Page 84 of Not a Strong Enough Word

I wake up the next morning with dread pooling low in my belly. There’s only one certainty in my life right now: I fucked up. Badly.

Last time, I had no way of knowing that pushing for that deal wasn’t what Scarlett needed. I truly thought I was helping—that if she were adequately compensated for the work she was putting in, it might feel more fair, more motivating. And then she was gone, and I couldn’t fully grasp the ramifications of my actions until she was here with me again.

But I’m not the hero of this story. I think that’s what Casey was getting at with his little “be an editor” exercise. The hero would learn from the past. If yesterday is any indication, I haven’t learned shit. Instead of being different this time, I tried to convince her that things outside of our control would be different. And she was right. They won’t. Not really. Not in any important way. Not in the way she needs.

I try to call her when I wake up, but she doesn’t answer. If I didn’t have to go into the office, I’d stand outside of her apartment with a boombox over my head, blasting love songs until she came outside to me. But I’m on thin ice as it is, so I head to work.

“Hello,” Margie singsongs as I walk into my office. “Your phone rang a few times this morning.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, I frown. “It’s only just after nine.”

She shrugs. “All I know is that it was ringing. I don’t think anyone left any messages, though.”

The voicemail light isn’t on, so she’s right. Strange. I don’t know very many people who would call my office line before nine, and certainly no one who would do that and not leave a message. Maybe it was Anastasios and I’m in deeper shit than I thought. Maybe it was about Scarlett.

“Thanks, Margie. What do you have on the docket today?” I ask as I sink into my chair and try to shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

“Mucking through the slush pile, as usual.” She tilts her head and presses her lips together. “I suppose you probably need a new project now.”

My shoulders fall as I sigh. The thought of going back to business as usual is the nail in my coffin this morning. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Just as the depressing realization that I’m back to editing works that can’t hold a candle to Scarlett’s is sinking in, Trina appears in my doorway in a flurry of orange skirts and jingly jewelry. Her red lips are twisted into a mischievous grin.

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” she asks.

I’m out of my chair in a second, walking toward her. “I just got here. What happened? Is Scarlett okay? Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“Down, boy.” She raises her eyebrows, but that smile is still plastered on her face. “She’s on her way here. Last I talked to her, she was a few minutes behind me. I thought you might want to…I don’t know. Meet her in the lobby or something.”

She’s on her way to tell everyone she’s not publishing her book. I do my best to fight the dread. This is what she needs, and I will support her, even if I’m disappointed. But Trina is right. I can see her. I need to see her.

Nodding once, I rush past her out my door. But before I can even hit the button for the elevator, Trina’s voice follows me down the hallway.

“Hey, Whitlock,” she calls. “Let her do this, okay? Trust her.”

Swallowing hard, I nod again. The elevator doors ding open behind me, and before I know it, I’m descending. My heart is in my throat, and my hands wiggle at my sides as if some of my nervous energy could be shaken out through my fingers.

There wasn’t any real part of me that thought she’d disappear again, but I’d be lying if I said the possibility hadn’t crossed my mind last night while I was busy thinking about how much of an idiot I had been to walk away from her in the first place.

But now she’s coming here. She’s on her way. And I guess I didn’t realize how afraid of never seeing her again I truly was, because the relief I feel when the elevator doors open just as she’s stepping into the lobby is palpable.

Scarlett has always been beautiful, but today she’s radiant. Her dark hair is shining in the sunlight as it cascades in soft waves down her back. She’s wearing a loose-fitting cream blouse that has been tucked into navy linen pants that cinch her waist and flow outward toward her brown ballet flats. And when she turns her blue eyes to me, they sparkle.

The icing on the cake is the luminous smile that expands her pink lips when she sees me.

“Hi,” she says, and with that one word, I can tell she’s happier than she’s been in a long time. It’s a casual word, relaxed. I don’t think I even realized how stressed she had been and for how long until seeing her now, put together and smiling and glowing, tossing me a “Hi” in the lobby.

The weight of publishing was pulling her down, and it happened so slowly, so quietly that I missed it. Not only did I miss it, I helped it happen. Now that she’s about to let it go, she’s free.

I won’t stand in the way of that freedom. Not anymore.

Ten. I count the steps it takes to get to her, and it’s ten. Ten too many, if you ask me, but when I’m standing in front of her, watching her face tip up toward me, smelling her black-tea scent, I can’t imagine being anywhere else with anyone else ever again.

Professional workplace decorum be damned. I thread my fingers into her silky hair and tug to angle her face just right so I can devour her lips with mine. She opens easily for me, and I slip my tongue in to dance with hers, capturing her small moan for myself. As she presses her body closer to mine, we lock together, all of my angles meeting her soft curves. Exactly how we should be.

I break the kiss well before I want to, trying to restrain myself a little in my place of work. But when I open my eyes, hers are studying me softly, and that smile is back on her now swollen lips.

“Hi,” I say back, and we both laugh. God, it feels so fucking good to hear her laugh.