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“A moon landing takes precision and planning, Chasey-wasey. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing you achieve by accident,” my sister teases, making the back of my neck flare hot.
“Chasey-wasey?” Brooke asks, confirming that she caught the nickname.
I clear my throat to try to find the words, but Mo has a much easier time, the witch. “Oh yeah. It’s my nickname for him. According to our mother, I had a flair for the dramatic when he was first born and treated him like a doll or something. Even dressed him up in a couple frilly dresses a time or two.”
“Mo,” I say low, under my breath, and without much thought.
My sister grins, whispering, “I guess I’d better stop sharing all his secrets since the two of you work together.”
“No, no,” Brooke begs. “Please keep sharing.”
I narrow my eyes at her, and she giggles. “Sorry. I can’t help but enjoy when someone else is the butt of the joke. So often, it’s me, passed out on the floor with pee running down my leg, you know?”
I chuckle, and Mo’s eyebrows shoot to the ceiling.
Brooke laughs too, realizing she’s now left an open-ended point of interest with my sister to explain.
“I, uh, have a condition called vasovagal syncope,” Brooke elucidates. “Hence, my best buddy superhero Benji. I tend to pass out a lot without a whole lot of notice.”
“Holy cow! That’s wild,” Mo comforts and even steps toward Brooke’s dog to give him a few pets and scratches. “You and Benji and pee running down your leg are welcome here anytime.”
I smack a hand to one side of my face as Brooke’s laugh overcomes the space around us. “Wow, this place really is accommodating of special circumstances, Chase. You were right.”
“Okay, sis,” I declare, moving to grab Mo’s arm and direct her back toward the swinging door. “Maybe you should head back to the kitchen and see what you can do to expedite our food. We’ve been waiting quite a while.”
Mo’s starstruck, smiley face moves from Brooke to me ever so slowly and then fades into realization as she gets a good look at me. I’m on the brink of not keeping my shit together anymore, and for as much of a pain in the ass as she can be, some small part of her feels sorry for me.
“Right, right,” she mutters with a paced, repetitive nod. “I’ll…uh…just go back and check on everything.” My head bounces with excitement. “I’ll see to bringing it out myself.” The bounce stops immediately.
“Mo,” I start, only to be stopped by a tiny punch to my stomach. It’s not even really a blow, but the flinch I make when tightening my abs is enough to make me stop talking.
“Relax, brother,” Mo says with a wink. “I’ll be right back with your food.”
Brooke’s smile is unrepentant. “I like her.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Brooke’s laugh is soft, not the cackle I know she’s capable of, but it’s enough to make her green eyes dance and her long brown hair sway. Involuntarily, I’m broken of all my grumpiness.
“Really? I was more afraid she’d be carrying a scythe.”
Goddamn, her power to disarm a situation—disarm me—is otherworldly.
I swear, when it comes to Brooke Baker, she’s my perfect match…when it comes to work, obviously. The editor-author relationship is an important one. If neither party understands the other, it can turn a good book into a disaster.
But that’s not what’s going to happen with us. Together, we’re going to take the book world by storm. You better hope that’s the case or else you’ll have to get used to living with Glenn permanently because you’ll be out of a job and have to sell off the apartment you haven’t even gotten to move in to yet.
It’s going to be good. Brooke and I have got this. Accidental Attachment is going to be life-changing in the best way. I can feel it…I think. I hope. I fucking pray.
Monday, May 8th
Brooke
As a writer, I know that any good character has flaws. They chew too loudly or they pick at their nails or they have memory issues that prohibit them from remembering new acquaintances’ names, no matter how hard they try.
And I know this is important because human nature is imperfect. If a character doesn’t have flaws, they don’t have realism, and the whole story becomes a one-dimensional caricature of life.
I get it. I do. I just wish it felt that easy to write some wrongs—ha! Punny—for the awesomeness that is Clive Watts—and by proxy of my inspiration, Chase Dawson.
His smiles. His wit. His charming deference to other people’s feelings. They’re all outstanding.
Honestly, he’s so far above the bare minimum I’ve come to expect from men that red flags have ceased to flap in the wind.
After eating dinner with him Friday night, I can’t even say that his table manners are underdeveloped. No, whoever raised Chase Dawson—or my future mother-in-law, as the psychotic part of me likes to refer to her—did a mighty fine job.
