Nine
Mia
The cursor blinks on a blank page. Forty-five minutes since I awkwardly segued us back into normalcy—three flips of the hourglass—and
my replies to Gavin’s emails are the sum total of my word count for the day.
I haven’t managed to write a single word since our attempt at role-playing. Seeing that side of Gavin gave me the irresistible
urge to explore, like a book left open on a table. He’s terrible at bluffing—when we play cards with Joe and Sera, I always
know when he has a bad hand—and I didn’t expect him to be so good at pretending to flirt. Except it didn’t feel like pretend.
It felt effortless. Real. Which is why I never should’ve agreed to blur the lines with him.
Nearly ten years of friendship and he was able to fake flirt his way under my skin in less than ten minutes. In my defense,
he’s heard me moan about countless bad first dates and helped me cope with all my breakups. He’s like an inside agent, using
my deepest desires against me, or in this case, for me. Because what he was saying really worked for me.
Surprising, since office romance didn’t work out too well when I tried it in real life.
After breaking up with Ted, I had a couple years of false starts.
Disappointing first dates and short relationships where things didn’t click.
I was working at a small accounting firm and hit it off with a coworker.
After a tax season of long hours and late-night fast-food runs, we mutually agreed to take things further.
About a month into dating him, I mentioned maybe it was time to bring up our relationship at work and stop pretending we were just friends.
His response? Aren’t we? Things at the office were a lot less fun after that.
It was years ago, and I’d forgotten all about stolen watercooler glances until Gavin started talking about how he’d act if
he were interested in me. And for a long, forbidden moment, I’d wished it was our friendship that had slipped into something
more, instead of the other men who’d left me unsatisfied.
We came close, once before. A guy I’d gone out with a few times got us tickets to a musical I’d been dying to see, then ghosted
me a week before the show. Gavin surprised me with great seats to make up for it. At intermission we saw the jerk I’d been
dating, holding hands with another woman. Gavin had looped an arm around my shoulders as the lights dimmed and made a joke
about a rebound being the best way to get over someone. As your friend , he said, low into my ear as the orchestra swelled, I’d be willing to fill that role.
But we agreed to always be the reason the other smiled, and no one smiles after their heart is broken. I’d never break your heart , he’d said, and I’d answered, I know . But then reminded him if we fell in love, things wouldn’t be so simple.
Yet in my attempt to avoid the complications of fake dating, I’ve landed us in a situation that’s the farthest thing from
uncomplicated. I can’t help stealing glances at him, as if a few words could shift him from my lovable best friend into...
what? A boyfriend? That would be a step backward, based on my own experience.
He’s frowning slightly at the screen, lips pursed.
.. and why am I looking at his mouth? I yank my gaze away and open the file containing Victor’s character journal.
The truth is, writing those tongue-in-cheek responses to Gavin’s chair complaints was the most fun I’ve had at my desk in months.
Acting out workplace romance brought the third book in the series to mind, a romance between Sydney’s friend, an editor, and a publicist he works with.
I reenvision a pivotal scene in that novel from Victor’s perspective.
I already know him inside and out. He and Sydney have been secondary characters for the entire series. Best friends, ready
to step in with one-liners and last-minute rides to the airport. They’re woven into the heart of the books, the thread that
connects everyone’s stories.
Their bond is unbreakable, and some readers argue it’s the strongest relationship of all. But it’s not love. Or at least not
the romantic kind. Not yet.
Authors are warned never to write ourselves into our characters. To keep a healthy distance. But I couldn’t help pouring myself
into these two. Gave them soft hearts easily bruised, and an unshakable trust in each other. Told myself it was fine because
I’d never have to delve into what was keeping them from a happy-ever-after.
That’s why, when the producers approached me about a fourth book, my knee-jerk reaction was to say no. But the more I thought
about it, the more I wanted that for them. I love the idea of the cheerleaders, the goofballs, the friends always ready with
quiet support or vocal encouragement, getting dragged onto center stage to discover what’s keeping them apart isn’t worth
holding on to.
But because I went and made these characters so much like me, that’s pretty impossible.
My own parents’ love story didn’t even last until the birth of their second child.
Them not being together wasn’t a tragedy so much as a fact I saw echoed in countless other lives—sometimes love works out, and a lot of times it fails miserably.
I believe happy endings exist in real life, but they’re not guaranteed. I like knowing the end before I begin. I even flip
to the last page of love triangle romance novels to make sure I don’t root for the wrong person. I want to give readers that
same certainty with Sydney and Victor, but first I need to convince myself.
Seeing the scene from his friends’ love story play out through Victor’s eyes, I realize his focus isn’t on the drama unfolding,
but on Sydney. Writing this into my manuscript would be a flashback, filling in the gaps of why he’s ready for something more.
Mind outpacing my typing, I enter that blissful place where I’m swept away in writing, and when I look up, the late-afternoon
sun is filtering through the branches outside the window, my back aches, and Gavin is gone.
I pull my phone out of the desk drawer and see a text.
Gavin: Are there mandated breaks in this workplace? Getting coffee. Don’t tell those nightmare HR people.
Smiling, I text a thumbs-up and ask if he can grab me a bagel or something from the pastry case, then open the internet browser.
I’ve just typed “cost to rent out a theater” for a possible grand gesture into the search bar when Gavin walks in with an
iced coffee and a quiche. “What’re you working on?”
“Research.” For once it’s true and not a pointless rabbit hole I’ve gone down to avoid writing. “You got here fast.”
