Fauxmance (Showmance #2)(60)

Something in her eyes softened, and reluctantly, she nodded. “Okay.”

I took her hand and led her back inside. When we reached the flat, it appeared Rose and Damon had retreated into the spare bedroom. I grabbed some towels from the airing cupboard and brought Ellen into my room. I stripped her out of her coat and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Her hair hung in ringlets around her face and a small tremble went through her.

“You’re freezing, come here.” I pulled off my shirt and wrapped my arms around her, rubbing up and down to try to warm her up. She dropped her head onto my shoulder.

“I’m so tired.”

“We didn’t get much sleep last night.”

After she woke up and found me enjoying a rare cigarette by the window, we’d talked for hours. She told me stories from her childhood, about her dad and her two brothers. I’d told her tales of Rose and I, battling against the odds to survive, two homeless teenagers in the wilds of London.

“I’m sorry if I acted like a weirdo in front of your friends.”

“It’s a good thing I adore weirdos.”

She laughed softly and snuggled closer. “It’s just that everyone seems to be reading those books and…” she trailed off. I had a hunch where this was going.

“It’s okay, Ellen. I already know.”

She pulled away a little, brow furrowing as she peered at me. “You do?”

“Rose talks about Sasha Orlando all the time. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

She stood, the towel falling away, wet hair hanging over her shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

I stood, too, and took both her hands in mine. “Ellen, I put two and two together a while ago.”

Her head moved slowly from side to side, disbelieving. “But how?”

“When we went to the wedding with David, you told everyone that story about the fireman, and I realised you’d stolen it from one of those books. Rose had recounted it for me just a few nights previous. Like I said, she talks about that series all the time.”

Her face showed consternation. She let go of my hands and turned around, staring at my bedroom walls when she said, “You think I’ve been stealing the stories.”

“Ellen, it’s okay. I’m not judging you.”

She turned around, her expression fierce. “Julian, I never stole anything. Those stories are mine.”

“They’re from the books—”

“No,” she interrupted. “You still don’t get it. The stories are mine because I wrote them. I’m the author of the Sasha Orlando series.”





Chapter Seventeen





Ellen





Julian gaped at me. I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d seen him truly shocked.

My own books seemed to be haunting me everywhere I went these days and I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. When he thought I was stealing the stories for Elodie’s anecdotes, I had to tell him the truth. They were my books. I’d written them. And I was damn proud of what I’d created.

“You wrote those books?” Julian questioned. “Seriously?” He didn’t sound disbelieving, but it definitely knocked him a little.

“Yes,” I said, sheepish. “And I didn’t inherit my house from my grandmother either.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped back down onto his bed. “No, I don’t imagine you did.”

He stared at the wall for a second, then brought his gaze to me. “So, all that time you spend alone in your house, you don’t just talk to Rainbow and Skittles. You write books?”

“Uh huh.”

A slow smile crept across his face. “You’re an international bestselling author.”

“Yes.”

His smile transformed into a full-on grin. “That’s incredible, Ellen.” A moment of quiet fell between us before he spoke again. “But, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

I gave a humourless laugh. “It doesn’t exactly come up a lot in conversation, not that I have many casual conversations with people.”

Julian stared at me in fascination, like all the puzzle pieces were finally falling into place for him. “You’re amazing.”

“I make stuff up for a living. I’m pretty good at it, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s amazing.”

He stood, took my face in his hands and gazed right into my eyes. “Ellen, you are the most amazing, interesting, and unexpected person I’ve ever met.”

I swallowed. “That’s…um, thanks.”

His lips curved appreciatively as he whispered, “You’re welcome,” then he took my mouth in a deep, sensual, mind-melting kiss. My knees almost went out from under me. It was a good thing he lifted me, turned us then threw me onto the bed. I heaved a shaky breath as he crawled up my body and kissed me again just as deeply.

“Wait, wait,” I breathed. “We can’t.”

He stroked my hair away from my face, his voice low and husky. “Why can’t we?”

“B-because this isn’t an arranged meeting. It’s unofficial.”

“Unofficial sex is the best kind,” he countered and planted kisses down my neck. I moaned and threw my head back, unable to help myself. We’d only spent one night together, but I was already addicted to his kisses, his touch.