Page 41 of Not a Strong Enough Word

Head down, I push my way out of my car and rush inside as fast as I can before I’m able to talk myself out of it. I’m not looking where I’m going, too distracted by my own racing thoughts, which is why I’m absolutely shocked when I run into a wall of solid muscle. I drop my purse and take a step back, my eyes wide as they trail up from a thin, navy sweater stretched over very well-defined pecs. Those biceps are testing the limits of the sleeves that barely contain them. Upward still, a strong neck and jaw covered in a dusting of golden-brown hair. Full, pink lips curved upward in an indulgent smile. Green eyes, sparkling with mischief.

“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly but unable to move. Either I haven’t gotten out in a while, or this man in front of me is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Maybe both.

He bends down to pick up my purse from where it fell on the ground. By the way he chuckles when he hands it to me, I know my mouth is gaping.

“Not a problem.” His voice is warm and smooth, like the feeling of really good whiskey sliding down your throat and settling into your belly. “You seemed distracted, Miss…”

It takes me a moment before I realize he’s asking my name. And then it takes me another moment before I remember what name I’m supposed to give him. “Fr—Falmouth,” I correct myself quickly. “S.J. Falmouth.”

He extends his hand, and I shake it. The rough callouses of his palm scrape deliciously against mine. It sends a jolt of electricity up my arm, which serves to wake me all the way up. This man is hot, and he must be in publishing in some capacity if he’s in the lobby of the press offices. How does someone who sits at a computer all day have such rough hands? It’s patently unfair. But I’m distracted from that question by the gentle rubbing of his thumb against the inside of my wrist, which would seem to suggest he likes what he’s looking at.

It’s me. He’s looking at me.

Trina’s voice nags at the back of my consciousness: Get yourself out there.

If she were here, I’d kick her and tell her to shut up.

“I’ve heard of you,” the man is saying. “You’re debuting at the end of this year?”

“Uh…” God, I wish I had rehearsed some answers to these questions. “Yes. Right.”

He chuckles good-naturedly and releases my hand. “Congratulations. I know. It’s a weird feeling to talk about your work at first. You get used to it. I’m Charles Hall. It’s nice to meet you.”

That snaps my jaw shut. Charles Hall published his first book three years ago, just about when Anastasios Press was acquired, but as far as I know, he was with a competing house. His book was a bestseller. It sold almost as many copies as my debut. Almost.

“Wow, okay,” I say, acting duly impressed. I am actually pretty excited to meet him, but I make the snap decision to lean into the persona of my pen name for a minute. S.J. Falmouth is debuting this year and would be starstruck at meeting this guy, but more importantly, she isn’t depressed, doesn’t have to worry about falling for her editor again, and didn’t leave the publishing world to have a mental breakdown five years ago.

It won’t last. Eventually, people will figure it out. But maybe, for a minute, I can pretend.

He leans forward conspiratorially and winks. “Anastasios is courting me for my next release. You never saw me here.”

“I won’t tell a soul.” I make a zipping motion over my mouth and toss away an imaginary key.

He laughs again. “Were your ears burning?”

That, actually, does surprise me. “What do you mean?”

Tipping his chin upward, he indicates what I imagine is the direction of the publisher’s office upstairs. “We were talking about you, just now. I was in a meeting with the man himself, and he mentioned your book. Must be something pretty special to have Martis talking about you in casual conversation.”

My heart skips nervously, but I maintain an unaffected air. If this meeting is any indication, Anastasios Martis isn’t nearly as interested in my book as he is in me, but I’m not about to disclose this information. That would make my game of pretend far too complicated. “Something like that.”

Charles tilts his head and studies me for a minute. His gaze trails decadently down over my body and back up to meet my eyes. A little shiver follows in its wake. “What does S.J. stand for?”

I open my mouth to respond, but just then, a door opens to my right. “Scarlett,” Ryan says as he enters the lobby. “There you are.”

“Scarlett,” Charles croons. “Beautiful name.”

As if Ryan has just noticed him there, he stops almost mid-stride. His nostrils flare slightly as his gaze bounces back and forth between the two of us, and he crosses his arms over his body, pulling his gray dress shirt tight over his shoulders. His eyes land on my companion and narrow. “I see you’ve met Charles Hall.”

As if Ryan’s sudden presence snaps me back to reality, two things occur to me at once. The first: Charles has no idea who I am, which, from the clear tough-guy image he tries to uphold with his muscles and calloused hands, makes sense. He probably surrounds himself with a bunch of writer bros and doesn’t bother keeping tabs on anyone writing books that might appeal to a different audience.

And the second: Ryan is jealous as fuck.

Looking at the two of them side by side, I can see why. Charles has Golden Boy written all over him, from the carefully trimmed blond hair and beard to his obviously curated muscular form. Even the navy sweater seems to have been selected to make his green eyes pop. He’s an image. A mirage. Too good to be true. His picture on dust jackets is what sells his books. I’d be willing to bet Charles Hall isn’t even his real name, though I don’t have a lot of room to talk there.

Ryan, though, exists in stark opposition. His hair and eyes are dark, accentuated by the black frames of his glasses. He’s tall but not as tall as Charles, and his lean frame makes him look more bookish than quarterback. The scowl on his face isn’t winning any awards for America’s Sweetheart, either.

“I was actually just going to ask S.J.—do you want me to call you S.J. or Scarlett?” Charles is saying. I’ve been too busy staring at Ryan, who is staring at Charles, to realize he’s talking to me.