Page 11 of Peaches

“You do as you like, Mr. Beckett. It’s your office now.”

With sorrowful eyes I watch her walk away. Just when I think she’ll leave without another word, she turns and locks eyes with me.

“I’m sorry, Anne Marie. It was the only way. Even if you don’t fully understand. You’ll do great with Beckett Enterprises, and I’ll still remain one of your biggest fans.”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile before her eyes raise and she assesses the man in the room with hostility in her gaze.I feel that sister, all the way to my cursed heart. Her smile fades as she holds his stare for a moment and then she quickly turns and walks out of my life forever.

Well, this meeting didn’t go as planned!

I sit there, staring at the door she just walked out of stunned, and realize I’m about to do one of two things. Which one sounds best, I haven’t decided yet, but know the clock is ticking and my quick decision is massively important.

First, I could run after her. Scurry away and hold on to her skirt tails. I never really imagined I’d be with another publishing house anyways. And what’s more, I’m sure I can beat the other women out on to the downtown streets and start working on paying back the debt that I’ll owe for most of the rest of my cursed life to the jackass behind me.

Or, I could find the damn confidence that seems to be shattered inside me right now, turn, and face my future head on with the man that now holds more than just my late night fantasies in his hands. If I’ll still give him that.

I’m lying, we both know I will.

Mr. Brett Beckett.

Hell, he even looks like a Brett, my mind decides as I make my decision and turn his way. His arms crossed over his chest, he licks his lips as the wrinkles in his brow deepen and he waits me out, tempting me, taunting me with my future hanging in the air between us as he bides his time and waits for me to speak.

But he should know better than that by now. My earlier display of stubbornness in the coffee shop proving my point.

When he finally gets the hint that I could sit here all day, he questions, “Anne Marie?”

I shrug, “It’s my pen name. Samantha always insisted we go by them in the office if we were going to write under them.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Watch it, or…”

“Well, it damn sure ain’t Peaches!”

His grin finally grows as he leans back against the desk in front of me and crosses one leg over the other at the ankles.

“I think I liked you better when I thought you were sweet.”

‘That’s a shame,” I taunt. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you. Mr. Beckett.” I hiss, enunciating every syllable I can in his last name. “The only way to ever really enjoy anythingsweetin life is to first indulge in the sour.”

“Hmmm,” he sighs seductively as he bites his bottom lip and devours me with his eyes across the room. My lower stomach flips as my breathing quickens.Oh hell, stop acting like a preteen that’s never been touched before, Grace!His arms are still crossed over his chest, feet still crossed at the ankles as he leisurely rests against the top of the desk, and God help me, I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

He’s beautiful. From the top of his breathtaking egotistical head to the tips of his expensive Italian leather loafer covered toes.

Sigh.

I hate him.

“Sweet yet perfectly tangyis my favorite combination, Peaches,” his voice rasps out as he wets his lips for emphasis, and my core simultaneously dampens in response. “But the matter here is business, not pleasure.”

He’s got that right! The only pleasure I’ll find tonight is in him giving me what I need to help Archie and hopefully put some food in my fridge until I can get my first draft finished. More lies, I know, but pretend with me and we’ll both go with it. But, by the look in his eyes, I’d say I’d have a better chance at praying for a million dollars to drop out of the sky than relying on him for any kind of advance.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, as he stands tall and uncrosses his arms. “I don’t like romance. It’s a waste of paper as far as I’m concerned. The only reason I print it is because I’d be a fool not to take a piece out of one of the largest pies in the fictional book market world. But to be printed through my publishing house, your manuscript must come with some sort of edge. Something different than the hundreds, hell thousands, of other paperbacks out there lining the shelves of every bookstore, grocery store, corner airport shop, and second-hand bookstore shelf. I won’t publish a book that’s like any one you could just pick up off the New York Times bestseller list. That list is rigged any ways, always has been. They’re all a dime a dozen. I want something new, something fresh, something they won’t see coming…”

And just like that, my inner mantra sitting in the coffee shop that finally got me writing for the first time in twelve months, goes down the fucking shiter.

Told you, losing my shit by the loads.

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