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I frown. “Aren’t editors supposed to be old?”
“What? Oh. No, Noah’s a little younger than you. But he’s basically publishing royalty. Everything he touches turns into gold.”
You’re already gold, I think.
Hazel clambers out of the car and joins Sarah and Noah at the table. Noah stands to hug her in greeting.
“Easy asshole,” I mutter. “She’s married.”
Someone behind me honks, jolting me out of my moment of jealousy.
I drive away, telling myself I have no right to feel possessive. If Hazel finds someone else who can help her with her career, it’s fine. If she finds a guy who can give her something real when our six months are up, it’s great.
Absolutely fucking great.
I clench the steering wheel and drive away.
* * *
Three hourslater I’m back home, working in the living room. Normally I’d work in my office, but this way I’ll notice as soon as Hazel gets home.
Not that I’m waiting for her.
I go back to my laptop.
Twelve minutes later, when I finally hear the sound of a key in the lock, I don’t look up. “How’d it go?” I ask, with a casualness I don’t feel.
“I...I don’t know.” Hazel sounds uncertain in a way that’s not like her.
I glance up as she wanders into the living room and settles onto the couch. She’s lost in her own thoughts, and I find myself eager to know what she’s thinking.
“Is there a specific offer on the table, or was this more of a networking thing?” I ask.
“He wants to hire me to help some difficult celebrity clients write their memoirs. It’s basically what I’m doing for you,” she says.
“Well, notexactlywhat you’re doing for me,” I drawl, earning a reluctant smile from her.
I feel a spurt of victory.
“A month ago, this would have been the answer to my prayers. Steady, good paying writing work for at least the next year and a half. Maybe longer,” Hazel says, nonplussed. “The people I’m writing for are interesting. Noah’s an amazing editor. Short of getting my novel published, this is the best possible job I could have hoped for.”
“And yet, you don’t sound thrilled.”
She shrugs, chewing her lip.
For a second I’m distracted, because I remember how soft and perfect her lips are.
I yank my thoughts away from that dangerous path.
Hazel stands, restless, and paces toward the window. “I should say yes. Sarah wants me to say yes.”
She sounds like she’s trying to talk herself into eating unseasoned, overcooked broccoli, when she’s obviously the type of woman who should be holding out for chocolate.
I set my laptop aside and join her in front of the window. “Would you rather be working on your next novel than writing these memoirs?”
“Obviously,” Hazel says. “But it’s not practical. I need the money...”
I raise an eyebrow, and she trails off.
