Page 11 of Whispered Sins

I had been all gung-ho about starting a workout routine and eating healthy on our last girls’ night out. Over wine and bruschetta, it oddly seemed like a good idea to get into fitness.

“Do you want a croissant?” I offered, reaching for the box of pastries I had picked up yesterday with the coffee beans.

“Hmm…running or a croissant…” she said, scrunching up her face as if deep in thought.

She held out her hand. I laughed as I put an almond croissant on a plate and handed it to her. She took a bite and closed her eyes in appreciation for the flaky sweetness that I was about to bite into myself.

We took our pastries to the couch and sat down.

“We could take up running another day,” I offered.

She shot me a look like she didn’t believe me. Then her eyes fell to the book next to her on the couch.

“Reading my competition, huh?” she asked, picking it up and inspecting the cover.

Monica was a romance writer. A good one. She was popular in the indie scene, but hadn’t made it big just yet. She was always looking for her next story, but it was too bad I couldn’t lend her any inspiration.

“What do you think of it so far?” she asked, turning the book over in her hands.

“I’m practically finished. It’s really good. You know I love the enemies to lovers trope.”

She nodded.

“But it wasn’t as good as yours,” I added quickly.

“Oh, stop,” she said, waving me off. “It was good. I read it last month. I’ve been trying to find inspiration anywhere and everywhere. I’m in a writer’s rut.”

“Well, I wish I could help you out with that…” I sighed.

“I wish I could help myself out.” She laughed.

She took a sip of coffee and turned to me as if remembering something. “Hey, how did your meeting go yesterday?”

“Good,” I said, hoping the high pitch of my voice didn’t give me away.

She raised an eyebrow at me. She knew me too well.

“What’s up with you?” she asked.

“Nothing.” My voice was even more shrill.

“Spill.”

I sucked in a breath before letting it go through my lips. “I had a meeting with this big wig. His name was Daniel Jacobs, and—”

“Wait.TheDaniel Jacobs?”

Why did everyone keep saying that?

“Yeah…”

“The like hottest man in New York.”

“See, how does everyone know this, but me?” I fell back into the couch and crossed my arms as if I hadn’t been invited to some imaginary party.

“He is like on every gossip site.”

“You know I don’t care about that kind of stuff.”

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