“Oh.” Her best friend, Sionna, read fanfiction sometimes, if Lauren remembered correctly. “What about it?”
“I wondered whether you’d read any before. What you thought of it. If you subscribed to any specific writers.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’d hoped for an intelligent conversation on the topic, but alas.”
Brushing the blanket off his lap, he stood. “Someone I know writes fanfic, and he—they want me to help proofread and give feedback on their stories. But I can’t give useful feedback unless I know what a good story looks like, so I’ve been reading fics about Cupid. The ones with the most kudos.”
She rubbed her forehead, making a mental note to research fanfiction and its related terminology on the plane ride back to L.A. “Kudos?”
“Lord, you’re slow.” He rolled his eyes. “Kudos are basically a thumbs-up. The more you have, the more people who liked your fic.”
Ah. Those sorts of kudos. “And after all your reading, have you figured out what a good story looks like?”
His face split into a self-satisfied smirk. “Maybe not, but I’ve found out what a popular story looks like, at least in the Cupid/ Psyche fandom. And I wanted to ask your opinion. When you think of Cupid, do you …”
He paused, lips pressed together.
“What?” Absently, she straightened the couch cushions and stacked the paperbacks on the coffee table into a neat pile. “Do I what?”
“No.” He gave his head a little shake. “I shouldn’t.”
Alex had hit some sort of conversational limit? Alex?
She had to know. “Tell me.”
“I can’t.” His voice wasn’t a purr or a whip crack now. It was a whine. “You’re not my employee, but you’re still working, and I can’t.”
She studied him. “Is this something sexual?”
It was the obvious conclusion, based on one simple fact: Other than their very first meeting, when he’d sneeringly suggested calling her Mistress Lauren, none of his endless mockery had ever involved sex. Not a single time. Which didn’t precisely make him a saint, but it certainly removed him from the circle of hell reserved for sexually predatory men.
Come to think of it, ever since that bird reference during their first, fraught standoff, he hadn’t mocked her appearance either, other than her height. Alex Woodroe was damnably hard to pin down sometimes.
Not in this instance, however. He bowed his head, and that was her answer.
“So, yes, it’s sexual.” She closed her eyes for a moment, already knowing her next words were likely a mistake. “Fine. I won’t be offended. Just tell me.”
He peeked at her through a dangling lock of his obnoxiously lustrous hair. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” When he still hesitated, she spread her hands in exasperation. “Well, I’m not going to beg you, Alex.”
“All right, then. But let the record show I tried to exercise some self-control. For once.” Straightening, he propped his fists on his hips and grinned at her. “Here’s what I want to know: Does Cupid seem like a bottom to you?”
“A bottom?” She frowned, lost. “Like an ass, do you mean? Because, sure, the way he treats Psyche sometimes—”
“Sexually,” he reminded her impatiently. “Sexually, you dense woman.”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Oh.”
His uncharacteristic reticence disappeared, possibly never to be seen again.
“Because all the most popular Cupid fics seem to involve Psyche pegging him. Often with dildos described as having the same width as her forearm, which is somewhat alarming.” He stared at her arm, clearly doing some mental calculations, then winced. “And within the fandom, popular consensus says my character is clearly a bottom, and I’m not certain I fully understand why.”
She understood. Now that she’d grasped the context, she totally understood.
“You—” Alex flicked a hand at her. “You know things. Explain it to me.”
You know things?
It was perhaps the most dismissive, careless compliment she’d ever received. It was also, however, a correct statement. She did know things.
And given her knowing-things pedigree, she was shocked she hadn’t considered Cupid’s possible bottom status before now. Dammit, she’d read E. Wade’s books multiple times. How had she overlooked the way Cupid’s special arrow angled higher whenever Psyche climbed on top? And if the books hadn’t given her enough clues, the show should have.
In retrospect, Cupid’s expression after Psyche pushed him against the wall and pinned his wrists as she kissed him should have told Lauren everything. Everything.
Had Alex not realized what his face was doing in that scene? And how had they all missed the Cupid Is Definitely the Little Spoon implications of it all?
“Are you even paying attention to me?” Alex’s perfect nose had lifted high in the air, and he sniffed down at her. “You do realize your inattentiveness is exceedingly rude, correct?”
Ah, but it was too late for insults now. He’d told her she knew things.
Why did that make her straighten and puff out her chest a little? And even as she preened, why did she want so very badly to laugh? At him, and at herself too?
She didn’t laugh. But she did bask in the moment.
Right now, if only for a fleeting snatch of time, she had the upper hand with Alex. She intended to enjoy it.
“Very well, then.” With a sweep of her arm, she gestured to the couch. “Sit down, Alex. Nanny Clegg will explain the birds and the bees and the bottoms to you.”
“Fucking hell,” he groaned.
But damned if he didn’t sit down.
4
“HEY, LAUREN,” ALEX SAID, AVIDLY EYEING HER EXPRESSION. “If I called you a claggy sponge, what would you say?”
To his disappointment, she didn’t visibly react. Instead, she continued frowning at the wall of windows overlooking one of the Spanish airport’s many runways.
“In response to such a transparent attempt at provocation?” Her voice was preoccupied. “I’d say nothing.”
She gave a decisive little nod, then rose from the very wide, very heavy armchair she’d chosen in the near-empty business lounge. Before he could react or do it for her, she hoisted that chair, moved it closer to the windows, and plopped back into its cushioned embrace.
Then she got out her e-reader and bent her stupid, boring head over it again, matching words to deeds.
Goddamn. His appointed jailer was fucking frustrating sometimes.
Not that she’d notice, but he wasn’t letting her escape his orbit that easily. Standing, he shifted his own chair nearer to the windows and even closer to hers than it was before.
Setting it down with a little grunt, he studied it consideringly before turning back to her.
“That chair is heavy as shit.” He gave it a shove for emphasis, and it didn’t move an inch. “Are you bench-pressing cars in your spare time, or what?”
Her brow was still furrowed, and she was once again readjusting her sad little ponytail. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t turned to a new page in her book yet.
“I’m strong.” She flicked him a brief, abstracted glare. “And don’t swear in public. There are children here.”