Page 22 of Read Me (Forget the Past 2)

I shouldn’t know that he watches me, seeing as how my back is turned to him.

My guess is the same way that all that delicious metal pierced into him blocks my helpful telekinetic signals, they also act as amplifiers for his Icelandic eyes. There has to be some supernatural or scientific reason I can feel his stare on my skin because I refuse to believe Cole Allemand affects me this much simply by existing.

That wouldn’t be fair.

But of course, I know more than most that life is rarely fair.

Chapter Eight

COLE

Any updates?

I stare down at the text I sent over an hour ago and again wonder if I should put in the investment to upgrade my phone.

It’s not that I want a smartphone. The way people depend on them grates my nerves. Especially because I know I’d be just as bad if I let myself give in and purchase one, paying for not only the wildly expensive technology, but also the bank-account-draining monthly plan.

Those small devices are capable of so much, I’m uneasy about what I might be tempted to use them for.

I’ve done a lot to distance myself from my past, but old habits die hard and all that.

Only, I’m worried my texts might not be going through. Or maybe that she’s missing mine. Not that I have any evidence that this is happening. Only a paranoia that I’ll miss my chance.

I’m considering sending another follow up when my phone rings. Some of the tension seeps out of me at the sight of my literary agent’s name on the screen.

Looks like my message did get through.

Camila Blake prefers talking to texting, which I’m reluctantly okay with. At least it means I get answers to my questions faster, rather than staring at a screen, wondering if her message got lost in the ether.

“Camila,” I answer the call.

“Cole.” She doesn’t push me for pleasantries anymore, knowing by now that I’m not the chatty type. “I got your message.”

“And?”

“And I wanted to assure you that we have your manuscript making the rounds. It’s good. You know this. And I have high hopes. There are a few editors in particular that seem interested in adding more paranormal-fantasy crossover to their lists.”

“And have you heard from them?”

“Only that they’re reading the submission package I sent them. I’m sorry, Cole. I know you’re wanting a more definitive answer than that. But the traditional publishing process is a slow-moving machine. These things take time. Years, possibly.”

Years. The word isn’t a revelation, but it still twists at my guts.

I need this now. But telling Camila that won’t do any good. She’s already busting her ass for my work. But these long stretches of silence have me feeling like I’ll never publish my work.

That I’ll never find that respectable second income stream.

That I’ll never impress a certain librarian with my author status.

“I get it. Thanks for calling me.”

“Of course, Cole. The best thing you can do is keep working. Write more. Finish another manuscript, and we can shop that one, too. Up your chances. Do you have anything you’re working on?”

Camila’s hopeful tone sparks a surprising prick of guilt in the back of my brain. The only project I’ve been able to concentrate on lately is not ever going to be a piece of work she can sell.

“I have ideas. I’ll send you whatever I finish.”

“Good. That’s great. And you know I’ll contact you the minute I have a bite on your manuscript.”

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