Page 37 of Sweet Venom

I smirked, leaning against the desk. “I know. You’re welcome.”

The tension between us is thick, charged with the same energy it’s always had—he’s the icy wall, I’m the one who keeps throwing snowballs at it, always wishing I could just be let into his world but never be good enough. Ugh. There go my stupid emotions again. For a brief second, I felt like the little girl who thought he hung the moon and stars, but reality crashed down when he leaned back in his seat without giving the donuts a second glance. Asshole.

“So, look,” I breathed through my nose, picking up a donut and taking a dramatic bite, “I know the last meeting didn’t go as planned, but I am grateful for this opportunity.”

He said nothing, just looked at me like I’m the dirt under his shoes. See? You see why I act the way I do when he’s around. He’s so infuriating.

I tried again. “How about we talk about the story now? Before you start plotting my untimely murder?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at me, his expression unreadable, but there’s a glimmer there—one that says I’m more than just an annoying, insufferable pain in the ass. It confuses me.

I leaned in just slightly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I sat across from him, trying to look calm, poised, like I’ve got this in the bag. I could do this. I spent hours putting together these plot ideas, these characters. I’ve got something to show him, something that’ll prove I’m worth the chance he gave me. But as I glanced at Azariel, his gray eyes cold and unblinking, all that confidence started to slip away. I don’t feel like the woman who barge in here with her ‘fuck you’ donuts in hand and sarcastic remarks.

I’m the girl with blue dresses and stars in her eyes.

I cleared my throat, grabbed my iPad from my bag, and unlocked it to the Notes app. “Okay, so for this dark romance trilogy, I was thinking?—”

He’s already leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, staring at me like I’m an inconvenient fly in the room. It’s like a switch flipped the moment we moved from donuts to business. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was interested.

“Go on,” he muttered, his voice as dry as a desert.

I pushed through the sudden ball of nerves. “So, the first book focuses on a young teacher who’s basically stuck in a toxic relationship with this manipulative, older businessman whose trauma and past has broken him. But she didn’t see it at first. She thinks he’s her savior, but things turn ugly, and she runs from him and ends up in a small town trying to start over and there she meets this cowboy who’s a single dad and a total golden retriever. They start a love affair that gives her the hope of a happily ever after, but then her past comes knocking at her door.”

Azariel didn’t even flinch. He just tapped his fingers on the desk, rhythmically, like he was counting down the seconds until I stopped talking.

Keep going, Poe. You got this.

“The second book... it’s about the same woman and her cowboy trying to navigate their love with her ex making trouble for her. This one ends in a cliffhanger that will shock readers.”

He tilted his head slightly, barely making eye contact. I kept pushing forward, even though his disinterest was practically suffocating me.

“And then the third book will be the conclusion. Where she’ll have to fight hard for her happily ever after.”

I glanced up at him, waiting for some sign that he was listening, some flicker of approval or at least curiosity. But instead, there was nothing. Just that unreadable expression, like he’s been handed a pile of garbage and hasn’t yet figured out where to throw it.

I frowned. I could feel the frustration building up in my chest, but I kept it in check. For now. “And for the main characters... the MC is a sweet, but sexy single dad, and the teacher will be more relatable to readers. She’s?—”

Before I got to finish my thought, Azariel interrupted me, and it was like a bucket of someone else’s blood dumped over my head.

“No. It’s boring.” His voice is blunt, dismissive, like he just heard the most predictable thing in the world.

I blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “What?”

“I said it’s boring.” His eyes finally met mine, and there’s no warmth in them. “The characters, the plot... it’s been done a thousand times. You’re not reinventing anything. It’s all so... predictable and quite frankly is lacking.”

Boring?

Lacking?

I felt my heart sink. I thought this idea was at least decent, but now it feels like a pile of shit. The sting of his words hit harder than I expected. I hate that I care. I want to be unaffected.I want to be the confident, professional author who doesn’t let a single word get to her.

But, of course, I cared. I cared way too much.

My face flushed slightly, and I glanced down at my iPad, suddenly self-conscious. I hated how nervous I felt. Hated that I let him make me feel small. I hate that I’m desperate for his approval.

“Well...” I forced out, trying to keep my tone steady, “what do you want from me, then? I thought... I thought it had potential. It’s good.”

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