Chapter 8
Scarlett
Seven Years Ago
“All hail Queen Scarlett!” my three best friends exclaim in unison before we all toss back a shot of some kind of cheap liquor. I hiss through my teeth as it burns all the way down and then lingers.
“Pretty sure that took a layer off my esophagus.” I grimace.
Ava slams her shot glass down on the bar and pats me on the back. “We need to toughen you up.” She catches the bartender’s eye. “Another round!”
“No!” I hold my hands out in protest. I’m still barely able to talk over the burning. “I can’t be hungover tomorrow. I have to write.”
“You don’t have to do anything tomorrow, Miss I-Signed-a-Two-Book-Deal,” Katherine says.
“They’re eventually going to need that second book,” I remind them.
“Yeah, eventually . You signed the deal. The check cleared. And only a week after graduation, too. You don’t even have to try to find some shitty coffee-shop job like the rest of us,” Mandy adds. “Take one night to have fun with your friends. We’re celebrating you!”
Mandy, Ava, Katherine, and I graduated from our various graduate programs a few weeks ago and decided to make the move to Chicago to pursue our careers. New York would’ve been closer to the heart of the publishing industry for me, but the great thing about writing is you can really do it from anywhere. Not to mention that Chicago has three things New York doesn’t, and I’m currently watching them all do another round of shots.
I don’t touch mine, but they don’t seem to notice or care. They were so excited for my deal with John Monroe Press—a local publisher, no less—that they insisted we go out to celebrate. They did this when I landed my agent, too, who is also with a local agency. It’s weird how everything fell into place for me, and they’re so happy. Even though Mandy graduated from the same program I did and is currently querying agents for her first romance novel, none of them seem jealous. We’re all filled with a youthful exuberance that even I—a youthful exuberant myself—can see. So, I didn’t have the heart to tell them no either time, though this is so not my scene. I love them, and they’re proud of me. I’m happy to be out with them, even if the music is loud and I have to get some coherent words on the page tomorrow if I’m going to make my deadline.
“Oh, I love this song.” Katherine closes her eyes and sways to the beat of the music. “Let’s dance, bitches!”
Mandy and Ava whoop loudly, drawing the attention of a few other people sitting at the bar. They head out to the dance floor while Katherine tugs at my arms to get me to follow.
“I’m going to get a beer,” I tell her. “Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
“Okay!” she shouts over the music.
Once she’s out of sight, I lean my forearms against the bar with no intention of leaving this spot. Bars are not my favorite places, but I will tolerate them on occasion. I absolutely will not dance.
This bar isn’t particularly busy for a Friday night, at least not yet. There’s some kind of sports game happening on all three of the flat-screen televisions hanging around the place. By the way some of the people sitting here are cheering and groaning at regular intervals, it seems important.
The DJ is stationed around the corner from the bar and out of my line of sight, giving some separation from the sports while still being heard over the noises of the crowd. He plays another song that makes the crowd gathered in front of him squeal. If I had to guess, I won’t see my friends again for a while. I groan internally. Leaving would mean going into the crowd of dancing twentysomethings to find them, which would lead to them dragging me onto the dance floor. Better to stay here and wait it out, I suppose.
I wave down the bartender and order that beer, if only to have something to do with my hands. When a seat opens up on the other side of the bar, I grab the just-delivered glass and make a break for it. But when I try to slide triumphantly into the chair, I’m met with something solid. This obstacle knocks the hand carrying my beer, and almost the entire contents slosh out over the side. I jump back enough that most of it lands on my shoes, but some of it splashes onto my blue shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” I curse, loud enough to be heard over the music.
“She’s not,” the obstacle responds. When I look up from studying the wet stain welling up over my torso, I’m met with a man who would probably be tall if he weren’t currently occupying my seat. Everything about him is practically monochromatic. Dark. I think he’s trying to look brooding, but it’s kind of missed the mark. He’s dressed in a black Henley with the sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows and dark jeans. His brown hair is long-ish on the top, and I can tell it would be shaggy if not gelled into submission. Brown eyes peer out behind his dark-rimmed glasses. And an infuriating smirk plays on his full lips. He’s the kind of academic-looking guy I would have swooned over in undergrad until I realized he was only interested in literature and himself, meaning I was only as good to him as how well I supported his pursuits.
In short, he looks like every other self-absorbed asshole I spent two years avoiding in my creative writing graduate program.
“What?” I switch my glass to my dry hand and shake the wet one to rid it of some of the beer. The man in my seat flinches as a few droplets hit his face. I don’t feel bad about that in the least.
“You said, ‘Son of a bitch.’ The implication there is that my mother is a bitch. I said she’s not,” he explains.
