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The Write Off: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy (Love In 2C Book 3) Chapter 9 21%
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Chapter 9

Rilla

“She looks like an angel,” Maggie whispers.

“Angels don’t drool that much,” Betty replies.

I feel the weight of their bodies sitting on my queen bed and refuse to open my eyes, choosing instead to pull my comforter over my head and pretend they aren’t there. My head hurts and my mouth tastes ghastly. Is rotting metal a thing? That’s what I taste.

“Go away,” I moan without opening my eyes. “Let me die in peace.”

“You have ten minutes before I’m dousing you with ice water,” Betty says softly as she plants a quick kiss on my forehead. Her cruel to be kind method of care might be what I need right now, but it’s definitely not what I want.

The mattress sighs as they stand and leave my bedroom. I don’t emerge from the covers until the murmur of their voices has faded away. Blinking at the brightness of my room, I curse myself for never getting around to hanging the curtains my mom sent me. A glass of water and a bottle of Advil sits on my bedside table. Betty must have left them for me. She’s a kind soul, despite her threats of an ice dousing.

I reach for the water, almost falling out of bed in the process. The ache in my head isn’t as bad as the taste in my mouth, but I’ve definitely felt better. My skin feels tight, almost like I’m covered in a sunburn.

I take two of the little blue capsules, washing them down with the entire glass of water. Pushing my blankets back I realize I’m still wearing the outfit I chose for my meeting with Logan.

Logan.

I force myself to get up and strip off the jumpsuit, finding the embarrassment and rage of being stood up much more difficult to swallow than the pills. I throw on a worn tank top and the same jeans I wore for most of yesterday and practically stomp down the hall to the washroom. Betty and Maggie’s laughter travels down the hallway, though I don’t know what there is to laugh about; that is, until I see myself in the mirror. My curls are frizzy, sticking out in every direction. I clearly didn’t wash my face last night and dark mascara smudges line both eyes. I look like a cartoon Disney villain, crazed and disheveled.

I laugh out loud at how frightening I look and my reflection grins back at me.

I relieve my screaming bladder while softly singing Cruella Deville to myself. Once I’m done I wash my hands and face, attempt to tame my unruly curls, and shuffle into the kitchen to join my friends. If I can still call them that after they woke me up and dragged me out of bed with threats.

“She lives!” Maggie sits, legs crossed, at my kitchen table. If I’m the villain, she’s the princess. Her flawless brown skin glows in the bright sunlight. She cradles a large white coffee cup in her hands lovingly like it’s a baby hedgehog. Her dark curls aren’t tangled and mussed, but perfectly framing her oval shaped face. Her cream colored knit sweater and jeans combination make her look casual and classy at the same time. She’s so beautiful that if I didn’t love her so much, I’d probably hate her. She beams at me, making it impossible to be angry with her.

“That depends on your definition of living,” I say, sinking into a chair next to her. I glance at Betty and she gives me a sympathetic smile as she pours a cup of coffee at the counter, her long brown hair pulled up in a sleek high pony-tail. She’s dressed in running gear that hugs her small, curvy frame. The thought of running on a day I’m not hungover doesn’t appeal to me; today, it’s downright nauseating.

“Rough night?” She asks gently as she offers me the cup. I accept it, gratefully, enjoying the warmth that immediately spreads to my hands.

“What makes you say that?”

“Aside from the fact that we’re dragging you out of bed at noon?” Maggie pulls out her phone and appears to start scrolling. Once she’s found what she’s looking for, she slides it across the table to me to read. It’s open on our group text chain.

10:47 Rilla: He didn’t show up

10:49 Rilla:He said he would be here and he didn’t show up.

10:51 Rilla:I’m going to call Bryce and demand a new editor

10:52 Rilla:Scratch that. I don’t need an editor.

10:53 Rilla:I need people to be outraged with me

10:56 Rilla:Are you guys hanging out without me?

I wince at the last text, embarrassed by how vulnerable I come off. My secret fear that my friends are off doing couples things without me makes me feel pathetic. While I don’t remember sending any of those messages, I do remember most of the evening.

I sigh, attempting to run my fingers through my rat’s nest of curls as I glance around my spotless apartment. I can’t believe I actually cleaned up for that douchebag.

“Fine,” I admit while taking a sip of the coffee. It’s still too hot, but I drink it anyway, hoping it will burn the taste out of my mouth. “You could say it was a rough night.” I give them a brief synopsis of the evening.

I remember glancing at the clock at five-forty-five. Logan was due to arrive at six-thirty and I half expected him to be early. I had spent the afternoon tidying my apartment and getting ready for our meeting. I’d even run out to get snacks and a bottle of wine. I don’t entertain often, but food and alcohol are important, right?

