cheeks aren't going red but then I remember the makeup and my cheeks are like two splotches of paint anyway. "You seem nervous."

"I have something in my eye," I answer deadpan.

"Well, don't worry, I'm not about to take advantage of a fair maiden such as yourself," he says, opening the door and gesturing for me to go inside.

"Believe me, if you even tried you wouldn't get very far," I warn him, gingerly stepping inside.

"Death by boring literature, got it."

I pause, shooting him a nasty look just as he flicks on the lights. The apartment is even prettier on the inside, all hardwood floors and stone grey walls, leather couches and a balcony that overlooks the harbor.

"This is sweet," I tell him in awe as I walk into the living room and look around. "Don't mind me asking, but how do you afford this?"

He grins at me as he shuts the door and hangs up his coat. "Would you believe me if I said I was Bruce Wayne?"

"The rich playboy part of it, yes."

His lips twist grimly for a second. "Definitely not rich. Just the playboy part, if you want to call it that. Oh and the incognito crime fighter after dark. Just another reason why you shouldn't be nervous around me." He walks over to the fridge in the kitchen, which, even though it's comprised of marble counters and stainless steel appliances, looks like it belongs to a college student. Dishes are piled in the sink even though there's a dishwasher and crumbs line the counter beside empty beer bottles and discarded cereal boxes.

"Fancy a beer?" he asks, opening the fridge.

I shake my head.

"Not a drinker," he surmises, bringing the beer out and shutting the door with his foot.

"Actually, I do have the occasional glass of wine but it's not exactly appropriate for what we're about to do."

And by occasional glass, I mean occasional bottle.

He bites his lip through a grin as he smacks the beer cap off the bottle, using the edge of the counter as leverage. "I haven't heard that one before."

I sigh, exasperated, and ignore him. "Where should we work?"

He motions to the leather couch with a nod. From the strange way he's eying me, to the vibe in the room, I'm getting the feeling that this is part of his whole seduction routine. I wonder if that's all that it takes. Bring the girls here, give them a drink, sit on the couch and pretend to watch Netflix. Next thing they know, they're getting screwed on the rug.

And probably liking it , I think to myself. I'm pretty sure that any girl that steps into this place knows exactly what she's getting into, even if she'll probably never see him again.

I take a seat on the armchair across from him, to make a point that I'm not like the rest of them and I'm here only because I have to be.

If he's insulted, he doesn't show it. He brings out his laptop while taking a lengthy swig of his beer. "It's my stepmother's," he says.

I glance at him, confused. "What?"

"The apartment. When I decided to move here and finish my degree at U-Vic, my stepmother was able to rent the apartment for me. I basically pay for it by working at the bookstore."

"Ah." I look around. It all makes sense. "So you have a stepmother. When did your parents split up?"

"Oh ages ago," he says, leaning back on the couch and pulling one foot up across his leg. "I was born here but they split up when I was six or so. My mum and I moved back to England and she remarried. So did my dad."

"Only child?"

He nods. "I have a stepbrother though, here, Kevin. He's nine. My mother and Jenson, that's her husband now, they don't have any. What about you?"

Even though my curiosity is eager to learn more about him, I'm not about to share an ounce of myself. "I have a sister, my parents are still together."

Even though they should have divorced ages ago.

Even though they both take out their unhappiness and failed expectations on me.

But Blake doesn't prod or question me about them any further. He probably just doesn't care .

With both our laptops out, I decide to take control of the evening. It's the only way we'll be able to get through this and stay on task. There's something very distracting about sitting across from Blake in his living room and it has little to do with the way his eyes occasionally catch mine, the look of his broad shoulders beneath his thin olive-green shirt, the veins that rope around his forearms as he opens his computer.

"How about we read each other what we wrote?" I tell him, even though the idea of reading my work out loud to him makes me cringe. "That way we have a chance to really hear it and fix any errors."

He tilts his brow, looking at me uncertainly. "Are you sure? I mean, mine is total rubbish." He pauses. "But you'd know that, of course."

I raise my palm as a peace offering. "Going forward, this is a no judgement zone."

I can tell he doesn't believe that. Hell, I wouldn't believe it. It's hard as hell to turn off that side of me. Before he can protest, I tell him I'm going first and then plunge into it.

