Page 37 of Not a Strong Enough Word

No. I want words and pages and the high of holding my book in my hands, of trailing my fingers over the beautiful cover, letting them linger over my name on the spine. The way it used to be, before everything went to shit.

“We did it,” I said, my grin stretching so wide it hurt as I drank in the cover art, the way the letters of the title curled into the drawings below and gave way to my name at the bottom.

“You did it,” Ryan corrected, but his smile rivaled mine.

I shrugged. “You helped. I mean, you’re in the acknowledgments.”

He flipped straight to the end, his eyes tracking quickly across the page, then slowing when he found it. His smile softened as he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth. “Thank you, most of all, to Ryan Whitlock. Weak words have no place here. Only the strong will survive,” he reads. In one motion, he clapped the book shut, it landed on the love seat, and he pulled me into a kiss.

I want him.

It should be a harsh realization that crashes into me. That’s how it happens in all the books anyway. But it’s not. It’s warm and soft as it slides into my mind and over my heart. It feels like coming home.

His hand falls away from my cheek and he takes a step back. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

I huff a laugh. Out of line. Sure. If he only knew that I can’t stop thinking about kissing him, holding him, having him in my life again.

“It wasn’t.” My voice is raspy and raw. “You’re right. I need…I don’t know. Something else. Something I can do besides write and get in my own head.”

Ryan runs a hand through his hair. It stands out at odd angles, and a lock of it falls over his forehead. “You mean besides watching holiday baking shows?”

“Make fun all you want, but you have to admit that there’s something really soothing about watching cake batter pour into a pan.”

His chuckle is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever heard, and the sound of it draws my own rusty laugh out of me. We linger in the light humor, mirroring each other’s smiles, our eyes locked as if neither of us wants to look away. The earlier tension between us isn’t broken, but it’s subdued—a candle flame rather than a roaring bonfire.

We both open our mouths to speak at the same time, then laugh again at the awkwardness of it. But before we can do the You first, No you thing, a loud ringing sounds from Ryan’s pocket. His shoulders tense, and he looks around as if he doesn’t realize it’s his phone making the sound. When he figures it out, he pulls the phone from his back pocket. A glance at the screen has him tensing even further.

“I have to take this,” he says apologetically. “Can I…” He motions to the bedroom.

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” I nod emphatically like a fool who doesn’t know how to work her own body. Get a grip, I tell myself as Ryan slips into the bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

When he’s out of my line of sight, I deflate. I slump against the counter, and my hand knocks against my coffee mug, almost tipping it over. I right it quickly, but my Ryan-induced lack of control over basic movements is starting to get annoying.

I sip my coffee and try to calm my racing thoughts while I listen to Ryan’s muffled voice through the door. I can’t make out any of the words, but the deep tones resonate through the wood. It soothes me.

He stayed. He brought me coffee. He’s here.

Even though I majorly fucked him up five years ago. Even though I can barely keep it together now.

I’m falling for him again. As much as I would like to shove that inconvenient fact into a box and pretend it doesn’t exist, I can’t. The little touches, the warmth of his presence, the thoughtfulness. His ability to see me at my worst and still only think the best.

I don’t want him to leave.

And if we’re going to try to keep this professional, I am royally screwed.

Chapter 19

Ryan

The minute I see Anastasios Martis’s name light up my phone before I’ve even left for work, I know this is not going to be good. I’m glad I excused myself from Scarlett’s kitchen, and not only because looking at her standing there—vulnerability written in the curve of her shoulders and the blue of her eyes—was going to break me into a million pieces in about two-point-five seconds. There’s only one reason why the publisher and namesake of the press would be calling me.

Sure enough, the first thing he says when I answer the phone is, “I have been thinking about this, and I’d really like to meet Scarlett Frye.”

I move my glasses out of the way so I can massage the bridge of my nose. It doesn’t ease any of the tension, but it was worth a shot.

“Well, sir, I’m sure she’d love to meet you, too,” I start as diplomatically as I can, “but she’s under some pressure with her next deadline. I think it might be best to let her work uninterrupted—”

“That’s actually why I want to meet with her,” he interrupts. “I trust you can be discreet about what I’m going to tell you?”