Chapter 20
Scarlett
“Do you want me to come with you?” Trina sounds distracted, even though she was the one who called me this morning before my scheduled meeting with Anastasios Martis at his office. It’s still unclear if she called to make sure I get my ass out the door or to ask—yet again—what this meeting is even about.
I switch over to speakerphone and rest my phone on the edge of my bathroom counter so I can try to do something with my hair. “It’s not like I need union representation, Trina.” My brush gets tangled up, and I curse as it pulls at my scalp. “Dammit, that fucking hurts,” I mutter.
“Are you tweezing those eyebrows finally?”
“What? No, I’m combing my hair.” I squint at myself in the mirror. “Why? Do I need to tweeze my eyebrows?”
“I mean…” She trails off. I wait for her to finish her sentence, but there’s only silence.
“I like my eyebrows,” I grumble.
“Okay,” she says simply.
I roll my eyes and sigh as I pass my brush through my hair again. It’s much smoother this time. “Whatever. I’m fine. Besides, Ryan will be there.”
Trina makes an indecipherable noise that sounds like a cross between a scoff and a hum of disapproval.
“What’s your problem now?” I try to keep the defensiveness out of my tone, but I can’t help it. It’s been over a week since Ryan spent the night here, and even though it was a completely innocent evening, I haven’t mentioned anything to Trina about it. Somehow, it feels private. Like a secret. Something I want to keep close to my heart.
My hair is finally untangled enough to braid it, so I start crossing strands over each other while simultaneously scanning my messy counter for a hair tie.
“I don’t know, Scarlett,” she says on a sigh. “Things didn’t exactly end well for you two. And now all of a sudden, he’s in your life again, editing your book, no less. Dropping off notes at your apartment unannounced, bringing you food—”
“How did you know he brought me food?”
“Uh…” she hedges. “Well, I told him if he must see you, he should bring food with him.” She has the good sense to sound sheepish, but her tone quickly turns agitated. “So of course now I know he saw you and he brought you food because you just admitted it. Come on, Scarlett. Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to see what’s going on here.”
My fingers pause mid-braid. “What do you mean?”
“Literally the dumbest smart person I know,” she mumbles. Before I can protest, she practically shouts, “That man never fell out of love with you.”
I wince, rubbing my ear before turning down the speakerphone volume. My braid falls apart as soon as I let go of it. I run my hand through my hair to fluff it up a little and decide, fuck it, it looks good enough as it is.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I protest, making my way to the bedroom to get dressed. Even though I had wondered the same thing as his strong fingers were working their way into my scalp while I lie naked under the bubbles in the bathtub. “I left him high and dry, remember? Ghosted isn’t even a strong enough word for what I did to that man. He’d be even dumber than you think I am to come back to me.”
Damn, I hurt my own feelings with that one. I’m glad I’m not looking in the mirror anymore, because I’m sure it’d only reflect my pained expression, which would somehow make it worse.
“Oh, honey.” Trina’s voice is soft. “Do you want him to come back to you?”
“It wouldn’t be a smart move,” I say, but even I can hear how uncommitted I am to the words.
“That’s not exactly an answer,” she counters.
It may not have been a direct answer, but that’s an answer in itself. Do I want him back? Of course I fucking do. I probably would have spent the rest of my life with him if things had turned out differently. “I think you know that it is, actually.”
“This is going to sound crazy, but maybe this is a sign. Maybe it’s time for you to start dating again. Get yourself out there.”
“You’re right.” I pause as I pull my white T-shirt over my head and knot it at my hip. “That does sound crazy.”
“Bitch, I thought you were going to agree with me to go on a date,” Trina yells.
I wince. “Please stop shouting.”
“I will stop shouting when you start listening to my advice.”
My gaze bounces to the clock on my wall as I pull on a blue skirt with little white flowers. “Oh shit. I need to go. Listen, I will be fine. I’ll call you when the meeting is over and fill you in on everything. Don’t worry about me.”
“I always worry about you,” she grumbles.
“That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” I retort. “Love you, bye!” I quickly press the red button and grab my purse and keys on my way out the door.
By the time I park my car in the lot outside the Anastasios Press building, I’ve worked myself up into an anxious mess. Even my deep-breathing exercises aren’t helping my heart calm down. Maybe I should have had Trina come with me.
