Chapter 8
Yes sits so heavily on my tongue that I have to swallow before I speak. “I …”
A few desks behind him, Bianca is now pretending to sort paper clips. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from working in journalism, it’s that there are ears everywhere.
“I can’t,” I say, dropping my eyes to my desk, avoiding the frustration I know must be on Sterling’s face right now.
He lingers, silent, and guilt settles across my shoulders, pressing inward. I’ve spent a year promising myself that I’d take the opportunity if it arose, and here I am, turning it down.
I miss how vast and exciting the world felt when I was in school, when the future was so full of opportunities that I was almost sick with it.
Maybe everyone is right to call me naive.
“Be certain what kind of career you want, Mia.”
Sterling’s reprimand sets my shoulders back. I know exactly what I want. How dare he!
“It won’t be gifted to you. If you’re unwilling to pursue what is difficult—”
“I’m not unwilling.”
Nerves jump across my stomach as he pins me with his gaze, the air sizzling between us.
Prove it, that looks says.
Oh, how I want to.
Caution overrides my instinct as I dart my eyes over to Monica’s office again.
It’s empty, the door left ajar. Panic seizes the reins, and I shake my head, avoiding Sterling’s eyes, certain there will be nothing but disappointment now.
If there isn’t, I don’t want to know. He should be; I’m disappointed in myself.
“I can’t,” I repeat. “I’m sorry.”
There’s the quiet shuffle of Sterling’s polished shoes, a sigh that echoes through the growing frustration in my chest, and then he’s gone.
The rest of the day passes without issue. I send the article, Monica shoots back a response to ensure more weight is given to the affiliate links next time, Sterling broods at his desk, and Bianca tells Andy off for cooking fish in the microwave again.
It’s a regular day.
The only difference is that every time I look over at Sterling’s desk, he’s looking right back. He’s probably masterminding my downfall; it’ll be an excellent footnote to my journalism career.
At least I’ll have a memento—the printout of my article is stashed in my bag, marked up with Sterling’s notes.
Our first collaboration.
Scratch that. Our last collaboration.
* * *
“Did he say you couldn’t change your mind?” Alice asks me that night.
My phone is propped up against a stack of books, and I’m going a little out of my mind because I promised myself I’d take every opportunity I could, and when push came to shove, I turned it down.
“No, but he did put the fear of the unknown into me.”
“You’ve built him up too much. He’s just a guy. I don’t know why you’re so afraid of him.”
Everyone’s afraid of him.
“He’s the most decorated journalist of his age.
He’s spoken with presidents, celebrities, killers.
My first week, Andy complained that the women’s league uniforms weren’t sexy enough, and Sterling stormed over and made him apologize.
He almost got fired.” It was then I understood the leverage Sterling had.
“I can’t just walk up and ask him how his night was. ”
“Why not?”
Because I want him to like me too much. “Because I want his respect as a professional.”
“Then ask about work.”
I almost laugh. One doesn’t just chitchat with Sterling Ross.
“Tell me you had a good day at least.”
She scowls, brushing hair out of her eyes. It leaves a white streak of flour across her forehead. “I was. Then I stopped at the post office, and he was there.”
Ah. “It was bound to happen at some point.”
“He broke your heart. He doesn’t deserve to be smiling and buying stamps.”
Maybe. “That’s the thing though; my heart doesn’t feel broken. Just bruised.” Aching for a love that lasts. Something real.
In the end, we weren’t a couple; we were two ghosts, haunting the same house. We ate together, slept together, breathed the same air … but there was no life left between us.
“He’s still a shithead,” she says.
Alice loves Ferntree; she’ll never leave. We talk as often as we’re able—texts and voice memos and video calls—and it’s great. Truly. I’m blessed to have a wonderful best friend; I know how lucky I am. But it’s not the same.
There’s no comfortable coexisting in the same room. No in-the-moment jokes about silly things that you just had to be there for. It’s recaps and follow-ups and check-ins. It’s I miss yous and I wish you were heres.
I miss her. It’s lonely here, on my own.
“I appreciate you.”
“I’ve got your back, babe, always.”
The thing about growing up in a place where everyone knows you or of you is that you never feel alone. There’s a familiar, if not friendly, face around every corner.
There are few familiar faces in Chance.
Even less now.
* * *
Okay, now I’m convinced someone is pranking me.
I set my alarm twenty minutes early this morning, made it into work on time, coffee in hand, only to find one already on my desk.
A caramel latte with an extra shot. There’s a Post-it attached, in Sterling’s impeccable handwriting.
Sterling knows my coffee order?
A reminder, it says.
A reminder of what?
Underneath the coffee is a printout, a short piece with a familiar title—
Oh.
I’m glad it’s too early for Bianca to be here because it’s impossible to keep my head from snapping toward Sterling’s desk. He isn’t there.
I stare back down at the article in my hand. My article, from college. The one I submitted with my application. How did he get this?
My heart races as the elevator opens, the chime calling out across the rarely quiet floor.
Tim saunters out, yawning large and loud as he complains about the time.
Missy is behind him, rolling her eyes behind his back even though her headphones are blaring her usual angry rock—some variation of a band no one’s ever heard of.
I slip the article into my bag. I trust my coworkers about as much as Andy enjoys women’s sports. He really is the most disappointing cliché.
My twin coffees stare back at me while I boot up my laptop. Tasting the one Sterling got me, I have to bite back a moan. It’s incredible.
