by Leisa Rayven
He stares for a few seconds then shakes his head. “Nothing. Never mind. The past is dead. No use wasting our time giving CPR to its rotting corpse. Besides, there’s no arguing with you. You’ll always think you’re right, even when you’re not.”
I shake my head over his delusion, and my reaction to it. How can we slip back into these roles so seamlessly? It’s as if no time has passed between us. We’re both as angry with each other as we ever were, which is quite the accomplishment considering how much time has passed.
“I can’t believe how little you’ve changed. Even at your worst in high school, I always thought your asshole attitude was just a phase. Something you’d eventually outgrow.”
“I thought the same thing about your self-righteousness, so I guess we were both wrong. Don’t you ever get tired of thinking you’re better than everyone else?”
“Not everyone. Just you.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten.”
Jake downs the two remaining shots in front of him in quick succession. Then he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Okay, well, I’d love to stay here all night and trade insults like old times, but I have a meeting with my new publisher in the morning, so I need to get my beauty sleep. I want to make a good impression. I hear my new editor is a real bitch.”
That makes me burst out laughing.
“Oh, no,” I say. “If you think I’m going to edit this book now that I know you’re the professor, you’re insane.”
He stands and pulls on his coat. “Too late. We’ve already sealed the deal, remember? Serena sent me through the contracts this afternoon.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t stipulate a specific editor.”
“Yes, it does.”
I stare at him as a prickle of unease hits me. “What?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says as he pulls some paper from his jacket pocket. “Right after our little conference call this morning, I had a private chat with Serena and told her I wanted it written into my contract that you would be my editor or the deal was off. She was more than happy to oblige.”
He slaps the papers down on the table and points to a provision in the contract where my name is printed, clear as day. “I signed them and emailed them back right before I came here to meet you.” He flicks to the back page, and there it is, his signature and today’s date.
He folds up the papers and slides them back into his pocket. “So as you can see, starting tomorrow, you’re contractually obligated to be nice to me. This is going to be fun, right? You and me together again, just like the good old, bad old days.”
I’m too shocked to say anything, and when he sees he has me beaten, he gives me a smug smile.
“Okay, then, princess. See you in the morning.” He leans down, and whispers in my ear, “And if I were you, I’d stop drinking now. Don’t want you to make a bad impression on your new author by showing up hungover, right?”
With that, he turns on his heel and strides out of the bar.
I sit there with my mouth open in shock for five long, fury-building seconds before I grab my phone and purse and hurry after him.
_______________
Trying to hustle down a busy Brooklyn street is bad enough, let alone in a super-tight pencil dress and four-inch heels. But when you’re slightly drunk and trying to catch up with a man whose legs are roughly the length of the Mississippi, things get plain ridiculous.
“Stone!”
He doesn’t stop, even though I’m damn sure he heard me.
I move faster, and the chill in the air makes me suddenly aware I’ve left my coat back at the bar.
Shit, damn, crap. That one was my favorite.
As if to punish me for my forgetfulness, a gust of icy wind blows off the East River, whipping my hair around and making me shiver. I consider letting the Jake thing go for the sake of rescuing my beloved Burberry, but I’ll be forced to be civil with him tomorrow, and I have a few dinosaur-sized bones to pick with him before that happens.
“Jacob Anthony Stone! Don’t act like you don’t hear me. It didn’t work when we were five and it’s not going to work now.”
He stops, and with a frustrated hunch of his wide shoulders, turns to face me.
“Go home, princess. I have nothing more to say to you.”
I stop in front of him, embarrassingly out of breath for power-walking such a short distance. Damn my pathetic fitness levels.
“Well, I have a crapload to say to you. The most important of which is to stop calling me princess.” That used to be his go-to insult back in the day. I’m annoyed it still needles me. “Also, I don’t know if you remember the past half hour or so, but you and I can’t stand to be in the same room together, even with alcohol. So how the hell do you think we’re going to survive working on this book for months on end?”
He shrugs. “People who hate each other work together all the time.”
“Not writing a book. For this process to work, we need trust, and … God, I don’t know … a certain level of intimacy. We don’t have either of those things.”
He frowns. “Are you propositioning me again, princess? I mean, I let the whole boob-flash thing go because there’s a slight possibility that it was an accident––”
“It was an accident!”
“Sure it was. And now you’re saying you want to be intimate with me? Well, that’s just a level of unprofessionalism I’m not comfortable with.”
“Oh, have no fear, Jake. You could point a gun to my head, and I’d still find it impossible to be attracted to you.”
“That’s not how you felt on prom night.”
“For the last time, I didn’t kiss you!”
Another gust of wind hits me, and I suppress a full-body shiver as I adjust my position so that he’s blocking the worst of it. Of course, he’s wearing a sheepskin-lined coat that probably feels like a field of warm puppies on a summer’s day. It’s bad enough that I’m trying to maintain the high ground while staring up at him. That my fingers and nose feel like they’re turning blue isn’t helping me project fierceness.
“Damn,” Jake says, touching my frozen fingers. “You’re freezing.”
I pull back my hands and shove them under my armpits. “I’m fine.”
