Free Far Too Tempting by Lauren Blakely Page A

it may be more than a metaphor. It may be an apt description of the first kiss in seven years that feels like a two-way street.
    “I’m very sorry,” Matthew says, taking a step back and assuming a proper, poised stance.
    “What?” I ask, bewildered. Now the dream is ending, and real life awaits.
    “I should not have done that. I don’t kiss people I want to do interviews with. I don’t get involved with sources. I can’t do that. I can’t go there,” he says, so quickly that the words come out in a jumble. But I can make out every confusing one of them. “I don’t want to do anything to compromise the story.”
    Right. The story. We’re back to the story. “But we haven’t even agreed on the story,” I point out.
    “I know,” he says with a sigh, then scrubs his hand across his chin. “And maybe this sounds crazy, but would be possible if we just went back in time ten minutes? Erased what happened out here. I’m phenomenally attracted to you, but it’s probably best if I focus on my job.”
    I furrow my eyebrows and am tempted to shake my head hard to the side, as if I’ve just emerged from the pool to see if there’s water in my ears. But yet amidst my confusion, four words bang loud and clear, like a drumbeat— phenomenally attracted to you .
    Because I feel the same. I am phenomenally attracted to him.
    “So,” he continues clapping his hands together once, briskly, in some sort of getting-down-to-business sign. “Thank you so much for listening to my proposal for the article. I’m so eager to hear if you want to do the story, and I’ll call you in a week, as promised, to touch base.”
    Then he reaches for my hand, shakes it once, and flashes me his best friendly grin, before he hails me a taxi and sends me home—hot, bothered and thoroughly nonplussed.
    I’ve officially entered the twilight zone.
    …
    An hour later, I’m back at my apartment standing in the doorway of Ethan’s room, flossing my teeth.
    Ethan’s room is like a snapshot, a moment frozen in time. The chair at his maroon desk is angled out, a piece of red construction paper is filled with crayon images of stick figures on a hill, lining up next to a spaceship. The tip of his white karate belt hangs over the edge of his bottom bureau drawer. His room tells the story of a little boy, happily lost in his imagination before his mom called to him, telling him to hurry up or he’d be late for school. He pushed away from the desk, left the half-finished drawing, hastily closed his bottom drawer, and raced to the front door.
    I miss Ethan on the nights he’s with his dad. I should be used to these stretches without him. But I’m not. I’m still keenly aware of his absence when he’s not here. Because on the nights he is here, even after I’ve put him to bed and I’m reading or listening to music or talking to my mom on the phone, the apartment carries a certain warmth, a certain coziness because of the presence of a sleeping child. I love our new place. We moved into it last summer. It’s our house, really, Ethan’s and mine.
    Yet I don’t even have to be here in our apartment tonight because there’s no sleeping child. I could leave. I could go for a walk. I could go to a bar. I have all the free time I didn’t have in the first five years of his life. But I still feel just a little bit empty and a little bit naughty being a mom without a kid for the next few days.
    I return to the bathroom and toss the dental floss in the trash can, then head to the living room. I grab my notebook from the table, open up to a clean sheet of paper, and flop down on the couch. I hum a few random notes, stringing together a little melody, then write down some thoughts.
    Dreamy kiss.
    Unexpected kiss.
    Kisses that go on and on.
    I take a deep breath, and a small smile tugs at my lips.
    It’s only a few lines, but I’m writing again! Finally! After months of silence, new chords and notes and lyrics are knocking around in my head. And