The other day we had worked out the characters while sticking to the main premise. Because the story has a slight twist, I'm writing the "other woman" for most of the book, only switching over to the wife at the end. We're doing it out of order but I'm too stubborn to correct it. In my chapter, the woman, Susan, is caught up in the "butterfly stage" of the affair, totally immersed in her attraction to the protagonist and giving very little regard to the fact that she's doing something wrong. In other words, the bitch is completely selfish but only has love to blame.

It's weird to read your stuff aloud, but it helps. I have to stop and start a few times because I keep coming across mangled sentences and skipped words. Actually there's a fair bit of them, even though I've gone through it so many times already. It's enough to make me feel like an idiot .

But Blake doesn't do anything but listen and I can't help but keep glancing up at his face as I read. He's frowning, like he's really listening to my every word but I can't tell if he likes what he's hearing or if he thinks it sucks.

I know one thing though—by the time I'm done, I totally think it sucks. All those feelings of entitlement, of feeling that my writing is better than most people's has been stripped away from me and Blake hasn't even had to say a word.

I rub my lips together before I let out a hopeful, "So?"

"It works," he says, then clears his throat. "Granted it was daft for you to go first when I have the prologue. I think we have some work to do to make sure the chapters match because what you're writing off of doesn't quite fit with what I wrote, but anyway."

And with that Blake launches into the prologue.

I have to admit, he's won me over with the opening lines, "I'm a liar and a thief. A thief of a heart that shouldn't belong to me. A thief of a heart that was easily taken. But I am one man, with two hearts, and none of them are my own."

His character—our character—Forrest is far more interesting and charismatic than I could have predicted. Somehow Blake writes him in such a way that he's almost forgiven for what he's doing—seeking out an affair with Susan. It's not perfect—some of the sentence structure is run on or doesn't flow and he has a load of skipped words and tense changes. But somehow I find myself ignoring all that, letting myself be swept away by his story.

When he's done he puts his laptop on the coffee table and steeples his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees. "That bad, huh?" he says with a wince, not meeting my eyes.

"What? No. Sorry." I sit up straighter. "That was really good."

He lifts his head alertly. "I'm sorry. Did you just…compliment me? "

I roll my eyes and wave him off with my hand. "Oh, come on. It's true. That was an excellent start."

"Go on…"

He wants an ego boost and while I certainly don't think he needs it in the package department, maybe he's insecure about his writing. I take a deep breath. "Well, Forrest was a lot more complex than I expected. You fleshed him out in just a few pages, without even interacting with Susan. The way you added in how his palms get sweaty when he thinks about her, what he's about to do, shows us that he knows the consequences of it all, without telling us he knows."

"And there was nothing you had an issue with?"

I purse my lips, thinking. "He might be thinking about sex too much. If you do a search for the word cock, I'd bet it comes up more than five times."

He leans forward, hitting a few keys on his laptop. "Four times," he says, rather triumphantly.

"Okay, well, it detracts from the story. Just a bit." I raise my finger as he opens his mouth to speak. "And no," I add quickly, "I don't have a problem with too much cock."

"I'm getting predictable," he laments with a smile.

Actually, your writing has proved otherwise , I think. But of course I don't tell him that.

"I'm bone dry," he says, waving the beer bottle at me before getting to his feet. "You sure you don't want one?"

I'm prepared to say no again, to set an example, even though I'm parched and a beer is sounding really good but he goes on, "I'm just saying, you look like you could use one."

My hackles raise. "What does that mean?"

"Have you forgotten about all that crap on your face?"

Shit, my makeup. Now that he mentions it, I can practically feel it seeping into my pores, trying to build a permanent bacterial colony.

"Can I use your washroom?" I ask him .

"Do you think I'm going to say no?"

"Just tell me where it is."

He points down the hall. "Second door on your left."

I'm surprised the apartment is big enough for a "second door on the left" and when I step into the hall, I'm even more surprised to see four doors.

I know bathrooms are perfect for snooping but I manage to control every curious fiber in my body and just stick to going pee. I'm pretty sure if I opened his medicine cabinet I'd only find condoms and maybe herpes medication anyway.

