“Keyword: trying. Stop that. Ignore him. When he texts you, be busy.” I fire up my computer and break off another piece of my muffin.
“But then what if he texts someone else?”
I’m pretty sure he’s already doing that, but I don’t bother remarking. “Don’t ask for the course then argue with the professor,” I advise her.
“Sorry, Dr. Harmon,” she mocks.
Glancing past my own laptop, I look at the desktop on Louise’s desk. “What are you working on over there?”
“Cover, sale graphic, picture of my wedding with Prince Harry. Look how cute we are,” she says.
“You’re a psycho.”
“Undiagnosed,” she flings back. “What do you have this morning?”
I roll my eyes. “Second chance romance. I’d rather die. You want to read it for me? Ferret out those pesky typos?”
“That’s a little harsh,” she states. “Not feeling that one?”
“It’s not the book’s fault. The book is fine. I just hate that trope with a fiery passion. Inigo Montoya’s quest for vengeance seems mild compared to how much I loathe second chance romances. I’m hoping there are emails to catch up on first.”
“You’re a real romantic, has anyone ever told you that?”
I pull a face of disgust and Louise rolls her eyes at me, turning back to her work. It’s a running joke around the office—well, my living room—that I’m the last person in the world who should be running a small press that specializes in romance. It’s essentially like the Grinch running a Christmas shop. Louise and Nadia (my other employee) are convinced I don’t have a single romantic bone in my body. I don’t mind. I like them thinking that, to be honest. To me, that says they think I’m sensible. Any reckless fool can give their heart away and be forever chasing after it.
I’m chasing different things.
My phone vibrates on the desk. I lean forward to read the text message from Henry. “That damn song is stuck in my head now.”
I crack a smile, grabbing my phone and texting back, “Hey, there are worse fates.”
A moment later he texts back, “I’m still waiting for that picture, btw.”
“I hope you’re not holding your breath,” I shoot back.
“I am. Send the picture or my death is on your hands.”
“I can’t be blackmailed, Dillinger,” I shoot back.
Blackmail.
That word jogs loose a memory. A careless, golden-haired memory, zipping up his jeans and looking back at me on the bed where I’d given up my virginity. The first
in a long line of bad decisions. The first time I should have hated with the guy I should have hated even more.
That’s the last thing I should be thinking about when I have to proofread a second chance romance. This poor book. I’m going to loathe every last word. Instead of rooting for the HEA, I’ll be advising the heroine to run like the wind.
Good thing this is a last pass. No content changes, just making sure the manuscript is clean.
That’s what I try to focus on. My mind wants to linger inside a memory, wants to skip ahead to the feeling of my naked body pressed against him in his bed, to his arm locked around my waist, his kisses still imprinted upon my lips. There’s tenderness in his blue eyes as he looks at me, tenderness that makes me ache.
No, if I want to remember that bullshit, I need to skip further ahead. I need to think of the agony I felt, all alone inside our relationship, begging him to tell me what was wrong while he shut down. While he lied to me and kept secrets. While he ruined both our lives and any chance we had at happiness with one another.
Ugh. Now I have to try to read this story about these two assholes falling back in love after time apart. Do not want.
I need to get started, though. I’m booked solid all week, so there’s no time to dawdle. That’s pretty much what I do every week, but this weekend I’m actually taking time off, so it’s more important than ever that I get all my work done. I won’t have time to play catch-up at all this weekend. This weekend is Alex’s wedding.
I can’t believe my father is actually getting married. That reminds me, Henry never did tell me whether or not he could get the weekend off. I probably shouldn’t have even asked him to go. We haven’t been officially together long enough that he’s required to be my date to things, and it will be a little strange if our second real date is my father’s wedding, anyway.