He leans against the desk. “I was already almost back when you texted. You were lost in your work, huh?” He motions to the
website. “Makes sense.”
I give him a little shove. Regret it the instant my fingers connect with his thigh, his muscles hard beneath the thin fabric
of his shorts. “I was writing, actually. I didn’t even hear you go.”
“Didn’t want to interrupt but I texted the heads-up since I know you keep your phone on silent.
Wouldn’t want you accusing me of clocking out early without notifying management.
” His grin is infectious, with no sign of the earlier intensity, and I should be happy we’re back to normal. Am happy. Of course I am.
“They’ve been breathing down my neck.” With a surreptitious glance over my shoulder, I drop my voice into a stage whisper.
“Something about visiting NSFW sites while logged into the company Wi-Fi.”
He shakes his head. “Overlords.” He takes a glug of my coffee, and I commandeer it before he drinks it all.
“Did you finish up your designs?”
“Got to a good stopping point, and I couldn’t do another minute in that sorry excuse for a chair. Let me try yours.”
“It’s the same model.” I’ve tried out a lot of desk chairs over the years and finally settled on a gaming chair. Between that
and my ergonomic keyboard and vertical mouse, I’m able to battle the joint pain brought on by long hours of typing.
He makes a shooing motion, and I give in. It’d be good to stretch my legs anyway. But he yelps when he plops down, back arching
like he’s been stung. “Shit, this one feels even worse somehow. No wonder you haven’t been getting anything done.”
“It’s not the chair, it’s the story.”
“Fifty-fifty.” He uses my mouse to open a new tab in the browser window.
“Dig into a writer’s search history and the results are on you.”
“Don’t tease me with a good time.”
This man. I hold back a smile, barely. “Why are you so nosy?”
“Says the woman who eavesdrops on conversations and uses them as inspiration.”
“That happened once.” The corner of his mouth hitches, and I cave in a heartbeat. “Twice, whatever.”
“Not that you need to borrow from real life.” He lifts the candle on my desk to his nose and breathes in, chest rising. “You’re always coming up with new plots.”
Imagination has never been my problem. “It’s not the lack of ideas that’s tripping me up, it’s the heart of the story.” I
bite into the quiche and my stomach rumbles in response. Didn’t even realize I was hungry until now. “I don’t know why I can’t
convince myself these characters would take the leap into something more.”
No push seems strong enough to overcome the risk of losing their friendship. That’s why faking it is so appealing. They can
end the scene they’re acting out and go back to the same low-stakes friendship.
Instead of answering, Gavin types leap into the search bar, as if that will help.
“Problem solved,” I say, sarcasm less effective with a mouthful of buttery crust.
Ignoring me, he clicks on a video of bungee jumping. “What about this? We take a literal leap to inspire your characters’
metaphorical one?”
I don’t bother to answer. I don’t mind heights; I do mind trusting my life to a glorified rubber band.
He swings toward me, his legs brushing mine through my linen pants. A meaningless touch I normally wouldn’t notice. But all
this talk of sparks and chemistry has me wanting him to do it again, deliberately this time. To see if his touch would have
the same effect as his words.
But he’s chattering away like nothing’s changed. “...The thrill pushes them to live life without regrets.”
“Bungee jumping would be the regret. If I lived that long.”
He grins, a flash of white teeth. “You’re not making this easy on me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you were writing the book.” The words come out snippy, though it’s myself I’m frustrated with, and his smile dims.
“Sorry. I’m not doing this right—”
Does he really think he’s the problem? “Gavin, it’s got nothing to do with you. I’m supposed to be taking a break from writing,
but I came up with a work-around just to try to hit my word count. You gave up your day off for this, and I know you’d rather
be fiddling around in the garden than pretending to flirt with me.”
“I signed up to flirt with you. That’s been the highlight of my day.”
I thought we’d dropped the pretense of role-playing. Was that Gavin talking, or the smitten coworker he was pretending to
be?
“Also, what I do in my yard isn’t fiddling. One wrong snip with the pruning shears and...” He draws a finger across his
throat.
“A perfectly good rosebud loses its life?”
“Number one cause of accidental death among roses. Reckless pruning is no joke.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Unlike your
complete disregard for workplace ethics.”
“Those emails were the most productive part of my day.” Even though I did some good character work, I need to be checking
off scenes by now. “You were right. I need to get away from this book, mentally and physically.”
He not-at-all-subtly inclines his head toward the screen, where the bungee jumping video is paused.
“Technically speaking, that would work,” I admit. “But less peril, please.”
His eyes light up. Swiveling back to the desk, he navigates to an ominous-looking website.
I squint at the header. “An escape room?”
“Faye’s been asking me to schedule an escape room for team building, but I’ve never tried one.
It would be good to experience it before I take the group there.
” The owners of the garden center place a high priority on a quality work environment, and this wouldn’t be the first team-building event Gavin’s led.
“No time to stress over the plot if you’re working to beat the clock, right? ”
I highly doubt figuring out puzzles will be enough to free up my creativity, but the whole point is to get out of my routine.
I can’t keep staring at my laptop, willing words to appear. “An escape room it is.”
Forced proximity always was a favorite trope of mine. Maybe spending an afternoon locked up with Gavin will shift my focus
enough to get clarity. Either way, we’re keeping this experiment between us and there will be no need to flirt. All that’s
required for this trope test is two people stuck together. What could be simpler?