I’m a writer, dammit. I’m supposed to be holed up in my house with a cup of tea, making up worlds and characters in my own little head, not having unexpected meetings with publishers who have no clear agenda.
Head down, I push my way out of my car and rush inside as fast as I can before I’m able to talk myself out of it. I’m not looking where I’m going, too distracted by my own racing thoughts, which is why I’m absolutely shocked when I run into a wall of solid muscle. I drop my purse and take a step back, my eyes wide as they trail up from a thin, navy sweater stretched over very well-defined pecs. Those biceps are testing the limits of the sleeves that barely contain them. Upward still, a strong neck and jaw covered in a dusting of golden-brown hair. Full, pink lips curved upward in an indulgent smile. Green eyes, sparkling with mischief.
“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly but unable to move. Either I haven’t gotten out in a while, or this man in front of me is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Maybe both.
He bends down to pick up my purse from where it fell on the ground. By the way he chuckles when he hands it to me, I know my mouth is gaping.
“Not a problem.” His voice is warm and smooth, like the feeling of really good whiskey sliding down your throat and settling into your belly. “You seemed distracted, Miss…”
It takes me a moment before I realize he’s asking my name. And then it takes me another moment before I remember what name I’m supposed to give him. “Fr—Falmouth,” I correct myself quickly. “S.J. Falmouth.”
He extends his hand, and I shake it. The rough callouses of his palm scrape deliciously against mine. It sends a jolt of electricity up my arm, which serves to wake me all the way up. This man is hot, and he must be in publishing in some capacity if he’s in the lobby of the press offices. How does someone who sits at a computer all day have such rough hands? It’s patently unfair. But I’m distracted from that question by the gentle rubbing of his thumb against the inside of my wrist, which would seem to suggest he likes what he’s looking at.
It’s me. He’s looking at me.
Trina’s voice nags at the back of my consciousness: Get yourself out there.
If she were here, I’d kick her and tell her to shut up.
“I’ve heard of you,” the man is saying. “You’re debuting at the end of this year?”
“Uh…” God, I wish I had rehearsed some answers to these questions. “Yes. Right.”
He chuckles good-naturedly and releases my hand. “Congratulations. I know. It’s a weird feeling to talk about your work at first. You get used to it. I’m Charles Hall. It’s nice to meet you.”
That snaps my jaw shut. Charles Hall published his first book three years ago, just about when Anastasios Press was acquired, but as far as I know, he was with a competing house. His book was a bestseller. It sold almost as many copies as my debut. Almost.
“Wow, okay,” I say, acting duly impressed. I am actually pretty excited to meet him, but I make the snap decision to lean into the persona of my pen name for a minute. S.J. Falmouth is debuting this year and would be starstruck at meeting this guy, but more importantly, she isn’t depressed, doesn’t have to worry about falling for her editor again , and didn’t leave the publishing world to have a mental breakdown five years ago.
It won’t last. Eventually, people will figure it out. But maybe, for a minute, I can pretend.
He leans forward conspiratorially and winks. “Anastasios is courting me for my next release. You never saw me here.”
“I won’t tell a soul.” I make a zipping motion over my mouth and toss away an imaginary key.
He laughs again. “Were your ears burning?”
That, actually, does surprise me. “What do you mean?”
Tipping his chin upward, he indicates what I imagine is the direction of the publisher’s office upstairs. “We were talking about you, just now. I was in a meeting with the man himself, and he mentioned your book. Must be something pretty special to have Martis talking about you in casual conversation.”
My heart skips nervously, but I maintain an unaffected air. If this meeting is any indication, Anastasios Martis isn’t nearly as interested in my book as he is in me, but I’m not about to disclose this information. That would make my game of pretend far too complicated. “Something like that.”
Charles tilts his head and studies me for a minute. His gaze trails decadently down over my body and back up to meet my eyes. A little shiver follows in its wake. “What does S.J. stand for?”
I open my mouth to respond, but just then, a door opens to my right. “Scarlett,” Ryan says as he enters the lobby. “There you are.”
“Scarlett,” Charles croons. “Beautiful name.”
As if Ryan has just noticed him there, he stops almost mid-stride. His nostrils flare slightly as his gaze bounces back and forth between the two of us, and he crosses his arms over his body, pulling his gray dress shirt tight over his shoulders. His eyes land on my companion and narrow. “I see you’ve met Charles Hall.”
