Chapter 23
Scarlett
What does one wear to a not-date? Because, regardless of what Ryan had been clearly brooding over for the entirety of our meeting with Anastasios, this is absolutely not a date. And, I tell myself, even though Charles is objectively good looking, he’s not my type.
It’s just a casual dinner between two writers, talking about writerly things.
But I still don’t know what to wear.
There’s no way I can call Trina and ask her, either, because I won’t get past the first sentence without her needling me about dating, and this is not a date . I’ll leave the conversation late to dinner without any answers at all.
God, I miss my friends.
I had tried to call my best friend, Mandy, shortly after everything happened. Since we had gone to the same grad program, we were the closest of the four women in our first apartment in Chicago. She’s a writer, too, so I had kind of expected that she’d understand the pressure I had been under. The problem at the time was that it took her a while to get a publishing deal. She had just signed with a small press when I walked away from JMP, and on top of thinking it toxic to be associated with me, she was so jealous of the money I had been offered. She couldn’t believe I had left that offer on the table. She called me names, shouted, and told me never to contact her again.
Ultimately, that interaction with her led me to block Ryan’s number. She preyed on my vulnerabilities and burnout. She convinced me that I had cursed myself when it came to publishing and, in such a small industry, it was best for him that I disappear.
I shake myself out of the memory as I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my closet. I’ve settled on dark jeans, a green blouse, and black flats. Simple, understated, casual but not too casual. Good enough.
The restaurant is within walking distance of my apartment, and it’s a nice evening. I opt to walk the ten minutes, leaving with plenty of time to stroll. I arrive early, but to my surprise, Charles is already sitting at the bar when I walk in. His golden hair is cast in a yellow glow from the overhead lighting, and he kind of blends well with the deep reds and browns of the restaurant. He’s tapping furiously on his phone with an almost-full glass of beer at his elbow, and he doesn’t notice me approach.
“Is this seat taken?” I flash a cheesy smile as I stand behind the empty seat next to him.
He looks up, sighing heavily and his hand clenching on his phone, but his expression clears when he sees me. Well, this is off to a great start.
“S.J.!” he exclaims, standing to embrace me in a bear hug. He crushes me so hard against his pecs that I can barely breathe. My face is smooshed against the same navy sweater from earlier today, and I suddenly feel silly for worrying about my own outfit.
I awkwardly pat his very broad back until he lets me go and I can breathe again. “Good to see you again, Charles.” I have to wonder how he greets really good friends if that’s how he says hello to someone he met hours ago. But instead of asking that, I dip my chin to the drink on the bar. “Am I late?”
“What? Oh, no. I was in the area, so I figured I’d just wait for you at the bar. Ended up having a conversation with my agent about my little meeting today. She doesn’t seem to think it’s a good move to switch to a smaller imprint, but I think the writing is on the wall, know what I’m saying? Anyway, you know how agents are. What’re you drinking?”
Maybe I’m out of practice when it comes to having an actual conversation, but he spews out so much information all at once, I’m not exactly sure where to start. He must take the pause as me being starstruck again, because he claps me on the back good-naturedly. It causes me to cough, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Wine? You look like a wine gal. Maybe sangria? They have a great sangria here,” he blabbers as he pulls out the barstool for me to sit down.
“Oh, I don’t really drink—”
“Red or white?”
“Neither,” I say with more conviction this time. My meds don’t mix well with alcohol, though I’m starting to wish I could drink just to make this guy more tolerable. The idea that anyone would consider this a date is already laughable. I’ve only been here a few minutes, and I can’t get a word in.
“You’re not one of those sober girls, are you?” He pulls a face. “Is it a health thing, or did you get into some trouble with the law? I know a few great lawyers if you need.”
“I’ll bet you do,” I mutter under my breath. Fuck, this is going to be a long evening. Clearing my throat, I speak louder this time. “I just…don’t drink. It’s not that deep.”
Charles nods pensively, studying me as if he’s trying to tell if I’m lying or not. I’m not ashamed of taking medication to help with my depressive episodes, but I have a sudden feeling that the less he knows about me, the better. I’m happy to let him talk as if he’s important for an hour or so and then be on my merry way.
The bartender gives me a small reprieve by coming to take my drink order, which is just a soda.
“Are you all eating here, or are you waiting for a table?” the bartender asks, pausing with his fingers over some menus that are piled off to the side.
“I figured we could eat here, if that’s okay with you.” Charles raises his eyebrows at me in question.
I’m so surprised he asked my opinion that I nod in agreement. It is already abundantly clear that this whole dinner was a mistake anyway; waiting for a table would only draw it out. The bartender places menus in front of us, but I have a feeling I won’t be needing mine. Sure enough, Charles orders some grilled octopus, empanadas, and curried chicken for both of us before checking if I have any dietary restrictions.