The wind whips around us, stirring up random trash from the gutter. Now I’m so cold, my teeth chatter when I breathe.
Jake frowns at me. “Where the hell is your coat?”
“Left it at the bar. Doesn’t matter. Jake, please, let someone ––anyone else––edit your book. I’m begging you.”
Ignoring my pleas, he shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to me. “Take this before people start thinking you’re a tiny, red-headed ice giant.”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m good.” Normally, I’d give a guy props for referencing Thor, because he’s one of my favorite superheroes. But coming from Jake, it’s just irritating.
“Asha, you’re shivering.”
“And you’re changing the subject. Promise me you’ll go in there tomorrow and tell Serena you want a different editor.”
“No can do. Take the jacket.”
He stares at me, and I stare back. Yes, his jacket would be crazy-warm, but I’d Lady Godiva my way through an arctic blizzard before allowing myself to be indebted to him.
He moves toward me. “Okay, I guess we’re doing this the hard way.”
I hold up my hand. “That’s close enough. I think you’ve forgotten my extensive Tae Kwon Do training.”
He ignores my threat and steps well inside my buffer zone. “And you’ve forgotten that I’m about a hundred pounds heavier than you and could snap you like a twig.”
Without waiting for permission, he roughly drapes the coat around my shoulders. As he pulls it into place, he mutters, “You always were too goddamn stubborn for your own good.”
I look up at him. “Unless you want me to start calling you Mr. Pot, maybe don’t chime in on the stubbornness of others.”
He steps back and points to the coa
t. “Put your arms through.”
I try to resist, but the wool is so soft and deliciously warm, I last a grand total of two seconds before shoving my hands through the sleeves. I almost sigh in relief when I’m engulfed in his lingering body heat.
As my shivering ceases, he looks at me expectantly. “Better?”
I give a shrug. “I’d say thank you, but you’d probably mock me for it.”
“I probably would.”
He starts walking again, and I scramble to keep up. “Wait, we haven’t finished our discussion.”
“Yes, we have. I’m going home.”
“So, you’ll do it, then?”
“Do what?”
God, he’s infuriating. “Tell Serena to assign you a different editor.”
I briefly consider recommending Devin to burden Jake with an equally annoying alpha male, but then I realize they’d probably get on like a house on fire, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Oh, that,” Jake says. “Nope. Sorry.”
That’s it. I’m not usually an impatient person, but this man is pushing me to the limit.
I grab his arm and pull him around to face me. “Listen, Jacob, I’m actually glad you have a publishing deal, because as much as I hate to admit it, you have talent. But I was the one who made this happen for you, so how about showing some goddamn gratitude by taking my name out of that contract?”
His expression hardens. “Gratitude? Really? That’s the card you’re playing right now?”
“Considering it’s the only one I have, yeah.”
He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Woman, you have balls of steel to lecture me on gratitude. You have no goddamn idea what that word means.”
“How do you figure that?”
The disbelief on his face intensifies, and the golden flecks in his eyes are going crazy.
“I could have signed with anyone today,” he says, anger simmering in his voice. “But I chose you. I have no fucking clue why. Probably because of some misguided sense of loyalty from our childhood.”
“Are you kidding me right now? You signed with us because we gave you a truckload of money. If we’re going to argue about who’s the most ungrateful, at least be honest.” If he doesn’t drop to his knees and kiss my feet for getting him a six-figure deal for his debut novel, then he’s the most ungrateful prick on the planet.
“Oh, you want honesty?” His expression hardens. “Okay, then.”
He steps forward and leans down so his face is just inches from mine. The heat from his body sends my pulse racing.
“The ‘shitload’ of money you offered? Didn’t even come close to the other offers I received. So, if all I’d wanted was money, I would have gone with anyone but Whiplash.”
I blink in disbelief. “We offered three-hundred-thousand dollars. For a debut author, that’s unbelievable.”
“The others offered more. One in particular offered much more.”
“Define ‘much’.”
“The exact figure is confidential, but I can tell you it rhymes with my favorite actor’s last name.”
He stares me down. It’s a test. Do I still remember useless crap about him? Sadly, I do.
“Your favorite actor is Nathan Fillion.”
“Bingo.”
I pause as creeping disbelief makes a home on my face. “A million dollars? That’s what another publisher offered you?”
“Yes.”
I feel like all the blood in my veins freezes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m really not. So don’t act like you’re my beneficent benefactor, showering down cash from on high. If anyone owes a debt of gratitude here, it’s you to me.”
“A million dollars.” I breathe out the words like an asthmatic in need of oxygen. Suddenly, our paltry three-hundred-grand seems pale and sickly in comparison.
“Why?” I ask, looking up into his face. “Why would you pass that up to sign with us?”
He leans back a little. “Maybe I thought the opportunity to torture you every day was too good to ignore.”
“You sacrificed seven-hundred grand to annoy me?”
“Oh, but princess, the value of annoying you is priceless. And besides, you can’t talk. You’re proposing sacrificing a major career promotion to avoid me.”
He has a point, but no promotion is worth the amount of angst working with him would bring.
“There’ll be other promotions,” I say, with a lack of conviction.
