“Are you okay?” Yuna gets up and runs a napkin down my shirt.
I look down and see a few brown spots on the gray fabric. Shit. Thankfully the shirt’s pulled out, so it’s hiding my erection. But her touch, even through the clothing, isn’t helping to settle things down.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” I say, then push her hands away—gently, though, so it doesn’t look like I’m rejecting her help. “Lemme, ah, just get a new shirt on. You go ahead and finish your breakfast.”
I walk up the stairs. Once I’m in my own bedroom, I exhale and try to bring myself back under control. It’s easier here, away from her, but still requires effort because I know she’s downstairs waiting. I think about baseball scores, brussels sprouts, a bad haircut I once got. Finally things go back to normal.
By the time I’ve changed shirts and gone back to the kitchen, Yuna’s done. I shovel my food down and drink my lukewarm coffee. Lukewarm caffeine is still better than none.
“So. You want to practice the waltz some more?” Yuna looks at me over the rim of her mug.
Yes, yes, let’s get close.
Jesus. Yuna resurrected my libido in less than ten minutes.
I force a smile. “Actually, I think I need to do some reading.”
“Reading?”
“For the movie. I’m meeting the director on Friday.”
“Oh, okay. Want me to read the other part?”
I want to say no to put some distance between us, but Yuna’s looking at me with her eyes wide and sparkling. And I can’t.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
She smiles, and her eyes curve into upside-down crescents. “Awesome.”
We sit in the living room. She takes an armchair near the couch I’m sitting on. I’ve already studied the script and the male lead’s part. It shouldn’t be difficult, but I can’t seem to focus.
My gaze flicks to her face constantly, to the way her mouth moves as she reads her part, the way her lips form the words. It keeps reminding me of my dream.
Aaaand I’m hard again.
All this, of course, means I can’t really concentrate on what I’m saying, although I think I do okay from the way she reacts. But I miss my cue twice.
Then a third time. She frowns and puts the script down. “I think you need a lot of work if you’re going to meet the director on Friday. Unless he just doesn’t care how you do because he’s already decided you’re going to be it.”
“Eh, I just need some practice.” I don’t, really—but if I tell her the truth, she’ll fire me as her boss.
Why couldn’t she be just a little bit like Jessica? Not the clingy and annoying part, but the I want you, Declan part.
“Well, we’ve got all day,” Yuna says easily.
And her patience is making me feel worse about my inability to concentrate. It’s disconcerting and embarrassing. I’m not an irresponsible guy. Especially not about a possible role, or anything to do with my career, for that matter.
But no matter how hard I try, the rest of the day is the same kind of torture. I blame my perverted subconscious for the dream, which my brain can’t seem to forget about and constantly goes back to, like a hungry child returning to a pantry for more biscuits.
Around five o’clock, I give up trying to be productive. I have Yuna sort through the dry cleaning that just got dropped off, and check messages and emails on my laptop at the kitchen counter.
Once she’s gone upstairs, the blood in my body starts flowing freely again, bringing oxygen and clarity to my previously lust-fogged head.
There’s a message from Tim asking me not to forget to bring Yuna on Friday. He also wants to know if she’s certain about not acting.
Very, very sure, I reply. She’s rich, so the fortune aspect of Hollywood probably doesn’t hold any appeal for her. Besides, she should consider being a concert pianist before becoming an actress. Imagine the kind of happiness she could bring people with that.
As I scroll through my inbox, a new email from the seeing eye dog retirement center pops up. It isn’t the usual monthly update, but the center sometimes sends an email when they get a new dog or something. The center always attaches a few dog pictures that never fail to spark joy in my heart, and I’m sure they will for Yuna, too.