“Nope.” I force a close-lipped smile. “All good here.”
“Great. Those will do nicely for us, I think.” He plucks my menu out of my hands and passes them both back to the bartender.
Charles takes a large swig of his beer, then plunks it down on the bar top with a satisfied ahh . “So, S.J. Your first book, huh?”
“Um…” I know what I’m supposed to say, especially since he hasn’t recognized me. Not to mention Anastasios’s warning from earlier is still ringing in my ears.
“You want to know how I got not one but two imprints trying to win me away from my current one?”
Not really, but I feign interest. “Two?”
He nods as if he is a wise sage and I am his lowly pupil. I’m surprised he doesn’t ask me to take notes. “Anastasios and…” He pauses for what I’m assuming is some kind of dramatic effect. “JMP. You know them?”
My eyebrows shoot up at that, because that’s not how publishing works. Imprints don’t compete against their own. Is that why he didn’t want me to tell anyone I saw him at Anastasios? Because he’s secretly trying to pit them against each other? But luckily, I’m saved from trying to come up with an answer because Charles leans toward me suddenly. He’s so close I can smell the beer on his breath. “Let me give you a little tip.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t trust anyone in this industry. They’re all out to make money off you. They might say they’re interested in your book or that they want what’s best for the manuscript, but they don’t. Not really. Everyone’s always watching the bottom line—how much and what percentage and how many sales to get what in royalties.”
He pauses to take another drink, so it seems like a good time to say something. “Sounds like you’ve been burned before.”
“Me? Nah. I’m too cautious for that.” He shrugs. “But I’ve seen it happen time and time again. You got a good agent?”
“The best,” I say quickly.
Charles nods. “Good, good. And that guy who came to get you this morning? He’s your editor?”
“Ryan. Yeah.”
“He’s being good to you?”
I snicker to myself. If this guy only knew. “He’s been great. Really goes above and beyond.”
“Don’t expect that to continue. They’ve got plans for you right now, but once your book releases and they see what you’re really worth, that’s when their true colors will come out, mark my words. You excited about your release?”
Well, if I hadn’t been through all of this before—and sold more copies than him, I have to keep telling myself—I would be terrified now. It’s not that these things are untrue, per se. I’ve worked with my share of money-hungry people who had dollar signs in their eyes every time they looked at me, but what a thing to say to someone he thinks is a debut author. Is he trying to scare me away from publishing altogether?
“Yeah,” I reply instead of telling him what I’m really thinking. He probably wouldn’t hear me anyway.
“What’s it about?” He takes another swig of beer.
“It’s a coming-of-age story about a young girl.” I could talk about my book all day, but he’s not interested. Not really. All I had to do was mention “coming-of-age” and “girl” in the same sentence, and his eyes started glazing over. Suddenly, I’m wishing I were curled up with Ryan, talking about themes and words and structure. The ache for him is almost palpable, and it catches me off guard. I take sip of my soda, then decide to change the subject. “So, tell me. How does a writer have the time to work out as much as you clearly do?”
I had been banking on a hunch that Charles’s favorite subject is himself, and boy, was I right. He launches straight into a lengthy overview of his workout plan. Our food comes somewhere between an estimate of how much he thinks he’ll be able to squat tomorrow and his warning to me that sitting all day will surely cause cancer, so I’d better start working out, too.
Charles serves himself some of the food, so I do the same, though I avoid the grilled octopus because they actually look like little baby octopuses, and my stomach flips. As with everything I’ve done so far, he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s also oblivious to the fact that I’m just pushing food around my plate and not really eating.
I’m not even sure what he’s talking about anymore because I’m not paying much attention. But a gentle hand between my shoulder blades wakes me up a bit. My spine straightens at the touch as a familiar voice croons into my ear.
“Imagine seeing you here,” Ryan says, his voice smooth and soft—the exact opposite of the barking Charles has been doing. I turn my head to the left, and sure enough, he’s standing there with his hand still resting almost possessively on my back.
“Ryan?” My voice is breathy. It’s almost embarrassing how relieved I am. But the relief is short-lived because what the fuck is he doing here? Did he find out where we were going and when and follow us?
“I’m picking up takeout,” he explains, as if reading my mind. “Charles mentioned tapas earlier, and I had a taste for it.”
“This place is great,” Charles says approvingly. “Good choice.”
Ryan nods but doesn’t really pay any attention to him. By the way his hand is still on my back and his eyes track my movements as I take another drink, it’s clear that he’s here to see me. I’m not seething about it, but I am annoyed. What is his purpose? Is he worried I’ll lose my cool? Start crying? Engage in some risk-taking, after-dinner behavior?