His desk is still empty. There aren’t many hiding places on the floor, so I take an educated guess and make my way into the break room with his gift.
Even surrounded by printed reminders to Wash Your Own Dishes! and Take Your Tupperware Home or Lose It Forever, Sterling is impressive.
I wonder if he owns anything that isn’t black. He looks fantastic, those shoulders and his thighs—sorry, he looks very professional and not at all like someone I want backing me into a dark corner, kissing me until I can’t breathe.
Either. Both. I’m not choosy.
I clear my throat, and he turns his head, acknowledging me.
“Good morning, Mia.”
I think my heart just stopped.
“Morning,” I manage, and it sounds as breathless as I feel. Remembering Alice’s advice, I step farther into the room. “How is your research coming along? You were still here when I left last night.”
He’s standing by the coffee machine, confusing me—because didn’t he stop for coffee when he picked up mine? I watch his gaze drop to the cup I’m grasping in both hands, and maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he’s smiling.
Sterling Ross.
Smiling.
I’m definitely being pranked.
Sterling sighs over the grind of the machine. “It’s frustrating. I’m finding what I want, but not what I need, if that makes sense.”
Not really, but I’m still shocked he’s talking to me, so I nod.
“Look, I want to apologize for yesterday—”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“Yes, I do. I shouldn’t have pressured you—”
“Pressured me? What? No, you didn’t—”
“Mia.” His commanding use of my name shuts me up. “I’m sorry.”
It’s clear this means a lot to him. Sterling is a man of his word. Words he has used to great effect. Words he is now blessing me with.
I’ve never had an apology give me goose bumps before. “You’re forgiven.”
Seconds pass while I try to think of something, anything, else to say. I’ve never been here before; I can ask him anything, and he’s actually going to answer me.
Suddenly, everything I want to know seems trite and childish.
“There’s a trick I use on my uncle’s farm,” I say, taking another step closer.
There’s only one floor tile separating us.
I’m not sure why I’m noticing that, but it’s true.
“His hens are pretty ruthless, and the best way to handle it is to grab a net and go after the meanest one first. Everything gets easier after that.”
Dimples appear in his cheeks. Holy shit. “Narrow my focus in the short term, and worry about the rest later?”
Wow, he actually understood that. “I don’t know if it applies with your story, but yeah.”
He thinks it over, finally pouring himself a cup and adding sugar and cream. “I’m not in the habit of going in unprepared, but there’s an angle that might work if I can back up my hunch. I’m working against the clock on this one, so it limits my options.”
Oh. That explains why he wanted help with the research.
My heart sinks.
His hand comes down on my shoulder, warm and reassuring. “But it’s good to know I have a professional wrangler on hand if my chickens come home to roost.”
“I’m at your service,” I say automatically, my mouth going dry when his eyes darken.
“Are you?” he asks low.
The sharp sound of angry footsteps interrupts us, and I step back.
The room ices over as Monica enters. She doesn’t even pretend to need anything—why would she? It’s clear this is about me. Even when I choose to do the right thing, it’s still wrong in her eyes.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you that your commitment to work should always come first,” she says, not even addressing Sterling. “I don’t want your move to get in the way of your assignment this weekend.”
“Not at all. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Her narrowed eyes pass between Sterling and me one more time before she leaves.
An uncomfortable silence fills the space in her wake. I should go.
I’ve barely taken a step when Sterling’s voice stops me.
“You’re moving?” His voice is cold.
“Um, yes?” The high, uncertain echo of my answer taunts me to try again. “My new apartment is ready, which is actually saving my life right now because I cannot afford my current place on a single income. I guess I should thank my ex for cheating on me before we signed the lease.”
It’ll be nice to wake up somewhere I’m not reliving our failed relationship.
Sterling is quiet. I’ve said too much again.
“And you didn’t think to mention that?”
I’m so confused, and, yeah, you know what? Angry. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
He grunts, and apologies spring to life on my tongue, tumbling over themselves in an effort to get out.
But why should I apologize?
Up until yesterday, I was sure he hated me.
I set my coffee on the counter with a thud.
“You know, you used to be my hero.” He still is.
“The great Sterling Ross, the man who can’t be moved.
The day I signed my contract, I spent my last forty bucks on a bottle of champagne, thinking I’d gotten my dream job.
Work for The Observer, learn from the best.”
He shifts beside me, but I can’t look at him. I’m furious. If he wants to kick me out after this, let him. I’m sure Monica will throw a party.
“I’ve spent two years writing thinly veiled advertising copy and being too scared to talk to you because you’re, well, kind of terrifying.
You work constantly, you never talk about your personal life, there’s the whole intense-stare situation you’ve got going on.
You’d do well to open up to people every once in a while. ”
His glasses do nothing to hide the intensity of his gaze. I can only hold it for a few seconds, until my heart is beating too fast and everything gets a little too warm. It doesn’t help that he always smells amazing. Like coming home to your favorite meal.
Head-turning. Rewarding. Delicious.
“Can I help?”
I can feel my face contorting in confusion. “With what?”
“The move,” he says as though it were obvious.
Oh. “Um …”
Do I want that? Yes, obviously. But do I?
“Do you have a quota of good deeds you need to complete each day?”
“Only where you’re involved.”
There’s no escaping my blush and no chance it isn’t a hundred percent obvious to Sterling right now.
I’ve already turned him down once. Can I do it again?
* * *
Make Your Choice:
let Sterling help you move (go to 11)
decline his offer (go to 14)
go back (go to 3)