It's when I'm washing my hands and contemplating putting his basil scented soap on my face, that I hear a loud thump from the other side of the wall, followed by a loud shriek.

I open the door and look over to the see the door next to me ajar and light spilling out into the hall. I peer my head around the corner. Blake is inside the room, standing beside a giant, and seemingly empty, aquarium.

"You okay?" I ask him, slowly coming inside.

Panic contorts his face as he quickly glances over at me. "Yes. Kind of. Fluffy just scared the ever loving shit out of me."

I stop a few feet away and peer at the glass, now seeing a few rocks, small logs, sand and a tree stump, as well as a shallow dish of water inside. "Uh, Fluffy? Your cat?"

Please say it's still a cat.

"If Fluffy was a cat, my life would be so much easier and I wouldn't have to change my knickers every time I come in here."

I keep walking over to him, slowly, though he raises his palm out to stop me. "You don't have a deathly fear of spiders do you?" he asks.

"Spiders?!" I exclaim and then I'm looking at the glass again and now, now I can clearly see a furry brown tarantula bigger than my hand working its way across the sand. It's like bear, if it had eight legs, a million eyes and could fly across the room at you.

"Oh hell no!" I yell and I'm spinning on a dime, running straight of the room, down the hall and to his fucking door, my back plastered against it, one hand on the knob. The apartment is so austere and bright, it's hard to imagine I just saw that fucking thing in one of the rooms.

Moments later, as I'm catching my breath, Blake rounds the corner.

"So sorry," he apologizes, looking as white as a sheet.

"What the fuck was that?" I practically gasp.

"That was Fluffy," he says.

"He's a fucking tarantula!"

"I'm very aware of that."

"Why do you have a tarantula as a pet? Oh my god, what's wrong with you?"

A shiver runs through him which he tries to shake out. "And oh my god," I say, remembering his posture in the room, hearing that womanly shriek, "are you afraid of him?"

"It's true that I am deathly afraid of spiders," he says, heading right for the fridge and bringing out two beers. As he deftly pops the caps off both, he says, "But Fluffy is Kevin's and I said I'd take care of him. Turns out it's indefinite."

He strides over to me and hands me a beer, his fingers brushing against mine as he does so. I'm so on edge that my skin feels electrified by his touch.

"I don't get it," I say, softly now because he's nearly invading my personal space.

He runs his hand over the stubble on his strong jaw and nods, smiling to himself as he looks elsewhere. "I don't get it either. I guess Fluffy was an escape artist and Angelica, that's Kevin's mom, said he couldn't keep him anymore."

"I don't blame her," I say, feeling like a million spiders are crawling all over me right now. "And you willingly let an escape artist tarantula into your home?"

He sighs and leans back against the kitchen counter, legs crossed at the ankles and swigs his beer. "Yeah. Bloody brilliant, isn't it? But Kevin really loved that ugly abomination and he was in tears when it happened so I told him I'd care for him until his mum has a change of heart. And I'm pretty sure now that's never going to happen, so it looks like I'm stuck with the damned thing until Kevin forgets about him. Or loses interest. Or develops arachnophobia."

I have to admit, this is extremely sweet of him to do this for his stepbrother. "You must be close with him. Kevin, I mean. Not Fluffy."

He scratches at his cheek. "Not really. I'm trying. His mum has been working more and more, she's a lawyer, and I feel like I'm the only one he has lately that seems to care. My dad is so invested in the shop and trying to save it and…" He trails off and clears his throat, as if he's said too much.

And of course I can't help but bite. "Is the shop in trouble?"

"Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, peach," he says dismissively.

I raise my brow. "I told you not to call me peach."

"What's with your hatred of nicknames?"

"I don't have a hatred of nicknames," I argue. "I have a hatred of your nicknames. Believe me, I've had plenty."

Oh great, now I've said too much.

"Such as?"

"It doesn't matter," I say quickly. "We should get back to work."

"You can work after meeting Fluffy? It usually takes me a pint afterward to calm down. I'm supposed to feed him tomorrow and I usually have to get pretty bombed in order to work up the nerve. "

So that explains the chirping box in his car. "Crickets?"

"Yeah, live ones. It's pretty barbaric."

"And how does your revolving door of women handle Fluffy?"