And so what if I do? I’m not his anymore. Maybe Trina is right. Maybe it’d be good for me.
The bartender comes over, and Ryan gives him his name. He goes back to the kitchen to check on the order. Ryan’s hand is still lying on my back, warming me. And as much as I want to lean into his touch—close my eyes and relish in it—that little voice at the back of my head won’t let me forget he’s full of shit. He has no right to crash this dinner, no matter how jealous he is.
I glare up at him. “You don’t live near here.”
He shrugs as if this doesn’t matter. “I was passing through. Heard this place is pretty good.”
“You seem to find yourself ‘passing through’ the South Loop a lot these days,” I grumble. Ryan chuckles lightly.
The bartender returns with several to-go containers in a plastic bag. He hands the bag over the bar to Ryan, who takes it. I shiver at the cool air that meets my back at the loss of his hand.
Ryan looks back and forth between Charles—who has gone weirdly silent—and me. Apparently satisfied, he jams the hand not holding his food into his pocket. “Well, I’d better get going. Have a nice night, Sc—S.J. Charles.” He nods at each of us, then turns on his heel and leaves.
Charles lets out a low whistle and shakes his head in dismay. “He’s kind of a weird guy, huh? If you don’t like working with him, you can always ask—”
“I like working with him a lot, actually.” I cut him off. That might have been strange as hell, but the only person I’m not enjoying spending time with right now is Charles. I track Ryan’s movements back through the restaurant and out the front door. “Can you… Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Despite Charles’s stuttering protests, I slide off the barstool and follow Ryan as quickly as I can. When I push open the heavy front door, I scan left and right, but I don’t see him right away. It isn’t until I hear a car door slamming across the street that I see his head pop up above the car. He looks around, waiting for traffic to subside before he can get into the driver’s side.
“Ryan,” I call over the noise of the cars passing between us.
His head whips toward me. It’s almost dark out, but I could swear I see the ghost of a triumphant smile play on his lips.
That asshole. I knew it. He came here on purpose to break up my not-date.
“Hang on,” he shouts. When there’s a break in the traffic, he jogs back across the street. And then he’s standing there, in front of me, hands yet again jammed into the pockets of his chinos and his shoulders creeping up against the slight chill in the spring air.
“What’s up?” he asks, a little breathless from his jog across the street.
“‘What’s up?’” I spit back at him. “‘What’s up?’ Are you serious? That’s what you’re going to lead with?”
His shoulders shrug the rest of the way toward his ears and come down again slightly. “Did you need something?”
“Did you need something?” I’m a writer. Words are my thing, so I’m not exactly sure why I keep repeating his incredulously. He’s gotten me all flustered, and I don’t like it.
Ryan laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Is there something wrong with wanting tapas?”
“From a restaurant that’s a twenty-minute drive on a good day from your condo? On the night you knew Charles was taking me out for that exact meal in this exact neighborhood? Yes, I’d say there’s something wrong with that.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he deflects. “I will try to avoid wanting similar foods to your dates in the future.” The last part comes out more bitter than anything he’s said thus far, which is all the confirmation I need that he’s lying about his sudden craving for finger foods.
“Dammit, Ryan. For the last fucking time, it wasn’t a date!” I’m shouting now, and people are turning their heads to look at me as they pass on the sidewalk. I don’t even care. I hope they get a good show.
“I’m sure that’s not what he thought.” Ryan’s voice remains cool and collected. I hate him even more for his ability to stay perfectly calm.
I fling my arm toward the door of the restaurant. “If that man in there thought he was on a date…well then, I guess I know why he’s single. The only person he was on a date with was himself.”
I wait for Ryan’s face to break into a self-satisfied smile, but it doesn’t. Instead, he pins me to the spot with his dark eyes. They’re burning with intensity behind his glasses, and he takes a step toward me as if he can’t help it. My entire body heats as his gaze settles on mine.
“Why did you go out with him?” he asks, almost in a whisper.
“Because he asked,” I reply honestly. “Because I’m lonely,” I say a little louder, gaining momentum. “Because I cracked open one tiny little door to dip my toes into the publishing world again, and ever since, it’s been a freefall with one thing after another after another that reminds me exactly how good I had it. Because instead of waiting for the other shoe to drop again, I want to take back a little bit of the life I had before, but better this time. I might not deserve it, Ryan, but that doesn’t make me want it any less.”
He pulls his hands out of his pockets, but he remains silent. His eyes never leave mine. The sidewalk is empty now, and I shift from one foot to another. A street light blinks on above us, casting a soft glow over the scene. The ring on his right hand shines.
