“I can see that,” Jade responds icily. “What I want to know is why you’re in her fuckingbathroom, Devon!”
“Devon came over to walk with me to the conference!” Mila chirps, sending me a ‘what can you do’ look.
“Devon, what thefuck?”Jade hisses, her voice deadly. “She’s in her dressing gown andyoulook like you’ve just woken up. Oh my God.”
“Jade—” I whisper, but she’s ended the call.
Then a text message comes through.
ROSS: You OK, man? I called your wife because I didn’t know where you were and I was worried. Let me know when you get this.
Well, thanks a fucking lot, Ross.
“Are you okay?” Mila asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“No, I’m not. I need to go, Mila.”
Mila stares down at the floor, shaking her head. But she’s not my concern right now—I have to make sure my wife is okay. She’s probably thinking the worst—that I’ve fucked Mila.
Jesus Christ.She will string my balls up for this. I have to explain.
“Fuck, my wife probably thinks?—”
“It will all be fine,” Mila comments, smiling at me.
I nod, praying she’s rightas I pull open the door, already striding away from her as fast as my legs will carry me. I have to leave—right now.
I need to speak to my wife.
Chapter Six
JADE: THEN: FRIDAY NIGHT
It doesn’t matter how many times Iwillthe words to flow magically from my fingers; they don’t.
People think it’s easy—writing, but that’s because they’ve nevertriedto write a book. I know what’s trending on Amazon, what tropes are selling, the length my book should be, and how much a good cover matters. I know a great editor and have a team of loyal readers who are happy to read my first, second, and even third drafts.
But no one else can writeforme.
I’m not even the kind of author who plans either; I am hopelessly at the mercy of my brain and whatever it feels like doing that day.
I sigh heavily and shut the laptop, feeling beyond shit at howemptythe pages are.
I shoot a text to my bestie, Katrina, who is a lifesaver with me being miserable over my writing. Or lack thereof. She replies instantly.
KATRINA: You need inspiration. Like Grey’s Anatomy. And Indian food. I’ll be there in an hour!
I smile to myself and stretch, wondering how Devon is getting on. He would have landed by now, at least, so I’ll probably hear from him soon. I tidy up a little and stick a bottle of white wine in the fridge—Katrina’s favorite—and then shower.
Less than an hour later, Katrina turns up with Indian food and a grin. We stick Grey’s Anatomy on and open the wine.
“So, where’s Devon tonight?” Katrina asks, eating a forkful of food. She won’t gain any weight; she never does. The girl eats like a hungry Viking, but you’d never know it. She’s all slender with blonde hair and blue eyes, but she’s far from a bimbo. She’s a senior publicist at a boutique publicity firm, and she’s incredible at what she does. It’s how we met. I had hired the firm to help me promote my first book, and Katrina was the person I was allocated. What started as scheduled check-ins turned into hour-long phone calls about everything but the book. Somewhere between the press release and the launch, she became one of my closest friends.
“He’s in New York,” I answer with a sigh. “It’s a fitness conference he’s been dying to go to.”
Katrina frowns as she chews on her food, then asks, “Isn’t it your anniversary tomorrow?”
I laugh. “Yep, but I understand. He got a free flight, a free place to stay, and a free ticket to the conference.”