As if Ryan’s sudden presence snaps me back to reality, two things occur to me at once. The first: Charles has no idea who I am, which, from the clear tough-guy image he tries to uphold with his muscles and calloused hands, makes sense. He probably surrounds himself with a bunch of writer bros and doesn’t bother keeping tabs on anyone writing books that might appeal to a different audience.
And the second: Ryan is jealous as fuck.
Looking at the two of them side by side, I can see why. Charles has Golden Boy written all over him, from the carefully trimmed blond hair and beard to his obviously curated muscular form. Even the navy sweater seems to have been selected to make his green eyes pop. He’s an image. A mirage. Too good to be true. His picture on dust jackets is what sells his books. I’d be willing to bet Charles Hall isn’t even his real name, though I don’t have a lot of room to talk there.
Ryan, though, exists in stark opposition. His hair and eyes are dark, accentuated by the black frames of his glasses. He’s tall but not as tall as Charles, and his lean frame makes him look more bookish than quarterback. The scowl on his face isn’t winning any awards for America’s Sweetheart, either.
“I was actually just going to ask S.J.—do you want me to call you S.J. or Scarlett?” Charles is saying. I’ve been too busy staring at Ryan, who is staring at Charles, to realize he’s talking to me.
“Hmm?” I blink a few times and turn my attention to him. “Oh. S.J. works.”
He studies me for a moment like he doesn’t believe me but then carries on. “Anyway, I was going to ask if you want to join me for dinner tonight.”
“Me?” I squeak just as Ryan huffs. He barely conceals an eye roll, but Charles isn’t paying any attention to him.
Charles lets out a hearty laugh, one that says he’s used to starstruck women falling all over themselves to go to dinner with him. “Yes. I thought it might be nice to chat about our books. You know, writer stuff.” He winks at me again, and I can feel the waves of irritation coming off Ryan from where I stand. “Where do you live?”
“In the South Loop,” I say before I can think better of it.
“Wonderful. I know a great tapas place there. Can I get your number so I can send you the details?”
“S.J.” Ryan’s voice oozes disdain over the letters. “We really need to head up.”
I don’t know where I get the audacity, but I check my watch. “We have ten minutes. I’m sure I can spare one to give Charles my number,” I say sweetly.
It’s not my intention to stoke whatever flame Ryan has burning right now. It’s really not. But a dinner out sounds nice. I haven’t been out to eat with someone in a really long time. The last time was probably with Ryan, actually. And while I don’t think I’m in the right headspace to date someone else, there can’t be any harm in meeting up with another writer to talk craft. When Ryan mentioned critique partners the other day, I was overwhelmingly sad about the loss of them all. It would be amazing to have another writer to talk to again.
Charles hands me his phone, and I type in my number. When I hand it back to him, he taps out a text and sends it. “I sent the information. Good luck with your meeting, S.J. I’ll see you tonight.” He flashes a pearly-white smile at me, then turns on his heel to leave.
Ryan stands perfectly still, his eyes tracking Charles’s movement through the lobby. It isn’t until the door has shut behind him that Ryan allows himself to relax a fraction. He closes his eyes, and his chest rises and falls with a deep breath.
“Tapas,” he mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes and pins me with a look. “Really?”
“I was flustered,” I say defensively. “Besides, you suggested yourself that I should have some critique partners again. How else am I supposed to meet other writers who are willing to be associated with me?”
Ryan flinches. He never did like my self-deprecating humor. “I don’t think he’s interested in critiquing your work.”
I shrug, but the motion feels robotic and stiff, even to me. “So maybe he also thinks I’m okay to look at,” I say. “There’s no harm in that.”
He stares at me for a moment, so still, I’d think he was made of wax if I hadn’t been talking to him. Then, he shakes his head slowly and turns his back to me. “Come on,” he says. “We’re going to be late.”
As much as I hate it, with that movement, I’m sure Ryan knows as well as I do that we can’t be together anymore. Before he turned around, the defeat was written on his face, disappointment etched in the curve of his shoulders. It wouldn’t be good for us or for the book. Even if the feel of his fingertips grazing my jaw in my kitchen days ago have lingered far longer than my fleeting handshake with Charles. It lingers, still.
But I have to put it out of my mind, at least for now. What’s done is done, and it would be best for me to move on.