chapter twenty-nine
RILES
Setting my cell down on the wide window ledge I’m sitting on, I bend my knee, hug it to me, and rest my head against the glass as I look at the street below. Truth is, I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
When I arrived home and opened the apartment door to cold, stale air, what felt like a steel blade pierced my heart.
There was no soft light. No brewing coffee.
No Mom puttering about, fussing over me, keen to hear every detail of my trip.
But then… I wouldn’t have taken the trip if she were still here.
Drawing in a deep breath, I turn my head and stare at our lifeless apartment, wondering how I’m going to stay here without her and if I can continue to afford the rent on my own.
Before she passed, Mom transferred her savings to me to cover funeral costs and to tide me over for a few months.
She also mentioned a life insurance policy, and I’m sure she went through the details, but I can’t recall any of them.
I wasn’t interested in listening because, at the time, none of it had been real.
But it is real.
Patting my tear-streaked cheeks dry, I stand, walk to the kitchen, and switch on the oven, preparing to bake Georgia’s cookies.
All I want to do is unpack and then sleep, but I know my “welcome back” won’t be a pleasant occasion, especially because I was unable to complete the final manuscript.
She won’t be thrilled, but I’m hoping my return to the office will appease her enough, and the cookies should help my cause.
I push aside my mail to make room on the countertop for the baking dish when a letter from my mother’s solicitor slides off the top of the pile and lands on the floor.
Bending down, I pick it up, knowing I should open it, but I place it back with the others instead. It can wait another day or two; roofie cookies are far more imperative.
The memory of Riley accusing me of drugging my boss quirks my lips.
God, I miss him already, which is an unfamiliar but also reassuring feeling, joyous and equally worrisome.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and I’m desperate to see him again, to gaze into his crinkling eyes, run my hands through his hair, and feel his lips pressed to mine.
When we’re together, nothing else seems to matter, even though I know it does. He just… makes it all worth enduring.
Huh. I pause, turn around, and rest my backside against the cupboards, my hands gripping the edge of the counter behind me. He does make it all worth enduring: Georgia, my grief, my fears.
Riley blossoms happiness where there is no sun. To be fair, he also blossoms frustration, but that never lasts for long. We laugh. We bicker. We smooth things over, and then we laugh again. It’s all quite… lovely, really.
Sighing, I push off the counter and get to work, soon dead on my feet and covered in flour.
Shuffling into Georgia’s office, her golden latte in one hand and a plate with two cookies in the other, I quickly set them on her desk and then straighten her keyboard, files, and pens. She’ll arrive at any moment, and when she does, her office must be impeccable and just the way she likes it.
I check the thermostat—a perfect seventy—make sure her trashcan is empty, and I pull out her desk chair, angling it at forty-five degrees.
“What else?” I murmur to myself, straining my brain almost to the point of pain.
Me! Shit!
Scurrying to the mirrored paneling of her storage cabinets, I assess my hair, making sure it’s still presentable after my dash from the coffee shop, and then I reapply my lip gloss and step back just in time for her to march into the room.
“Good morning, Georgia,” I say, practically standing to attention.
She doesn’t respond, instead tossing her coat and Birkin bag on the sofa before sitting at her desk.
Wasting no time in picking them up, I scuttle back to the cabinets and tuck them away, my heart beating erratically when I catch sight of her prized artwork, slightly askew in the reflection of the door as I close it.
“Enjoy your time away?” she murmurs, her tone disinterested as she studies her computer screen.
“Mostly.” I inch toward the artwork, correct the imbalance, and then step forward, hands linked at my waist. “Although, saying goodbye to my mother was awfully difficult.”
“Hm… I suppose it would be.” She looks up from the screen and not so subtly scrutinizes my appearance. “Souvenir?” she asks, gesturing to my wrist as she sips her coffee.
Confused, I glance down, my bracelet incongruous with our surroundings.
Shit!
“Uh… y-yes,” I stutter, hastily removing it and hiding it in my bunched fist. “I got it in Greenland.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Interesting choice.”
“It’s a vibrant place,” I explain.
“Yes, and seemingly childish,” she mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
Her passive-aggressive tone prickles my skin, but I push past it as I’ve groomed myself to do over the years, proceeding to run through her schedule for the day instead. “You have a conference call with Johanna at nine, acquisitions at eleven, and—”
“You seem to have failed to attach the final manuscript to your email.”
