“Was that necessary?” I hiss under my breath, shoving my hands under my thighs so I don’t give in to the urge to flick him as hard as I can between his eyeballs.
The poet he just so succinctly dismissed is racing out of the room with her chin tucked to her chest. No doubt making a beeline for the restroom so she can go cry in a stall.
I glare at Julien.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. He’s going to need to see a dentist after all the teeth grinding he’s done the last few days. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t given himself a migraine.
At this point, I almost wish he did have a migraine. He kind of deserves one.
Julien doesn’t bother answering me, just waves over the next author. He’s treating these appointments like product manufacturing. The more he can push through, the better. But he’s sacrificing quality for quantity. The rate he’s going, he’s likely to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Unfortunately, witheach tick of the clock, the more manic he’s become. And that equals becoming more short with people, more heartless, and more like how I remember his dad responded to me.
As the next writer makes his way between the tables, I pop up from my chair, suddenly unable to stomach the idea of being a spectator to any more of Julien’s icy, cutthroat approach.
“What are you doing?” Julien bites out. “Sit down.”
“I need some air,” I hiss back.
“This is our last pitch. You can get air after.”
He’s talking to me but staring straight ahead. That’s another thing I’ve noticed about this new version of Julien. He refuses to look at me. I don’t think he’s met my gaze in over twenty-four hours.
His jaw ticks again. “Need I remind you, I’m paying you to—”
“Deduct this fifteen-minute break from my fee.” I really can’t be in his presence another second or I’m going to lose it on him.
I storm out of the room, more than one pair of eyes tracking my hasty departure with curious brows rising. Julien and Squire have already become a hot topic—or is it a cautionary warning?—among the conference-goers. What’s a little more gasoline on that gossip fire?
I wish I could say making it outside allowed me the space to take a few deep breaths, but as previously mentioned, the humidity isn’t conducive to such things. The rhythmic crashing of the waves, however, is soothing.
Stepping out of my strappy sandals, I let the shoes dangle from a crooked finger and bury my toes in the sand. A soft breeze whips up, blowing a corkscrew curl into my face. Instead of brushing it away, I close my eyes and take a moment.
My phone rings from my pocket.
I guess a single moment is all I’m allowed. I pull the phoneout and readMomon the screen. She doesn’t usually call unless it’s the weekend, so I don’t hesitate in accepting the call.
“Hi, Mom. Everything all right?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
I turn slightly so the breeze will stop blowing my hair into my face. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Well...” She hems and haws a bit. “If you’re fine, then I’m not sure it’s my place to say.”
“You can’t be worried about me and then not tell me why. What’s going on?”
“Well...”
“Mom, just spit it out.”
“Well, all right then. Sheesh. You don’t gotta get your panties all in a wad.”
There’s scuffling sounds over the line, but I’m not sure if it’s coming from my end because of the breeze or from Mom’s end from whatever she’s doing. I cup my hand around the receiver just in case the wind is the culprit.
“Let’s just say things have beeninterestingaround the King residence lately.”
I instantly go on alert. “Interesting how?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to overhear, mind you, but it was near impossible not to. Mr. King drove right on by tantrum town and parked his caboose into hissy fit city. And Mrs. King, well, I guess she plumb has run out of patience because she’s been giving him the what-for.”