“Oh, good,” I mutter to myself and wipe my hand on my jeans. “He’s probably self-absorbed, definitely an asshole, and he’s pedantic, too.”
He smiles widely. “If you really want to hear something pedantic, I’d say you don’t need the words and and too in that sentence. It’s redundant. Good word, though— pedantic .”
I pinch my brows together as my jaw drops. Is this guy serious? “Don’t patronize me,” I tell him.
Tilting his head to the side, he returns my confused look. “I’m not. It’s a good word. Not one you expect to hear”—he looks around—“here.”
A harsh laugh escapes me, which causes him to wince again. I shake my head incredulously. “An elitist, too!” I exclaim. Never mind the fact that I was internally bemoaning having to be here not two minutes ago. “What does here have to do with someone’s vocabulary? And speaking of vocabulary, is sorry in yours? Because I haven’t heard that here , either.”
He regards me for a moment as the beat of the music intensifies, mimicking the angry pulse I can feel throbbing at my temple. His whole face infuriates me as it alternates between a frown and another smirk.
“You’re right,” he finally says, but it does nothing to ease my anger. “I shouldn’t assume someone with a decent vocabulary doesn’t enjoy a drink and some sports on a Friday night. I’d point out that I’m here, after all, and my vocabulary is at least good enough to recognize yours, but that would probably just be more evidence for you that I’m— How did you put it? Self-absorbed?” There’s that maddening smirk again. “As for sorry …” He trails off and rakes his gaze over me as if seeing me for the first time. I try to ignore the way my skin reacts to his obvious appreciation of my body. When he’s had his fill, his eyes meet mine again. “What exactly is it that I’d be sorry for?”
I wave a hand at his ass in the chair. “You took my seat.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks a few times in surprise. “I truly didn’t realize you had been sitting here.” He immediately stands and turns the chair so the seat faces me. “My friends are dancing, I guess? I saw an open seat and thought it best to wait them out.” Those brown eyes flick in the direction of the dance floor, then back to meet mine again. This man makes excellent eye contact; I’ll give him that.
He’s smiling genuinely now, and it changes his whole face. The skin at the corners of his mouth crinkle into almost dimples, and his eyes practically glitter in the dim light of the bar. I realize suddenly that he hasn’t taken those eyes off me for more than a second since he bumped into me, and I’m not exactly sure how I feel about it.
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “Sitting here, I mean. You and I had the same idea, it seems.”
His shoulders shake on a small laugh, which makes me smile, too. “Ah,” he says. His mouth twists to the side as if he’s considering his next words carefully. “Well, I’ll say I’m sorry your beer spilled, but I can’t say I’m sorry I bumped into you.”
I cock an eyebrow, the anger returning in a wave. “Why not?”
“Selfishly, I’m having fun talking to you.” He dips his chin in the direction of my half-full glass. “Have a seat. Can I buy you another to make up for it?”
It’s my turn to move my gaze over him. Now that he’s standing—and now that my anger has simmered a bit, I can see that he is, indeed, tall. Almost a head taller than me. He’s thin but not lanky, and he fills out the Henley nicely. The glasses suit his face, but I find myself wondering what he might look like without them. If he always wears them, or if he wears contacts sometimes. As he waits for my response, he tilts his torso forward slightly, but his grin doesn’t falter.
He knows I’m ogling. That much is sure from the look on his face.
“Sure,” I say as I slide into the seat. “It’s only fair, I suppose.”
“What are you drinking?” he asks as he leans closer to the bar. The movement causes his chest to brush against my shoulder, and the scent of him overpowers the smell of wheaty beer wafting up from my shirt. It’s sweet—vanilla and almond. Like paper.
I idly twist my glass on top of the bar. “312.”
“A Chicago staple,” he responds approvingly. “You’re from here?”
“Midwestern.” I shrug.
He rolls his lips between his teeth and narrows his eyes at me. The proximity of his body is making my own tingle. If I had to guess based on the fact that he hasn’t moved away, he’s feeling the same.
“You’re going to make me work for information about you, aren’t you?” he asks after the bartender takes our orders. “That’s fine. I like a challenge.”
The way he leans in and his voice drops an octave has my toes curling. I hadn’t intended to make him work for anything, but now I can’t think of a single thing I want more than to drag this out as long as possible.
“Take a guess,” I tease as the bartender deposits our drinks. “I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“Hmm,” he hums as he sips his beer. He makes a big show of studying me again, as if he hasn’t been doing so this whole time. “Okay. You like words. You’re out with friends, but if we’re both avoiding the dance floor, this probably isn’t your first choice for a Friday-night activity. Being Midwestern is interesting but probably not relevant. You’re drinking beer and not something fruity, and your apparel would suggest you don’t put much stock into your appearance—”
“Hey!” I interject.
