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“Jason,” I correct him.
“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath.
This is heading to an uncomfortable place, yet his snide comment irks me.
“Do you have a problem with Jason?”
“I don’t know your ex-fiancé. Except for when you constantly mention him.”
“I don’t constantly mention him,” I answer defensively.
“Right.” He laughs. “It’s obvious you’re not over him.”
“Of course I’m not. I was with him for five years. I’m not that heartless. I’d like to think I will always love him, just not in a way that would end happily ever after as soul mates.”
“You read too much trash.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “You don’t believe in love? You’re engaged. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Yes . . . I am.”
He doesn’t reveal anything else and I’m dying to ask how a man who is pushing twenty-six (thank you, Vicky, for the Facebook stalking) pops the question to a girl he has known less than four months.
Maybe she is knocked up! Oh, this could be even worse than I thought.
“We should get back to work,” I huff.
“So, chapter five. Crystal is a single mother with a five-year-old son forced to work as an escort to put food on the table. I’m worried that those feminist groups are going to bully the author. We don’t need bad publicity.”
“I agree. Perhaps the author needs to reword a few lines just to give a little more background as to how she was forced to become an escort.”
We talk more and jot down notes, ready for our meeting with the author tomorrow. For the majority of our meeting, we don’t argue. But of course, all good things must come to an end.
“I have to admit, this single mom stuff is tough on this character. Glad I ain’t a woman.”
I swallow the massive lump restricting my ability to breathe and fumble with the button on my blouse. This is your opening—go ahead, do it! Yet I continue sitting in silence, chickening out once again. I am such a coward.
“Life hands you lemons, you gotta make lemonade somehow.”
“If life hands you lemons, you grab some tequila and have a party,” he cheers.
“See, that’s the difference between you and me. Tequila and partying is a thing of the past. When you grow up one day, you’ll realize it wasn’t worth all the hangovers.”
He leans in, too close for my comfort. “Funny, Malone, you seem to enjoy tequila and partying that night at the bar.”
“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t drink. You always regret your actions the next day,” I say, staring at him.
He appears offended, pulling back immediately. Straightening his tie and adjusting his glasses, he clears his throat. “You are such a bitch sometimes, Malone.”
“Just like you are a jerk—all the time.”
He shuts down his laptop and storms out of the room without a word. I breathe a sigh of relief. This is too hard. It isn’t worth forming a friendship when soon he will hate me to the point he’ll wish I never existed.
Chapter Ten
Avoiding Marcus was harder than I anticipated. The rational part of my brain knew it was best that I tell Haden before Marcus. It seemed like the right thing to do, but Marcus was desperate, horny, and not afraid of letting me know that. I couldn’t pull the Aunt Flo card out because he gave me alternatives, and seriously what is it with young guys and their thirst for some Back-Door Betty action?
My clothing had started to feel restrictive, and I was fairly certain I could see a small bump. Still small enough to pass it off as bloating. I couldn’t button my pants so I stuck to wearing skirts and loose-fitting blouses. On top of the stress of telling Haden and Marcus, I had my parents to deal with.
