Page 52 of The Puck Bunny

Sara: What if I want to be?

Fuck.

Me: You’re not puck bunny material. You are definitely the serious girlfriend type.

Sara: Except not for you.

Me: Poor me.

Sara: Boo-hoo. I’m going to sleep now.

Me: Sweet dreams, Sara.

I hold onto my phone for a while in case she comes back on, but there are no more dots. No more texts. And I’m left feeling restless and unsatisfied like I was just getting into a good book and someone ripped it away.

The need to finish my story with Sara gnaws at me.

CHAPTER 17

SARA

It’s impossible to go through my boring work day and not think—okay, dream—about Quinn. I shouldn’t, but I keep my cell phone out where it can taunt me with its silence. Meanwhile, the computer screen filled with numbers that I usually embrace and turn into fine productive reports looks like an impossible mess. Or maybe that’s just me projecting myself onto the screen. Crap.

Billie Mae looks at me from her cubicle for the hundredth time. She suspects there’s something wrong with me—beyond the usual—but I’m putting up a brave front by not admitting that I’m a fool by hoping Quinn will toss aside good sense and contact me. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m hoping he’ll swoop in and finish the job he started that night and then… I shut down any thought of what could happen next.

“Oh, for cripe’s sake.” Billie Mae glides her rolling chair over to my cubicle. “What is your problem?” She looks around and lowers her voice when I shush her. “If you want him, go after him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could get fired and, worse than that, I could ruin Quinn’s reputation and career.”

She waves a hand. “No, not that—you’re both too smart to get caught. I mean to you—emotionally.”

“Oh that. Only complete and utter humiliation by a flat-out rejection, followed by desolation.”

“Exactly. So what?”

I blink. “That’s cold.”

She rolls her eyes. “Because from where I sit, you’re already there, girlfriend. You may as well go for broke because you have nothing to lose.”

I’m not sure she’s right, but I shut down my pesky good sense and go for optimism. It’s my natural state, isn’t it?

“Maybe you’re right. What’s the harm in sending him a good luck text before the first game of this grueling west coast road trip? I’m sure he can use the moral support.”

“It’s a start,” she says, unimpressed with my plan to go for it.

Martha walks by wearing a new Brawlers’ hat and Billie Mae slides back to her cubicle with a wave.

“Nice hat, Martha.”

She smiles and scurries past me.

I don’t waste any time executing my newly-formed plan with my newfound courage because it’s as fragile as it is new. Snatching up my phone, I tap in my message fast and then, for a brief second, I prevaricate, holding my breath. There’s no harm in telling him good luck; I can’t get fired for that and the media won’t make mountains out of that small molehill.

Letting out my breath, I hit Send.

Then my vigil starts. Waiting for the response is excruciating.

And maybe… a little… desperate? After all, Quinn could have any woman in the world he wants. Hell, even a gorgeous princess is after him, yet, he’s not interested. And he’d told me that he’s not interested in anyone, so why on Earth would I expect him to care if I text him or not?