Not that I was going to entertain him. He was coming over to help me. To help the book. But just in case we got hungry while we worked, I’d be prepared.

The apartment was immaculately cleaned and organized. I even changed out of my torn jeans and tank top for a stylish black jumpsuit I sometimes wore out that looks professional but feels like pajamas. Who’s a mess now, Logan?

When six o’clock arrived, I decided to open the wine in case it needed to breathe. Red wine needs to breathe, right? I poured myself a small glass to make sure it wasn’t awful. I didn’t want to serve bad wine to a colleague. I sipped on the wine for something to do while I waited for him to show up. Our upcoming meeting with Bryce has me feeling uncharacteristically stressed and I wanted to take the edge off.

I finished the first glass at six-thirty. When he still hadn’t arrived by seven, I poured myself another. I was quite excited to rib him about being late and had prepared a lecture about tardiness and professionalism. But by seven-thirty, he still hadn’t arrived.

Eight. Eight-thirty. Nine. No texts. No calls. No Logan.

By ten o’clock the wine was gone and I was equal parts drunk and furious.

“I can’t believe he never texted or called. That’s so unprofessional.” Maggie fumes across the table.

“Thank you! It is unprofessional. He’s an unprofessional monster.”

Except I know that he’s not. Logan has been a textbook example of professionalism since I met him. The man signs his texts with “Best, Logan” for Christ’s sake. Agreeing to a meeting and then not showing up is completely out of character for him.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Betty asks from where she’s leaning against the counter. “I mean, what if he was in an accident or got sick?” If there is a worst-case scenario, Betty will come up with it. But she’s not wrong. He could have missed the meeting for a legitimate reason. In fact, knowing Logan, that’s the only thing that makes sense right now.

I push down the uneasiness in my stomach that the thought of Logan being hurt causes and leave my friends to track down my phone. I find it on the living room coffee table, where I must have left it last night. There is a new voicemail notification waiting for me and I press play. The robotic voice tells me the message was left at exactly nine o’clock this morning.

“Good morning, Rilla.”

His low voice is pure dopamine to my ears. I’m so relieved that he’s okay, I almost forget why I was so angry with him in the first place. Almost.

“I want to apologize for missing our meeting last night without notice. A family emergency arose and I was unable to attend. I had drafted a text message to you, explaining the situation, but it did not send due to an error on my part.”

I stifle a laugh as I listen to him, picturing how horrified he must be that he screwed up. I would give anything to see his expression when he realized what happened.

“I would still very much like to meet with you, as soon as possible, to work on your manuscript. Please reach out to me to reschedule at your earliest convenience. Again, I’m….I’m so sorry, Rilla. Best.”

His normal, unaffected tone falters at the end and I hear genuine regret in his voice. He’s probably been beating himself up all morning, distraught that he’s upset me.

He cares. And I like that he cares.

I wander back into the kitchen, phone in hand, wondering whether to call him back or text him. When I look up from the screen, I find my guests staring at me with matching looks of intrigue.

“What?”

“You’re smiling,” Betty states simply.

“And blushing.” Maggie adds.

I feel my face fall and my hands fly to my cheeks. They do feel a bit warm. Am I blushing? “It’s the hangover,” I argue.

“She’s also defensive,” Maggie says to Betty, crossing her arms across her chest and smirking. “Are defensiveness and blushing side effects of hangovers?”

“Not that I’m aware,” she replies. “Can I assume from the change in your demeanor that Logan is okay and that you’ve kissed and made up?”

“Too far, St. Claire.” I scowl to hide the heat on my face. A picture forms in my mind of Logan’s broad form towering over me. He pins my hips against his desk as he inches towards me, slowly. Just before his mouth touches mine he says my name, like a prayer whispered in the dark.

“Rilla.”

I’m back in my kitchen, my friends looking at me expectantly. It was Betty who’d said my name, although I’m not sure how long she’s been trying to get my attention. Instead of admitting I wasn’t paying attention, I chose one of the sharpest tools from my arsenal: Deflection.

“Why are you two here? Have you finally decided to leave your men and move back in? I mean it, come on. We could be The Three Amigos. The Three Musketeers. The Golden Girls, but with better bone density.”

Maggie laughs. “Since you mention it–”

A knock at the door cuts her off.

“That must be your golden boys now,” I say, padding with bare feet across the hardwood floors to welcome my brother and Callum. Reaching the door, I pull it open with a flourish asking, “Since when do you knock?”

Dark amber eyes meet mine, surprise flashing in them. “Given the nature of our relationship, I assumed it was the appropriate thing to do,” Logan replies.

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