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I was panicked. Embarrassed. Angry. And the words flowed from my brain to my fingertips before I had a chance to walk away and give them a second thought. Maybe I should have ignored it, maybe I shouldn’t have met his condescension with condescension of my own.
Biting my lip, I debate whether to offer him an apology or an olive branch or something.
Dragging in a deep breath, I begin to type out a message. Only before I can finish it, the dot beside his name flicks from red to green and three dots fill the screen.
He’s writing me.
Sitting back in my chair, I hold my breath as I wait for his message to come through.
* * *
Jovie—
I couldn’t help but pick up on a little sarcasm in your previous message. Also, I took it upon myself to research the side effects of NyQuil, which are as follows: dizziness, drowsiness, upset stomach, blurred vision, nausea, and dry nose/mouth/throat. I was unable to verify that accidental Facebook tags are among common side effects. Might I advise you to contact your doctor? It would be a grave misfortune if this were to happen again.
Best,
Stone
PS—Not sure if you’re aware, but The Wizard of Oz hasn’t been giving out hearts since August 25, 1939, when it was revealed that he was nothing more than a con man pulling levers behind a curtain. I’m sure you can relate given your profession.
* * *
My jaw falls.
The audacity is strong with this one.
And what the hell is he talking about with I’m sure you can relate given your profession?
With my fingers on fire, I sit up straight and hammer out my response.
* * *
Stone—
I’m not sure I’m seeing a correlation between a historical romance author and a fictitious flimflammer. Care to elaborate? Also, I appreciate that you took it upon yourself to research my NyQuil conundrum, but I assure you it wasn’t necessary. I’m switching to non-drowsy Mucinex effective immediately.
Also, please confirm that those research hours were pro-bono and not billable, as I did not request your generous assistance in this matter.
Best,
Jovie
* * *
A moment later, three dots fill the screen before disappearing completely. I wait a few minutes for a response that never comes.
Returning to my work, I force any and all thoughts of Stone Atwood from my mind.
I lived with him for a year in college … five years later, I refuse to let him take up residency in my head.
Chapter Five
Jovie
* * *
Age 19
* * *
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you want to be anywhere but here.” A guy with windswept sandy brown hair corners me, a red Solo cup in his hand. His Kelly green polo strains against his broad chest and shoulders, and he reminds me of someone who races sailboats in the summer.
“What makes you think that?” I ask, taking a sip from my third fuzzy navel wine cooler of the night. It tastes like pure cane sugar and chemicals going down, but relaxation sinks deeper into my bones with each downed ounce. Too much of these, though, and I might never be able to look at a peach so long as I live.
Becca’s older sister gave us a ton of random booze leftover from her 21st birthday party last weekend and given the fact that we’re not old enough to buy it ourselves, beggars can’t be choosers.
His lips tug into a half smile. “Because you haven’t left this spot since you got here.”
“So you’ve been watching me this whole time?” I lift a brow. This is the second house party we’ve been to tonight, and as soon as we arrived, the girls I came with scattered like leaves to the wind. I’ve yet to see a familiar face, so I’ve just been hanging out.
“Watching you? No. Noticing you?” he asks. “Yeah …”
“Hm. I’ve been here at least two hours and this is the first time I’ve seen you—and I’m basically a professional people watcher. I think I’d have noticed you noticing me by now.”
“I’m Stone,” he says, cutting through the bullshit. “And I think I completely botched whatever the hell I was trying to do.”
I crack a smile, appreciating his honesty.
“Hitting on me?” I ask.
He sniffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s what that was?”
“I’m Jovie,” I say. “And I’m willing to look past your awkward first impression if you can find me a drink that isn’t beer and doesn’t taste like overripe fruit.”
“Consider it done.” With that, Stone takes my empty wine cooler bottle and returns a minute later with a hard lemonade.
“I’m not sure if you know this or not, but lemons are technically a fruit.” I take the bottle from him anyway and screw off the cap with my bare hands. It leaves an indentation in my palm, but I’m too distracted by the intensity of his hooded hazel gaze to care.
