back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is ha一ving ideas above its station.
“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?
“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”
He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.
“Anything else you need?” I ha一ve to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”
What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.
“For a do-it-yourselfer?”
He nods, gray eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.
“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.
“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.
“I could always take them off.” He smirks.
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
“I’ll take some coveralls. Hea一ven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.
I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.
“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.
He ignores my inquiry.
“How’s the article coming along?”
He’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty.
“I’m not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Ka一vanagh. My roommate, she’s the writer. She’s very happy with it. She’s the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that sh
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