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My heart drops into my stomach at the words, and nausea sours my throat. What’s going on?
There’s absolutely no fucking way I actually miss Chuck.
Do I?No. Fuck no.
He was my first love. The only one I’ve ever had. Maybe that’s how first love is—a deep cut that never stops aching.
A broken record player screeches in my mind.
The only love I’ve ever had?
I turn to Nico.
He smiles. “His loss. My win.”
ItwasChuck’s loss.If I can manage to get myself on some steady ground, I may win the chance to have something real with Nico.
My phone screen blinks to life, and I abandon the mixing bowl in my hand. I check my email.
“Anything?”
I shake my head. “An email from college with a final reminder to register for fall classes next week.”
Something else to add to my overflowing plate.
I stare at my school email, zoning out on the random announcements until something clicks together.
“Wait.” My heart races like a rabbit’s as I swipe across the screen until I find what I’m looking for. “I sent my manuscript to someone.”
“Who?”
“Last semester, I was running out of time for a creative writing assignment after picking up extra shifts at the Mademoiselle.” The final draft ofCoastal Flingfills the screen, and I immediately spot my mistake. Instead of the name Lily Rodin in the author’s place, it’s Zoe Mona. I show it to Nico. “I submitted my book on a whim, not wanting to get a failing grade for one of the requirements, but I left my pseudonym there.”
“You submitted erotica to your professor? You’re a fucking legend.”
“The asshole was ready to fail me after I missed an exam at the beginning of term. Then the novella only seemed to piss him off. He said romance wasn’t real writing.”
“He’s a piece of shit.” Nico makes his way over to my side of the station, splatters of flour and butter coating his apron. “What’s his name?”
“Professor Miller.”
“It’s gotta be him.” He pulls out his phone and furiously types away until an image of my creative writing professor is staring right at me. “TI Miller. Is this the guy?”
“Yeah, but it’s a terrible lead; he hated my story.”
“It’s still a lead. Besides, your author name is right here. It makes perfect sense.” Nico dials a number. “I’m going to ask Klaus to have his private investigator dig up some dirt on this fucker.” He walks off toward the commercial-sized refrigerator to take the call.
An hour later, we’re back at our suite, waiting for any communication to help resolve the nonsense around us.
Nico’s phone is the first to ping. “It’s him. TI Miller is the owner of MIT Inc. Fucking dickwad didn’t even try to be less obvious. His own initials?Amateur.”
The ongoing tirade doesn’t sound past the ringing in my ears.
My fist pounds against a nearby wall. “Fuck.”
Him.
The bastard. Loathsome, garbage scumbag.
