Eleanor & Sam: A Contemporary Women's Fiction Novel by Rachel Del Grosso

Author:Rachel Del Grosso [Grosso, Rachel Del]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Love N. Books Press
Published: 2025-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

WEDNESDAY / THURSDAY

TWENTY-ONE

SAM

The room is still and quiet when I wake up, the soft morning light filtering through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. I blink, trying to piece together where I am, but then I feel the warmth of Asher’s body next to mine, and a smile tugs at my lips.

I turn my head slowly, not wanting to wake him just yet. His face is relaxed in sleep, a peaceful expression I rarely see when he’s awake. Usually, his brow is furrowed in thought or concentration, his lips pursed. He’s so rarely not working. Even when he’s not writing, his thoughts are on his work. I can’t help but study him, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the slight stubble on his jaw. It feels intimate, like I’m seeing a side of him he doesn’t show to the world. This version of him is just for me.

I never imagined I’d ever be here again. In many ways, it doesn’t feel real.

My body aches pleasantly, a warm and comforting reminder of the night before. I bite down on my lower lip, my cheeks warming at the thought. Carefully, I slip out of bed, trying not to disturb Asher. The floor is cool beneath my feet as I make my way to the kitchen. His condo is simple but cozy—a brown leather couch and TV, books scattered on the coffee table, a guitar propped up in the corner that I know he hasn’t touched in years.

I find the coffee maker and start a pot, the familiar routine grounding me. As the aroma fills the kitchen, I lean against the counter, taking a moment to savor the quiet.

A few minutes later, I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. I turn to see Asher standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He smiles when he sees me, and my heart does a little flip.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Morning. I hope you don’t mind I made coffee.”

He shakes his head, stepping closer. “Not at all. It’s perfect.”

We stand there for a moment, sipping our coffee in comfortable silence. It’s a simple scene, but it feels significant.

Asher reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” I whisper, leaning into his touch.

As I drink my coffee I walk around, taking in the apartment. I scan the titles on his bookshelf, something I’ve done many times before. There are some new additions: The Winner by Teddy Wayne, The God Of The Woods by Liz Moore, and Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s Long Island Compromise, which I pull off the shelf, intending to read immediately. There’s an advance copy of Rumaan Alam’s Entitlement, a hardcover copy of Miranda July’s All Fours that surprises me.

I point it out. “Have you read this?”

He nods.

“I can’t picture it.”

I clear my throat and say, “‘All of the hormones that made me want to seem approachable so I could breed are gone and replaced by hormones that are fiercely protective of my autonomy and freedom.

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