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She’s distracted. Her eyes are wide and she’s riveted by whatever she’s reading.
“Em?”
“Um. Hang on just a sec. Holy shit.”
“Who is it?”
She texts back a quick message.
“Emma, who are you texting?”
“Just someone from work.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
“You know us editors. We work 24/7.” She puts the phone down. Then, slightly more breezily than she should, she says, “Now, while I unpack the rest of these, I want you to go and take a long, hot shower. Then you’re going to climb into your half of my super-luxurious bed. It even has a brand new duvet, thanks to my new side hustle. It had to look Insta-worthy.”
At the mention of bed, I suddenly feel bone tired. “That sounds like heaven right now. Thank you, Em. For being the best friend there is.”
“Right back atcha, honey. Are you…” She pauses, treading carefully. “I was going to ask if you’re going to work tomorrow. Or did he give you notice?”
“When he told me I was fired he said it was effective immediately.”
“I’ll take the day off and stay with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I was thinking about doing it anyway. My friend linked my Instagram account in one of her posts last week and I have, like, ten thousand new followers and four new client requests. This thing could actually work. And I can do some editing from home while I’m at it.”
“Only if you want to. But I’ll be fine either way. I’ll be scouring the internet for another job.”
“We’ll see about that.”
34
I’m not a fucking stalker, but when you’re as addicted to perfection in human form as I am, you have to take certain measures.
It’s going to take a lot more than one little angel-faced meltdown to scare me away.
I know only too well that the scars we carry can sometimes flare up when we’re least expecting it. My own scars are the reason I haven’t looked up in four years, after all. They’re the reason I’ve barely looked up my whole life.
Until she walked into it.
I see her tantrum as a good thing. It’s emotions she needs to work through to get to the other side. And I plan on being the lifeline she needs to find her way out of whatever quicksand is still holding her back.
I’ll do it as many times as it takes. I’ll pull her up, take her hand, dust her off and help her find her smile again. The angel needs me. I’m her rock now. Her shoulder to cry on. Her emotion sponge. I’ll absorb her angst and beam it back to her with love and comfort and hot sex. I’m not going anywhere she isn’t.
Tex mentioned she stayed with her friend Emma when she first interviewed for the job at IE. So I did some research.
I got the information I needed.
Of course I know where Emma Fontaine lives. I know she works at City Publishing Company Ltd. as an assistant editor. I even how much she makes. $54,000 dollars a year. What I’m wondering is how people survive off of that kind of income.
I know the names of the two other girls who live with Emma. Hannah Goldberg and Lauren Johnson. I found Emma’s email address listed on the City Publishing website. Her phone number is listed on her Instagram profile.
The last time Tex ran from me I knew I had to take precautions. I’m so fucking in love with her she’s become the sun to me, and I won’t risk losing her again. I’ll be groveling until the day I die if it takes that long to convince her we’re meant for each other.
So I grab a cab and follow hers. Just to make sure she gets to where she needs to go safely. “Don’t lose that cab in front of us.” I pull a couple of Benjamins off the roll of cash in my pocket and hand them to the driver. “Make sure you don’t lose that cab.”
