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Minutes pass, and nothing happens. No movement. No brushing fingertips.
My eyes stay open as I wait for the inevitable. I’d seen staying with Phillip as the beginning of a murder mystery initially. But now? Well, I can’t believe that he’s just going to let me go to sleep.
And then I hear him softly snoring next to me. He was telling the truth about no-strings-attached sleeping? Maybe he’s gay? But those comments…
My mind races through the possibilities other than the obvious one. That he actually wanted to help a girl who’d stumbled into a series of unfortunate events. It seems so impossible to fathom.
As happens so regularly, I hyper-fixate on a single thought, and it leads me to passing out.
That thought?What I would do if Phillip ran his hand under my shirt.
Four
ADDISON
Monday morningat a new job in a new city after the most bizarre weekend I’ve had in a long time is a strange feeling. The movers dropped my stuff off Sunday afternoon about three hours after I got to my new apartment in Brooklyn.
Then, after ordering pizza and picking up a bottle of wine from the convenient store down the street, I passed out. Because guess what? I had to wake up extra early so I could figure out how to get to work, which is not nearly as simple in New York as it is in Kansas City. Subways are a little less intuitive than driving my car to work.
Luckily, I only missed my stop twice on the way this morning. Now, I’m sitting on the bench outside of Loughton House with a coffee and breakfast sandwich, enjoying the warmth of dawn.
My car’s sitting in its five-hundred-dollar per month parking spot, and probably won’t be used again for quite some time. My crocheted laptop bag is at home, along with the ragged backpack I used to carry my basic essentials on the road trip. Both of them are still drying out in my bathroom.
Being a junior editor at Loughton House means I have to be a professional. There are expectations. And one of those is the dress code. Business casual at a minimum. Business formal when giving presentations.
I feel stiff in the light blue blouse and black slacks, but I want to be taken seriously. This is the beginning of my dream coming true. Even when I was little, I wanted to spend my life around books. Worlds made of words that rival the best daydreams. Characters that make you wish they were your friend or maybe even a boyfriend. Ones that you feel connected to in ways that normal people just don’t compare to.
Loughton House is at the very center of that world. There’s a very real chance that I’ll get to meet some of my favorite authors. Hell, I could even edit some of them eventually. How incredible would it be to help coax an author’s vision into something truly wonderful and unforgettable? I may dream of being a world-famous romance author, but the reality is that most people never make it.
I glance down at my phone. A quarter after seven. Still early when I’m supposed to start at eight, but not so early that the doors will be locked. Well, I guess it’s time to embrace the beginning of my childhood dreams actually coming true.
* * *
Well, shit. That was fast. I’m staring down at my new official work computer that has an unedited manuscript pulled up.
I’d expected to go through some training or orientation. Maybe that’s just because I’m used to the college timeline. The first day was just getting familiar with things. I guess that at Loughton House, they just throw you in the fire and see if you can handle the heat.
At least I know what I’m doing here. Just read it, and get it edited to perfection. Turn this unknown author’s ideas into something beautiful. How hard can it be?
As I start to read, I hear a giggle from directly behind me, and I turn to look up at a girl wearing the most unusual “business casual” that I’ve ever seen. A pure white dress with a black corset top over it. White flowers have been embroidered over the corset, pulling the outfit together. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, a pencil holding it together, and wispy strands of her blond hair fall over her cheeks.
“You know it’s only eight, right?” she asks, leaning against the cubicle wall behind me where another desk is facing the opposite way.
I frown at her. “That’s when the workday starts, right? Did I miss something in the non-existent orientation?”
She laughs and sits down on the desk, crossing her legs in the same motion. “You’re Addison, right? The new junior editor?”
I nod and turn in my chair. “That’s me. Is that your desk, or do you just stop by random people’s cubicles in the morning?”
“It’s mine, and I make it a habit not to start work before I’ve had time to get in the right mood. Which means two cups of coffee at a minimum.” She hops off the desk as fast as she sat down and crosses the short distance between us. “My name’s Sera. Well, it’s actually Seraphina because my mother is a nut job, but I go by Sera.”
Alright. That’s a lot of oversharing from someone I met thirty seconds ago. Trying to stay at least slightly professional, I say, “Nice to meet you, Sera.”
I stand up to shake her hand, just like all the YouTube videos told me to. She gets a thoughtful look on her face for a second, which makes me feel more than a little awkward. “Come on. Time for coffee and gossip.”
I glance back at the computer screen showing the manuscript that’s still on the first page and then back at Sera. I feel like I’m supposed to get to work. That’s what James Pritchard, the lead editor-slash-very-serious-boss, told me to do, but Sera doesn’t give me a chance to think about it.
She just grabs my hand and pulls me away from the desk toward the break room, ignoring my mumbled objections. She’s probably the reason that people have safewords. Maybe I should yell pineapple or red?
