Page 17 of Not a Strong Enough Word

But watching this man regard me with obvious awe in the middle of a loud, crowded bar really drives the point home. If JMP has anything to do with it, this book is going to be huge.

It also probably means that my book is now more interesting to him than I am.

“Yeah.” I avert my eyes, suddenly self-conscious and more than a little disappointed.

“Whoa.” He moves sideways so he’s in my line of sight, drawing my gaze back to him. “That was a shift. Are you not thrilled?”

“I am,” I reply cautiously. “This is just going to change a lot of things for me is all.”

He nods as if he understands, then offers his hand to me. “I’m Ryan Whitlock. Pleasure to meet you, Scarlett.”

The edge of his ring scrapes against my palm as I shake his hand. He brings his other up to clasp mine between his, and he holds on slightly longer than is appropriate for a simple handshake. I don’t dare move as the warmth of his hands seep into my own.

The intensity in his eyes coupled with his hands on mine as he leans further into my space dispels any concerns I just had about how interesting I may or may not be to him.

But, of course, my friends choose this moment to come back from the dance floor. Loudly. They surround me, seemingly oblivious to Ryan standing there as they sidle up to the bar.

“Scarlett!” Katherine draws out my name almost comically as she throws an arm around my shoulders. “Time to move on to our next stop!”

I laugh as she shakes me back and forth. “What are you talking about?”

“We planned a whole bar crawl,” Mandy says. “The next place is the one we did body shots at the last time we were out, remember?”

“You did body shots,” I correct her. Knowing Ryan can hear me, it seems an important distinction to make. “I did no such thing.”

“Because you’re boring.” Ava tilts her whole body back dramatically as she drags the word from her throat.

I can’t really argue with that, so I catch Ryan’s eye and shrug. He chuckles.

Mandy finally notices him, then winks knowingly at me. “Okay, ladies. After all that dancing, I could use some air. Let’s wait for Scarlett outside.” She rounds up the other two, and they make their way to the door.

I give Ryan an apologetic look.

“It’s okay,” he says, sliding a folded napkin across the bar top. “I need to find my friends anyway. But I really would like to see you again.”

I unfold the napkin to see his name and number scrawled on it in ink. I laugh loudly. “This is so old school.”

He clicks a pen and puts it in his back pocket. “A good editor always has a pen,” he says, then indicates the napkin. “I hope you call me.”

Pursing my lips against the smile forming is futile, but I try anyway. “I will,” I promise. Then, I make my way outside to rejoin my friends.

Chapter 9

Ryan

After leaving Scarlett’s apartment, I go straight home with every intention of working remotely for the rest of the day. I wasn’t getting anything done at the office; I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And while I knew randomly showing up at her apartment could majorly backfire, I was willing to take the risk.

But when I get back to my Hyde Park condo and open my laptop on top of my desk, it doesn’t take very long for my thoughts to drift. I have other projects besides Scarlett’s that I’m working on, but after finding out who S.J. Falmouth really is, the directive from the higher-ups has been clear: All my other projects are secondary to this one. They know what a find they have on their hands, and they’re going to put a lot of resources behind it.

I’m glad everyone at Anastasios seems to be on board. I would never tell Scarlett this, but after her dramatic exit five years ago, I was worried she’d be blacklisted in the industry if she ever tried to come back. But it seems, with enough time and turnover and a good enough book, they’ve been willing to overlook it.

Her book is good enough, that’s for sure. It has stuck with me since that first reading when it latched onto something in my soul. I haven’t been able to get it to let go.

That’s not what’s overtaking my thoughts now, though. Every time my mind drifts, whatever I had tried to focus on is replaced with the image of her in those purple satin pajamas, the fabric pooling at her bare feet, the chipped navy polish on her toenails peeking out under the hem. The way her blue eyes looked at me almost as eagerly as I left my handwritten notes on her table haunts me, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I wish she was more excited to see me than my editorial commentary.

I’m still thinking about it the next day as I wander into the office, hoping at least being there will keep me from looking at my bed, my couch, my kitchen counter, the makeshift desk she used to work at in my bedroom…everywhere she lingers even after all these years.

No such luck, though I am able to finalize a manuscript that’s been sitting, almost finished, on my desk for a week. But the whole time I’m reading through the last chapter to make sure my notes are cohesive, I have to force myself to not compare this author’s writing to Scarlett’s. Not that it’s a fair comparison; no one can out-write her.