Chapter Three
Jess
I spend the next couple of days waffling. I draft at least twenty emails to Sonia and my pub team, apologizing for the lack of foresight on my part, but oops, turns out I have a huge conflict on the very night of the ball and unfortunately I won’t be able to be on hand to pass out a stupid unearned award to my asshole ex-boyfriend. So sorry!
I stare at those emails for hours on end, but every time I let the cursor hover over the send button, I can’t seem to make myself click.
I tell myself the only reason I’m even considering showing up to this cursed event is because the fate of my career might depend on it.
I don’t let myself dwell too much on the other reason. The one responsible for a little late-night Internet stalking of one Nick Matthews. The one that convinced me it was totally worth investing in the short, tight red dress that frames my tits to absolute perfection. It was a business expense, a necessary one because one quick look at hisgrid confirmed what I already knew—Nick Matthews has only gotten better-looking with age.
Alyssa and Kennedy tag-team checking in on me, Alyssa asking leading questions I refuse to answer, Kennedy distracting me from the impending mental spiral by talking me through the plot of my next book.
The book I should be devoting my mental energy to, instead of letting the soul-sucking Nick Matthews siphon it all away.
Speaking of soul-sucking, my phone chirps with an Instagram alert, and I jump at the chance to ignore my work in progress.
But my breath catches in my chest when I see the name on the screen.
Shit.
Maybe my stalking wasn’t as subtle as I thought.
I open the app and stab at the little message icon.
@nickmatthewsauthor: Hey, Jess. Hope you’re doing well. I heard you’re going to be presenting the Romance Author of the Year award at the holiday ball and I just wanted to say thank you. I’m so glad you were able to put the past in the past and be there for me on this special night. It means a lot.
Wow. For someone who calls himself a writer, that sure is one boringly loaded message. Five whole sentences of complete bullshit. Be there for him? Is he fucking serious?
I click my phone off because there’s no point in bothering to respond to that.
Ten seconds later, I’m punching in my passcode.
@itsjesscarrington: lol. I haven’t put shit in the past, Matthews. I think your books suck. My agent told me to play nice with SVP. That’s all this is.
I send the message before I can really think about it, which, I realize five seconds after the little typing dots pop up, is probably a mistake.
@nickmatthewsauthor: I understand. I won’t bother you again. I just figured I would break the ice before we have to appear civil onstage in front of a room full of people who control our careers.
@itsjesscarrington: Consider the ice full-on broken. I can be professional for five minutes if you can.
@nickmatthewsauthor: I can do just about anything for longer than five minutes.
Ugh. I hate that I can hear the exact tone of voice he would use, heavy with sarcasm. We used to volley back and forth, the banter leading to laughter, and sometimes (okay, often) leading to the best sex of my life.
@itsjesscarrington: Can you though?
@nickmatthewsauthor: Hilarious. And so mature. Some things never change.
@itsjesscarrington: I know you think everything is a competition, but there’s no need to try to one-up me. Don’t make it more than it needs to be.
@nickmatthewsauthor: I’m not a one-upper.
I snort.
@itsjesscarrington: You are the king of one-uppers, Nick Matthews.
@itsjesscarrington: Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m on deadline and I don’t have the luxury of having my pub team bend to my will if I’m late. I’ll see you at the stupid ball.
