Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
I take off my glasses, scrub a hand down my face, and sneak another drink of wine before I slip my glasses back on and refocus my attention on the screen.
Just do it.
Newly determined to put myself out of my misery by turning in my Garden of Forever file, I return to my computer and click frantically on Clive and River’s story to minimize it. I don’t close it just yet—because, well…I have a feeling after I get a little deeper into this wine, I’m going to want to “read” a little more to settle my mind before I go to sleep.
With a few hasty clicks into my email, a trip into my recent documents folder, and a simple search, a list of my files starting with “WIP” and ending with the title acronyms and dates populates. I don’t give myself any wiggle room to rethink my next move and attach Garden of Forever to the email and address the message to my editor Chase Dawson.
Click, click. Sent.
There. It’s done.
No more time to dwell. Garden of Forever is officially in Chase Dawson’s inbox, and I don’t have to think about it anymore. Well, technically, I don’t have to think about it until my already scheduled meeting on April 26th with my editor.
But minor details.
Until then, I think I might sleep for the next fourteen days. Maybe wake up occasionally to eat takeout and down more wine and be temporarily oblivious to the fact that I might have to face the career-shattering music that would be my hot editor telling me I’m a rubbish writer and Longstrand can no longer publish me.
April 26th can take its sweet time.
Wednesday April 26th
Brooke
April 26th came too soon.
I sit in a fancy, plush cream chair in the waiting area of my editor’s office, and my knees bounce with the kind of nervous energy that threatens to catapult me into outer space without needing Jeff Bezos’s penis rocket.
My purse digs into my back from its awkward spot behind me, and it paints the perfect picture of how anxious I’m feeling about being face-to-face with Chase Dawson again. It’s not every day that you diddle your doodle to the distinct image of someone’s uber-attractive face to put yourself to sleep every night, and then have a professional meeting with them.
It’s just not that common.
I wrestle the offending bag like it’s a gator in a swamp, and Benji lifts his head off the carpet quizzically. It’s not hard to tell what he’s thinking—you, lady, are a psychopath.
After three deep breaths in and out to calm my racing heart, I finally manage the transition of my bag from the chair to the floor, and Benji lays his head back down with a soft groan.
I know, Benj. I’m annoyed with myself too.
Chase comes around the corner suddenly—not really, I’m just at DEFCON level one—and I startle in the chair hard enough to make it rock onto its back legs. I swear I see Benji roll his eyes from the floor, but he doesn’t bother to pick up his head. Saving his energy, I presume, for when I’m interacting with my crush, and he has to be on alert to make sure I don’t pass out.
Or, if I do pass out, make sure I do it with the kind of grace that prevents head contusions and stitches.
Chase doesn’t notice me at first, which is probably for the best, and I try to remind myself that a lady shouldn’t gawk or have drool dripping out of her mouth.
“Good morning,” he chirps cheerfully to his assistant, who’s stationed at the desk ten feet in front of me. He picks up his messages from her waiting hand and smiles so brilliantly my chest hurts.
“Good morning, Mr. Dawson,” she returns easily.
God, he’s a beautiful human being. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a perfect complexion are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to his Clark Kent-esque charm. He’s tall, but not too tall, and just fit enough to see the hint of muscular bulges beneath his crisp, collared shirt. He also has the algorithm for grooming balance nailed. Kempt, but not super feminine, Chase Dawson might as well be red-hot candy in human form.
He turns on his heel, and that brilliant smile is now focused on yours truly.
God help me.
“Brooke,” he croons deeply, closing the distance between us and kneeling down to give Benji a scratch behind the ears. My sweet canine moans that it feels so good. I only wish I knew the feeling.
“It’s great to see both of you, and I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” he continues, that smile never wavering despite the risks it’s causing to my sanity. “Morning meeting ran a little long. They apparently didn’t get the memo about who my visitors were for today.”