His head jerks back as he stares at me quizzically. "Revolving door of women? Who says that? And why do you care?"

"I don't care," I tell him, looking away. "It's just something you're very proud of. You've slept with nearly half the class."

"Not you," he points out.

"Because I'm not a fucking idiot."

"Not Rio either," he says.

"Because she's not stupid either."

"I don't think a girl has to be stupid in order to have a good time," he muses, tapping the top of the bottle against his lips. "Rio does seem like a lot of fun. It's a wonder the two of you are even friends, she's like sunshine and you're just this angry red windstorm that knocks down trees sucks the juice out of everything."

I can't help but grumble at him. "Rio is way too good for you." I don't need to point out if he pursued her enough, she'd probably give in. She does like a good time and she'd probably be the only one in class to not pen an anti-Blake poem. Still, I add, "You stay away from her."

"Forbidden," he says with a sharp nod. "I like those ones the best."

"I'm serious. She's not your type."

"You don't know my type," he says. "I bet you don't even know your own."

What is with this question lately?

I straighten my shoulders, raising my chin an inch. "I know exactly what my type is, what kind of person I need and want. "

"Need," he repeats, lightly mocking. "Will you listen to that, the All Powerful Oz has just admitted that she needs things from time to time. I thought you'd be entirely self-sufficient."

"Oh I am," I shoot back. "You should see my vibrator collection."

His eyes widen and I refrain from clamping my hand over my mouth. I've said too much. Way, way too much.

I clear my throat, looking down at my beer. "Any smart young woman should always have a range of suitable man substitutes."

"Or you could just get a boyfriend."

"Not interested."

"Or a fuckbuddy."

"Not interested," I repeat.

"Eating carpet?" He snaps his fingers together. "Rio!"

I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Why does every fucking guy have to assume a girl is a lesbian because she's single and not sleeping around? I don't have to explain myself to you; you're nothing but an alcoholic with a tarantula. Go ahead and think I'm a lesbian if it appeases your ego, I don't care."

"Touchy," he surmises. "It's okay. I get it. We all have our issues. I think yours is the fact that your eyelids are nearly glued shut."

I ignore him. "Can we get back to work, because if not, I'm getting a cab back home."

"All right, we'll call a truce," he says, holding out his hand, a sly gleam in his eyes. I don't trust him at all but I'll pretend in order to get this done. I shake his hand quickly.

We both sit down on the couch, me beside him this time and try to work through the changes to the chapters. We bounce ideas off of each other and even though I have Susan's POV, which is as interesting as I want to make it, I can't help but feel a bit envious over Blake. Not only does he have a phenomenal appreciation for Forrest's character, but he's got so much material to work with. His character is heavy, layered and complex and I can see the fever burning in Blake's eyes as he discusses him, like he's coming alive in ways I've never seen before. If I didn't hate the guy so much, I think I might be getting a glimpse of the real him—and liking it.

But he still drives me mad and when we're done for the night, he goes right back to pissing me off.

"Ali," he says as we head for his door.

"What about her?"

He shrugs. "Not much, but she got to meet Fluffy."

"Willingly?"

"He escaped. At a… bad …time."

My skin prickles. I can only imagine. "Well I'm glad you're telling me this now." I grab the front door and rip it open, happily stepping into the hall where big hairy spiders aren't potentially running amok. "No wonder she was so pissed at you in class the other day," I say under my breath as we get in the elevator.

"Oh, she wasn't pissed about that," he says, folding his hands in front of him and staring up at the elevator lights as they go down. "It's because I didn't call her when I said I would."

"Did you ever call her?" I ask.

He gives me a lazy grin in response.

"Once again, pig," I tell him.

And just like before, the insult doesn't seem to bother him. "They all know how they stand with me. I tell them from the beginning I'm just looking for a quick shag and nothing else. I can't help it if they all start planning our futures together the minute I get them to come. Though perhaps I shouldn't deliver so many orgasms in one session."

"You've got to be kidding me," I mumble to myself, shaking my head in disbelief as we head to his car .

"I joke about a lot of things, but not about sex."

Then it's too bad you don't take the rest of your life as serious as your sex life , I think as we speed away through the dark streets.

But soon, he won't be my problem anymore.

There's some solace in that.