My blood runs cold, but I knew this was coming, so I straighten my back in preparation to explain. “Yes. It’s not yet complete.”
“That’s—” She glares at the screen, her voice soft but as sharp as a knife’s edge. “—unsatisfying.”
I grit my teeth. “I was short of time. But I’ll get straight to it this morn—”
“Riley.” Georgia tips her reading glasses down and studies me over the rim. “You do realize your position here is highly sought after, and the opportunities that come with it are few and far between elsewhere in this industry, correct?”
“I do.”
“Then I suggest you take it more seriously.” She picks up a cookie, takes a bite, and then dismisses me. “You have work to do.”
I fantasize ramming it down her throat but obediently nod before leaving her office.
Bitch! Perhaps I’ll add a dash of arsenic next time.
Slumping into my chair, I open my palm and fiddle with my bracelet, comforted by its presence yet also annoyed that I forgot to take it off.
It certainly doesn’t fit the level of attire expected in the office, but it’s not exactly “childish” either.
It’s unique and has more charm than Georgia has in one single eyelash.
“Welcome back,” Tessa from editorial says as she approaches my desk.
“Thank you.” I shove the bracelet into my bag and give her my attention. “It’s good to be back.”
“Is it?” She lowers her voice as she cranes her neck to look past me into Georgia’s office. “Because I wouldn’t want to be you right now.”
I lower my voice too. “Why not?”
She pouts. “Because the wicked witch cursed your absence every day you were gone.”
“I’m not surprised,” I mutter.
“You’ll never get another vacation, you know.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I aggressively jiggle my mouse to activate my computer screen. “That’s not her call.”
Tessa stares at me, mouth amusingly agape.
“It’s not,” I add defiantly. “She can’t keep me here like a caged animal.”
“Look around, Riley.” She gestures to the office. “There are more caged animals here than at Central Park Zoo.”
“You’re not wrong.” I sigh. “So how did Freya do while I was gone, or do I even need to ask?”
“She lasted two days.”
“What?” I blink all the blinks. “Who filled my position then?”
“Me. And Isobel. And Craig.”
“Oh. My. God.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Believe it or not, I like being caged here.”
I snap my head up as if she’s just confessed a love of cockroaches, which, in hindsight, is probably more acceptable than what she just said. “You do?”
“Yes. A pretty cage full of literature is my kind of cage.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “I used to feel the same way.”
Tessa touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your mother, Riley. Had I known before you left, I would’ve said or done—”
“Thank you,” I say, deliberately cutting her off. Talking about Mom at the office is a bone of contention I’m not willing to chew on—they don’t belong in the same conversation.
She nods. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Riley!” Georgia squawks. “Where’s the list of this week’s galleys?”
Closing my eyes for the shortest of seconds, I scrunch my face, almost to the point of pain.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Tessa whispers before scuttling off.
Rifling through the paperwork on my desk, I collect the document Georgia is requesting and rush into her office. “It’s here.”
She snatches it from me and runs her finger down the list, and when she doesn’t say anything, I turn to leave.
“I want that manuscript by day’s end.”
“Yes. It’s on its way.”
“It won’t be if you continue to just stand there, will it?”
“Right. Yes. Sorry.”
Rushing back to my desk on the brink of tears, I take a deep breath and compose myself. It’s been years since I’ve had to sneak into the bathroom for fear of crying on the job, and I don’t understand why today is any different.
What’s wrong with me? Jesus! Get yourself together, Riley. You’re used to this. You can handle it. You’ve been handling it for almost a decade.
“Manuscript,” I say to myself.
Manuscript first, cry later.
For the rest of the day and into the evening, I get lost in the domestic thriller novel, finally typing the closing words of my report.
I remove my reading glasses, massage the bridge of my nose, and close my eyes, reopening them to focus on my surroundings.
The lights are dim, the only sound a soft hum of a vacuum being pushed around by the janitor.
Having been completely focused on my work, I can’t recall Georgia leaving, nor anyone else for that matter.
Crap! What time is it?
Picking up my cell—which I put on silent—I blink again, hoping the time of eight seventeen, a missed call from Riley, and a slew of his messages aren’t indeed what’s on my screen.
Peanut butter.