Page 72 of Most Likely to Score
I could ask my dad for his opinion. But I’m afraid I know what his answer would be. When it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a softie.
In the end, I need to make my own choice. My stomach hurts, like a stone lives inside me, wriggling around, painfully pressing against my ribs.
You make your own luck.
I’ve always loved the idea of luck.
But luck is capricious. Luck does what luck wants. Luck knows no consequences. And luck can turn south in the blink of an eye.
Luck can bring on a heart attack unexpectedly. Luck, or more specifically, bad luck, can upend a perfectly normal life and a happy marriage, leaving one party missing his other half, his soul mate. I tear my gaze away from the photo before my eyes turn too watery.
If I can’t turn to either one of my parents for advice, I’ll need to rely on my own barometer.
I head upstairs to Lily’s office, where she preps me for my interview next week. She reviews the projects I worked on over the last few years, as well as my accomplishments.
She shakes her head, visibly impressed. “I have to say you’ve done great work here.”
I smile widely and say, “Thank you.”
That has nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with hard work and dedication. Will falling in love with a player change that?
I gasp under my breath, quickly covering my mouth, hoping Lily didn’t notice. She’s continuing to talk about the interview, so I’m safe.
On the surface.
But my head is swimming becausethere it is.
Reality.
Clarity.
I’m falling in love with Jones Beckett.
I miss being with him like there’s an emptiness inside me. Jones makes me feel like all my sexy songs. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. He challenges me. And he gives me so much of himself.
In this second, another blast of clarity lands in my lap—I must tell Lily. I can’t hide this anymore from my mentor and my boss. I need her to know my truth before I march into that interview next week. I have to put my cards on the table, no matter what.
Once she finishes, I clear my throat, chucking all my practice words in the trash bin. Time to start fresh and speak from the heart, right here, right now.
Her desk phone bleats, a loud, shrill ring that insists on being answered.
Cradling it against her neck, she answers, waits, and then says, “Oh, fudge sticks.”
More silence.
“It’s in an hour?”
She’s quiet again.
“Yep. I’ll be there.”
She hangs up the phone, bolts from her chair, grabs her purse, and declares, “Apparently, it’s poetry workshop day. My daughter signed me up for it, since shethinks I’m a poet on account of writing press releases, and now I have to go spend the afternoon critiquing poetry from third-graders.”
I wave to her door. “Go. Craft odes. Make words. And please let me know what you have on your agenda. I’ll take care of all of it.”
Snatching a sheet of paper from her desk, she thrusts it at me. “These are the calls I need to make today. You’re an angel.”
I don’t need to possess the soul of an angel to know today isn’t the day for confession.
