Elizabeth O'Roark

He’s right and at the moment I don’t fucking care. He’s got everything else—free to do what he wants, no responsibility for the farm. He doesn’t get Olivia too.

Weirdly, he seemed more comfortable back when he thought I might be a murderer.

“You thought about me in the shower,” he says, mouth barely twitching. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Sometimes I wonder if my soap is strong enough to kill off the bacteria from your home. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

“Do you actually want me to scroll through your exchange with Angela to find out? Because I’m worried there will be dick pics.”
“I seriously doubt Angela sent me a dick pic, but if she did, you can go ahead and cancel.”

It’s absolutely pathetic how that smile works on me, worming its way through my blood, replicating in every cell like a virus. I want to forget every principle I hold and start undressing when he looks at me that way.

I’m not good at anything else, so I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t pull this off.”
“I’m sure you’re good at plenty of other things. Consider the webcam, for instance. You’d be your own boss, at least.”

“No offense, but that sounds extremely dull,” he replies. “A good sex scene is essential to any meaningful work of fiction.”
“Ah, yes. I remember the blow job in Pride and Prejudice. Very tastefully done.”

“I’m sorry. You can spit in my coffee tomorrow if it’ll make you feel better.”
I smile. “I spit in your coffee every day. It’s not as exciting as you’d think.”

“Tada!” I cry, arms wide as we walk beneath the faux-stone entry to Harry Potter World. “We’re here. Doesn’t it remind you of home?”
His teeth sink into his lip as he takes in the rides and shops. “Ah, yes, Ye Olde Butterbeer Kiosk. There was one on every corner growing up.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t show your gratitude. And here I was about to selflessly convince you to buy us both a wand and golden snitch. Which would also remind you of home. I know how you Brits love wands and quidditch.”
Something like laughter bubbles in his throat. Possibly a stifled weary sigh. One of many today, I’m certain. “It’s like you were raised there, you know us so well.”

He smells like the ocean and sunlight. I guess not all smells make me gag. The smell of him makes me feel hopeful, as if everything is going to be alright.