“I’m just saying, I think taking a break might give you the time and space to find the inspiration that you need.”
“Deadlines don’t wait for inspiration.”
“You’re Nick Matthews. Not only have you never once ever missed a deadline before, but you’re SVP’s highest-selling author. If you need an extension, they’ll give you one.” She pulls out a stylus. “Now, can we turn our attention to more pressing matters?”
“Nothing is more pressing than the writing, Hil.”
“It’s cute that you still think that’s true after all these years in publishing, Matthews.”
“Fine. Hit me.” I sigh, making it long and dramatic so she knows I’m agreeing under duress.
“The SVP annual holiday ball is in three weeks.” She barrels on before I have the chance to groan in protest. “You are going, as you are receiving an award. I’ve already booked your room at the inn.” She looks up. “Do you want me to book a couple of extra nights? Built-in-vacation-slash-brain-break?”
“Sure. Why the hell not?” I cross my arms over my chest, already hating the idea.
“Great. So as I already mentioned, you’ll be receiving the Romance Author of the Year award, which is the highest honor recognized by SVP.”
I snort. “The highest honor they bestow upon themselves.”
She ignores me, wisely. “And it looks like they’ve asked another SVP author to present the award to you—give a little speech and go over your career highlights, that kind of thing.”
That little tidbit forces me upright in my chair. Of course, there are plenty of other authors at SVP. And as far as I know, she’s never once deigned to attend the holiday ball, though it’s possible I might have missed her since I usually dip out after five minutes and a brief handshake with the president of the company. That fact doesn’t do much to calm the waves of coffee sloshing in my stomach. I infuse a sense of calm into my voice. “Did they say who it is?”
It couldn’t be her.
It won’t be her.
Even if they asked her, she would never agree.
Hilary frowns, tapping some more at the screen and taking her sweet-ass time, as if the future of my mental health doesn’t lie in her answer. “Someone named Jessica Carrington? Never heard of her.”
My elbow knocks into my still-half-full coffee. Luckily, the puddle of brown liquid lands on the rug and not my computer. “Shit.” I jump up, ready to run to the kitchen for paper towels.
But Hilary has already managed to procure a stack of napkins, soaking up the majority of the coffee before I even have the chance to move. She really is the Wonder Woman of assistants. I make a mental note to increase her holiday bonus.
Once the spill has been mopped up, we settle back into our seats. I’m hoping we can move on to the next order of business, but Hilary has other plans. “So you want to tell me why the name Jessica Carrington sent you into a full-body spasm? You guys know each other?”
I swallow, really mad at myself in this moment for the lack of coffee to drown my response in. “You could say that. We signed our deals right around the same time.” Mine came a few weeks before hers, but we debuted in the same year, and had gone on submission around the same time, so it’s not a total lie, though it’s far from the full truth.
“And?”
Damn.
“And we used to date,” I mumble.
Hilary’s eyes widen. “Wait, you mean to tell me youactually dated someone? Like a real live person? You left this apartment and everything?”
“Haha.” I search my desk for something to throw at her before deciding it’s probably not great to assault my employee who also happens to be my closest friend. “Is it really so hard to believe someone would want to date me?”
“No. You’re a fucking catch, and you know how much I hate straight white men, so you know I really mean that.” She studies me in that all-too-knowing way she has. “I’m mostly surprised you took the time away from writing to maintain a relationship.”
My dating life post-Jessica can mostly be summed up with a string of short-lived nothings, probably largely to do with the reason Hilary has just mentioned. The writing comes first, always.
I shrug, though nothing about this conversation is casual. “The two were kind of linked, honestly. We were critique partners who fell in love. We wrote together, reached our first career milestones together. We did everything together for a while there.” A familiar pang thunks me right in the chest. The same one I get every time I think about her. Think about how things might have been different.
Hilary softens her voice. “So what happened?”
I fucked it all up, is what happened. But I can’t rehash that story right now. Or ever.
