Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)

“I think you and I are very different, Matthew Simmons.”


“How so?”

“I am not in competition with myself. I’m not in competition with anyone. In fact, I might be the least competitive person I know.”

His smile returned, softer than before, coaxing. “That’s because you’re already great. There’s no improving on perfection.”

I laughed again, but it was forced. A pang of dissonance and longing had me lowering my eyes, not wanting him to see my turmoil. I wished he wouldn’t say such things. How was it that he didn’t realize saying such things to me actually hurt?

How was I supposed to keep him in the friend zone when he kept launching verbal sneak attacks against my heart?

And if I’m so perfect, why doesn’t he want to be with me?

Ugh.

Just, stop. You’re wrecking yourself. Don’t twist yourself into knots.

Recovering quickly, I sent him a mock-suspicious glare, but my accompanying smile felt weird, too big. I made it smaller. “I’m serious. It’s why I need to work in an office. It’s why I need my friends. It’s why I need a . . .”

I stared past Matt, at a spot made blurry by my realization. It’s not just a want. It’s not just envy that causes me to feel so inadequate and alone. It’s not just that I hate going home to an empty apartment. I need a person. My person. It’s why I want to fall in love, and be loved, and love.

These articles I was writing about solving loneliness, they weren’t going to work for my loneliness.

For me, they would only ever be Band-Aids, not cures.

I can’t settle for less.



We retrieved our bags from the concierge and Matt insisted on carrying mine. I didn’t care either way, so I let him, my brain too tired to argue.

“Are you going to work?” he asked, walking into my room as I held the door open for him. “Where do you want the bag?”

“Um, no. I think I’ll just veg out for a bit, then go to sleep. And you can put the bag anywhere.” I trailed after him inspecting the room. “Do you see the thermostat? It’s freezing in here.”

Every hotel room in New York is small, at least every hotel room I’ve ever been in, and this one was no different. The full-sized bed took up most of the main area, with about two feet or less on each side between the mattress and the walls or furniture.

“I don’t see it over here.” Matt glanced around the diminutive space, setting my bag on a tiny desk. “This room is like a closet. An ice closet.”

Searching the wall for the air conditioner control and finding it by the door, I discovered it was set to 62 degrees. I increased the temperature to 70.

“Yes, well, journalists do live glamorous lives. Where do you usually stay when you’re in the city?” I smiled tiredly.

He returned my smile, not looking even a little bit tired, and shuffled two paces before lying on the bed. Matt twisted from side to side as though testing the mattress. “I can confirm, this mattress is comfortable.”

I didn’t miss how he’d neglected to answer my question, but decided to let it go. “I find Marriott beds to always be the most consistently comfortable.”

I moved to my bag and pulled out a pair of yoga pants, T-shirt, and my toiletries, wondering how high on the irresponsible scale it would be for me to raid the minibar. Deciding my bruised heart trumped sensible spending—at least for the night—I went to the bathroom to change and wash my face.

When I finished, I found Matt still stretched out on the bed, but now his shoes were off and he’d propped himself up using my pillows. He’d also flipped on the TV.

“What are you in the mood for? Law and Order reruns? Or Law and Order SVU reruns?”

“Actually, no TV for me.” Feeling wearier than I should, I pulled the covers back on the side he wasn’t lying on. “But I’m sure your room has its very own TV, should you wish to spend your evening with Lenny.”

“Nah. I’d like to spend my evening with you.” He immediately flipped off the TV and rolled toward me, clearly missing my hint.

Matt brushed an errant hair from my forehead and I caught his hand before he could place his ice-cold fingers anywhere else.

“Holy crap! Matt, you’re like an icicle.”

“You said yourself, it’s freezing in here.” He shrugged, shivering as his gaze traveled over my face. “I think your lips are a little blue.”

“Get under the covers if you’re cold,” I said . . . like an idiot.

And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I thought to myself, Self, what the hell is wrong with you?

Matt didn’t need to be told twice, to my infinite vexation, and was under the covers before I’d finished chastising myself.

“Here, turn around. I will spoon you so I can steal your body heat.”

I twisted away, sighing loudly and bringing my knees to my chest, deciding that facing away from his handsome face was better than being forced to look at it.

He pressed his front to my back but didn’t place his hands on me, a jolt of whoremones—YES, I SAID WHOREMONES—sending a thrill up my spine, making my toes curl.

This was the worst.

I was lying in bed, under the covers, with a mountain of unrequited feelings posing as a man. My heart strummed an aching beat, each contraction a painful this can never happen, you did this to yourself, this can never happen, you did this to yourself . . .

“I can’t find your legs.” He’d lowered his voice to just above a whisper, his lips close to my ear. I felt movement at the bottom half of the bed, as though he was searching for my legs with his.

“I bent them.” I gave in to a shiver caused by his hot breath falling over my neck. “I’m all curled up. Where are your hands?”

“My fingers are still too cold.”

I hesitated at that, but only for a moment, deciding that if I was in for a penny, I was in for a pound. “It’s okay. Here.” I reached behind me, grabbing the frigid fingers of one hand, and placed them on my stomach. “I’d prefer if they were warmed quickly, as I don’t want to be maimed by these mini-glaciers you call fingertips.”

“I’m not going to argue.” Matt curled his legs up and snuggled closer. “By the way, speaking of unsavory fingertips . . .”

“Yes?” I rubbed his hand between mine, focusing on warming his chilled bones, which gave me something to think about other than how nice this was. And how unhealthy this was.

Matt had become my crutch.

I’d come to that conclusion sometime after dinner and before this moment. I may not have been paying him to cuddle or dry hump me, but he’d become my crutch nevertheless. Like any crutch, I had two options: keep using the crutch, or get rid of the crutch and learn to stand on my own.

I wasn’t ready to make a decision either way. Neither option appealed to both my head and my heart.

“When is your—uh—orgasm thing?”