“You deserve it.” It’s so quiet, I almost miss it.
“I don’t. I walked away from the best thing I ever had and disappeared for five years. You don’t just get a second chance after something like that.”
His dark brows furrow together, and he shakes his head in confusion. “We signed you. You literally got a second chance. You’re living it, Scarlett, and it’s going to be great.”
I laugh darkly. “I wasn’t talking about the book.”
Slowly—painfully slowly—Ryan’s eyes widen. His jaw goes slack, and he leans a fraction of an inch toward me, then back again, like he’s trying to talk himself out of something.
Me. He’s trying to talk himself out of me. The realization hurts more than anything I’ve experienced in the last month. More than if he shoved the pages of my book back into my hands and told me it was shit. This is why it’s safer to have dinner with guys who would rather talk about their workout routines than bare their souls. Charles Hall was never going to break my heart.
My gaze falls to the sidewalk. A couple tumbles out of the restaurant, clinging to each other. Their laughter bubbles upward to be carried away in the night air. She sighs and rests her head on his shoulder as they fall into stride with each other and make their way down the street.
“I should go back inside.”
I make it one step in the direction of the door before Ryan lets out a strangled, “Scarlett.”
“What?” I face him again, dejected this time. “Look, we’ve been here before, Ryan. No matter how safe we think it is to toe the line between what we are and what we were, I can’t ignore the fact that I ultimately walked away because you’re better off without—”
Before I even know what’s happening, Ryan crosses the distance between us and kisses me. It’s frantic, his mouth covering mine as if he could stop my thoughts along with the words. His arms envelop me, and he presses his palms into my back, drawing me closer. Our bodies snap together in that old, familiar way. Muscle memory takes over, guiding hands and lips and tongues until we’re completely intertwined.
I don’t resist. How could I possibly, when every hope and word and dream I’ve ever had has always been so wrapped up in him that I don’t know where I end and he begins? I melt into him, open for him, grab the front of his shirt and desperately angle my head for more.
He breaks away from me, panting, before I’ve gotten nearly enough. Without thinking, I follow his retreat. I’ve gone without him for far too long—a woman on a diet, trying to convince myself that apples are a good substitute for chocolate, and now that I’ve tasted his decadence again, I doubt I’ll ever get enough.
On a moan, he indulges me, meeting my lips with his again, and any concern I may have had about whether or not he has been just as starved as I have is washed away with his kiss.
A whoop sounds from a group of guys passing by us on the sidewalk. Ryan and I both breathe out a laugh. He presses his forehead to mine, and when I open my eyes to look at him, his are still closed, his face calm and happy.
“I’ve never been better off without you,” he says quietly. “I’m going to need you to delete that thought from your storyline and never bring it back.”
I hum, rubbing my forehead gently against his. “Only if you admit you came here because you were jealous.”
Ryan pulls away from me to run a hand through his hair. He rubs it against the back of his neck sheepishly. “Not only did I come here looking for you, I went to two other places beforehand.”
“You what ?” I tip my head back and cackle incredulously. “Ryan Whitlock, you are unhinged.”
“I have a lot of tapas in my back seat. I could use some help eating it?” His voice tips up hopefully.
I half laugh, half groan. “I’m starving, and that sounds amazing, but Charles is still waiting for me. He probably thinks he’s important enough to ruin the life of the poor little debut author-girl who left him hanging.”
“Tell him it’s an editorial emergency,” he suggests.
“There’s no such thing.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Scarlett.” Ryan’s eyes darken as he drags them over my face. “When I have editorial notes, the world stops for them.”
I cock an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I’ve dealt with enough toxic male egos for the night, thank you. I don’t need yours, too. I’ll just…tell him I don’t feel well. Hang on.”
As much as it pains me to leave Ryan’s side, I walk back into the restaurant to say my goodbyes. I don’t get more than two steps before I can see the bar where Charles is currently dragging his finger lightly over the arm of a giggling twentysomething. He leans in and whispers something into her ear that makes her practically turn into a puddle on the spot.
I walk right back outside. It seems we’re both going home with someone else, which feels appropriate.
“That was fast,” Ryan says as I grab his hand and interlace our fingers.
“He was occupied. Let’s go.” I tug him toward his car.
It doesn’t take long to get to my apartment, but the whole way there, Ryan clutches my hand like it’s a lifeline. We only let go to get out of the car, then we snap right back together again for the elevator ride up to my floor.
As he clings to me and I to him, I tell myself that I do deserve this. That, sometimes, people do get second chances. And even if there is more to say, now we have time to say it.