Page 34 of Babies for the Big Shot
Then the bell chimes.
The elevator doors slide open.
I jolt back into reality as though submerged in ice. My pulse is thunderous, my chest tight with the echo of what I almost allowed myself to feel.
This is dangerous. Far beyond what I have allowed myself to acknowledge until now. The certainty of that knowledge settles heavy in my gut.
I straighten my jacket, step into the lobby, and force myself to move forward.
Because if I don’t regain control soon, there will be nothing left of me she hasn’t already claimed.
CHAPTER NINE
Sara
Meatball is tryingto eat my sports bra.
Again.
I yank it from his mouth and throw it across the room. It hits a messy pile of throw pillows with a thud. He huffs, flops onto his back in full protest, every ounce of drama spilling out as if I’ve just ripped away his last lifeline. His tongue droops from the corner of his mouth, slack and ridiculous.
He might as well be starring in some absurd canine soap opera.
“Get a grip,” I mutter, stepping over him to grab my laptop off the kitchen counter. “You had breakfast. You had a walk. Youdon’tneed to destroy my underthings for attention.”
He kicks one leg in the air in half-hearted defiance before deciding belly rubs are the greater good. I oblige, because I’m weak and he’s cute and I needsomethingto ground me right now.
Because otherwise I’m just going to sit here in my new, suspiciously adult apartment, surrounded by untouched furniture and half-unpacked boxes, and spiral.
Again.
It’s been over a week.
Days have passed since that kiss in Nick’s office, the kiss that hit me with unstoppable force and still reverberates through every part of me. Just one kiss. One moment. But it shattered everything.
I felt it. In my knees. In my lungs. In the way my brain completely short-circuited and hasn’t returned to factory settings since.
It doesn’t help that it’s been almost two months since our first accidental, wine-fueled, very-bad-idea hookup and we’ve been tap dancing around it like a couple of idiots ever since.
But this?
This kiss?
It was different.
This time, it wasn’t an accident.
This time, I knew exactly what I was doing.
And so did he.
I flop onto the couch and pull my knees up, laptop balanced precariously as I try, and fail, to write a campaign pitch for athletic socks that don’t ride down into your shoes. The product manager wants something “catchy, but grounded in emotional resonance.”
I stare at the blinking cursor.
Fall in love with your feet again?
Stay up. Like your standards.