He holds his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says through a deep chuckle, the sound of it warming me straight through to my core. “I meant you’re not all dolled up. It’s not a value statement. There’s nothing wrong with that.” His gaze dips, then he drags it back up to meet mine. “Some people might prefer it.”
That shot earlier must be making me bold, because I respond, “Some people? Or one in particular?”
He tips his head back and lets out a loud, joyful laugh. It exposes his throat to me, and I take the opportunity to watch as it moves, the strong column of it long and rough with a five o’clock shadow.
“Quick witted, too.” He wraps his long fingers around his glass where it sits on the bar top. A gold ring on his middle finger glints in the light and clinks against the glass as he taps it in thought. “Are you in journalism? Publishing?”
“Close.” I dip my chin and take another sip of my beer. “I’m a writer. Based on your guess, though, I’m going to assume you’re in journalism or publishing?”
“Editor,” he says. “Would I have read anything of yours?”
“Probably not. I just signed my first deal. That’s why my friends dragged me out tonight. We’re celebrating.” Another squeal comes from the area of the dance floor. “Well, they are.”
“Congratulations on the deal,” he says. “What house are you with?”
I can’t help the way my back straightens with pride. Getting a deal with a major publisher is significant, especially as a debut. “JMP,” I tell him.
He huffs a laugh as he shakes his head. Having expected him to recognize how awesome that announcement was, I frown and my shoulders deflate a little.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s where I work.”
“Oh!” I perk up again. “Really? What are the odds?”
“One in a million, probably. What’s your name?”
“Scarlett Frye. What’s yours?”
He coughs on his beer, pounding his chest to dislodge the liquid. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“Holy shit. You’re…” He trails off and stares at me with a slack jaw. “Everyone at JMP is talking about you. They’ve got all hands on deck for your book. You had senior editors fighting over who was going to get to work with you.”
This isn’t exactly news to me, of course. Trina had kept me updated about the whole process before I signed. I had multiple offers, and part of the reason I went with JMP was because of how badly they wanted my book. It felt like the right choice to go with a house that acted as excited about it as I am.
But watching this man regard me with obvious awe in the middle of a loud, crowded bar really drives the point home. If JMP has anything to do with it, this book is going to be huge.
It also probably means that my book is now more interesting to him than I am.
“Yeah.” I avert my eyes, suddenly self-conscious and more than a little disappointed.
“Whoa.” He moves sideways so he’s in my line of sight, drawing my gaze back to him. “That was a shift. Are you not thrilled?”
“I am,” I reply cautiously. “This is just going to change a lot of things for me is all.”
He nods as if he understands, then offers his hand to me. “I’m Ryan Whitlock. Pleasure to meet you, Scarlett.”
The edge of his ring scrapes against my palm as I shake his hand. He brings his other up to clasp mine between his, and he holds on slightly longer than is appropriate for a simple handshake. I don’t dare move as the warmth of his hands seep into my own.
The intensity in his eyes coupled with his hands on mine as he leans further into my space dispels any concerns I just had about how interesting I may or may not be to him.
But, of course, my friends choose this moment to come back from the dance floor. Loudly. They surround me, seemingly oblivious to Ryan standing there as they sidle up to the bar.
“Scarlett!” Katherine draws out my name almost comically as she throws an arm around my shoulders. “Time to move on to our next stop!”
I laugh as she shakes me back and forth. “What are you talking about?”
“We planned a whole bar crawl,” Mandy says. “The next place is the one we did body shots at the last time we were out, remember?”
“ You did body shots,” I correct her. Knowing Ryan can hear me, it seems an important distinction to make. “I did no such thing.”
“Because you’re boring.” Ava tilts her whole body back dramatically as she drags the word from her throat.
I can’t really argue with that, so I catch Ryan’s eye and shrug. He chuckles.
Mandy finally notices him, then winks knowingly at me. “Okay, ladies. After all that dancing, I could use some air. Let’s wait for Scarlett outside.” She rounds up the other two, and they make their way to the door.
I give Ryan an apologetic look.
“It’s okay,” he says, sliding a folded napkin across the bar top. “I need to find my friends anyway. But I really would like to see you again.”
I unfold the napkin to see his name and number scrawled on it in ink. I laugh loudly. “This is so old school.”
He clicks a pen and puts it in his back pocket. “A good editor always has a pen,” he says, then indicates the napkin. “I hope you call me.”
Pursing my lips against the smile forming is futile, but I try anyway. “I will,” I promise. Then, I make my way outside to rejoin my friends.