He looks up as if praying for patience, then back to me. “Well, you’re stuck with this one, because I sacrificed more money than I’ve ever dreamed of today, so you could help me write a goddamn book. Not someone who’s never met me. Not someone who doesn’t know every single fucked-up thing about me. You. So stow whatever shit you have left over from our past and bring your A-game, because if I crash and burn on this thing, I’m taking you with me.”
We glare at each other for a few seconds, but it’s clear that no matter what I do, I’m not changing his mind. He really is the most stubborn ass I’ve ever met.
Well, screw it. I give it a week of us working together before he realizes what a mammoth mistake he’s made and begs Serena for a different editor. If that happens, then I’d get to keep the promotion and my sanity.
This isn’t over.
I break eye contact and slip off his jacket before holding it out to him. “Fine, then. I guess we’re done here.”
“Don’t be stupid, Asha. You’ll freeze. Give it back to me tomorrow.”
“No, thank you. Besides, the stench of your cologne is giving me a headache.”
That’s not even a little true. Whatever mannish scent he uses is divine. Damn him straight to hell for smelling so good.
With a weary shake of his head, he grabs the coat. “Fine. Can’t wait to see you gush about me in front of your bosses in the morning.”
“Well, I did do that year in drama club. I have some experience with pretending.”
He throws me one last glare before turning away and striding down the street. He’s only gotten a dozen yards when he comes to a dead halt, and for a second I think he’s going to come back and yell at me some more. But after a few tense seconds, he clenches and unclenches his hands and then continues on his way.
Oh, that went so very well. Good job, Ash. You should join the UN Peacekeepers.
Angry, embarrassed, and more than a little annoyed at myself for falling back into old confrontational habits, I stare at his back until he disappears. Then I drop my head and let out a noisy breath, which blooms into an expanding cloud in the cold air.
I wrap my arms around myself and look back the way I came. I’m several blocks from the bar now, and I have to decide whether I should brave the cold to go back and grab my coat, or go down the stairwell right in front of me to the warmth of the subway station.
I decide on the latter.
I can always call the bar and see if I can retrieve it tomorrow. If only regaining my dignity in the face of tonight’s epic professional meltdown was so simple.
NINE
____________________
The Butthole Next Door
EVEN THOUGH MY SUBWAY stop is only an eight-minute walk from my apartment, by the time I get home, I’m frozen to the bone. As I shiver through the front door and into the living room, I’m surprised to find Eden and Joanna there, halfway through a bottle of Shiraz as they watch a dating show.
Eden glances at me with concern when I hightail it into my bedroom to grab my blanket. Within seconds, she appears in my doorway.
“Hey, what happened to you? How did the meeting go with the professor? Was he as hot as you thought? Want some wine?”
I wrap the cover around my shoulders and kick off my shoes. “To answer your rapid-fire questions in order: Forgot my jacket; horribly; hell, no; and fuck, yes.”
I shuffle out and collapse onto the couch next to Joanna as Eden grabs another glass from the kitchen.
“What do you mean horribly?” Joanna asks, as she pulls her
knees up to give me more room. “Did you two not get along?”
“Not in the least.” I can still feel the tension in my muscles. God, what a debacle.
Eden fills the wine glass nearly to the brim, and when she passes it over, I take it gratefully with both hands. The cold weather seems to have completely sobered me. Can’t have that.
“Well, that’s just crazy.” Eden sits on the edge of the closest chair and scowls. “What the hell is wrong with this professor guy? You’re freaking gorgeous, smart, and funny … how could he not like you? Are you sure you weren’t misreading things?”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
As I take another sip of warming wine, the blanket falls off my shoulder. Joanna leans forward and pulls it up. “So, he wasn’t a scorching epitome of manhood with the petal-soft soul of a poet? How can that be? His pictures were like an encyclopedia of hotness. That jaw. That body. That poor, wounded heart.”
I let out a shuddery sigh as feeling finally returns to my fingers. “You’d probably think he was hot, Jo. Personally, I’d be more attracted to any member of the Insane Clown Posse.”
Eden narrows her eyes at me. “Whoa. He must be a piece of work.”
“Oh, my God,” Joanna says, clutching her chest. “Don’t tell me he was a … hipster? Did he wear a vest with no shirt? Dress shoes without socks?” She takes in a horrified breath. “Oh, dear sweet holy Apollo, did he wear meggings and a man-dress?”
“He’s not a hipster, Jo.”
“Serial-vaper?”
“No.”
“Metro-lumberjack.”
“No, God, stop.” I run my fingers through my hair. I can’t believe I wasted thirty minutes styling it in an effort to impress the professor. That’s time I’ll never get back.
“Then what?” Eden asks, almost as uptight as Joanna at this point. “Seems to me that up until now you were harboring a serious crush on the guy, physically and mentally. What did he do that put him on your shit list?”
I take another swig of wine and swallow hard. “He turned out to be Jacob.”
For a moment, Eden is confused. “Uh … is that a new term I’m not familiar with? What’s a Jacob?”
“Jacob,” I say, pointedly. The words My Jacob, echo in my brain, but I clamp my mouth shut before I can say them. “How many Jacobs do you know, Edie?”
