Theclank clankof items hitting a tin container is a welcome song in my ears. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Maple candy courtesy of Grandma Flores.” She plops down in the lone chair in front of my desk.
Clapping my hands together, I do a wiggly dance in my chair. One of my favorite things about my bestie is our insatiable sweet tooths. Between my bakery-owning parents who send pastries on the regular and her grandparents’ candy shop—now run by her older brother—we hook each other up with all the treats.
“So good.” Head tipped back, I moan with the first bite.
“Thought you’d enjoy a ‘Holy Shit I’m Running a Marathon’ treat.”
“I don’t think that name would fit on a label.” Laughter curls my lips.
“This is why I write novels—at least, attempt to. Leave the quippy candy names to my brother. Hector is way better at that.” She bites into one of the sweets.
I frown. “No luck pushing through the writer’s block?”
Like many English professors, Catherine has literary ambitions. Half the department is either published or working on books. However, most of them are academic in nature. Studies of the Brontës impact on modern feminism, literary analysis of translated works from the antiquities andseveral essay collections make up her colleague’s publications. Catherine’s work is less academic, but more important—in my opinion.
“The tension! It’s three chapters in, and they already want to smash.” Head tipped back, she lets out a dramatic whine.
Laughter vibrates in my chest. Besides a deep love of sweets, Catherine and I are voracious romance readers. So much so that Catherine is writing a modern-day sapphic Jane Eyre retelling that explores the intersection of race, class, gender, and mental health. Knowing Catherine, it will also serve the most delicious spicy scenes. Give me all the layered exploration of deeper themes but toss in someone bent over a desk or pressed up against a wall.Yes, and thank you.
“Nothing wrong with a little chapter three visit to O-town.” I waggle my brows.
“Absolutely not!” She waves her finger. “What would Charlotte Brontë say? Itcannothappen that quickly. As sexy as the Brontës are, Jane and Edwina Rochester can’t bang it out that early. It needs angst. I need the readers to scream at the page. Delayed gratification is very Brontë. Not to mention it’s oh-so-sweet.”
“Says the woman”—I shake the open candy tin sitting between us on my desk— “whom I’m eighty-five percent positive snuck a few pieces before bringing this to me.”
“Jensen Antoinette Larsen—” she gasps. “I wouldnever…admit to that.”
“Worst middle name ever!” I scrunch my nose and let out a chuckling groan.
She pushes her glasses atop her short black bob. “Also, it’s my moral obligation to ensure you don’t overindulge on the sweet treats before your training session with Medical Mr. Darcy. Wouldn’t want you to puke your guts out in front of oneof the men you’ve sworn off but somehow got yourself more entangled with by running a marathon with him.”
“First, I am only training with Garrett. He’s just a substitute until Anker recovers.” I point to my right wrist. “Second, I have a plan. Each time I have inappropriate feelings for Garrett, I’m going to snap this rubber band.”
“Are you trying to Pavlov’s dog your crush away?” She guffaws.
“Sort of… I want to rewire my brain about the men I choose, and while I’m working on that with Dr Nor, this will help me check those impulses.”
“And this is something Dr. Nor recommends?”
I pick up another piece of candy and lean back in my chair. “Not exactly. Since I was supposed to be in New York for Anker’s race this week, our regular appointment isn’t until next week. So, I’m improvising.”
She reaches across the desk and threads our fingers. “Take this with a grain of salt from a woman who maintains a borderline inappropriate emotional affair via texting with her high school crush; if at any point training with Garrett isn’t good for you, walk away. I like Garrett. Thesometimesbroody male main character energy aside, he’s a good guy. Anker and your birthday party reinforced that for me.”
With just a few weeks between my birthday and my brother’s, we’ve held joint parties for most of our lives. It was easier for my parents, but I also think it was a little to make me not feel so bad about my parties not being well-attended the few years we held separate ones. That holds true even today. My brother hosts at his place, and outside of Catherine, my boss Andrew and his husband, and one or two random people, the party is full of my brother’s friends and colleagues.
“What did Garrett do at the party?” I ask.
“Miles brought pineapple champagne that I am positive he’d snagged from the English department’s back-to-school Hawaiian-themed mixer they’d had a few weeks prior.”
“But I drank the champagne he’d brought me for my birthday.” My face twists in confusion.
Garrett offered to open it and brought me a glass. There’s no way it was pineapple. I have a rare allergy to pineapple, kiwi, and papaya that causes mouth irritation and skin rashes. None of which happened after the two glasses I had consumed.
“Except you didn’t. I saw Garrett dump it down the drain before he poured you a glass from a different bottle. You know…the kind that wouldn’t result in you going to urgent care on your birthday.” She shakes her head. “Miles really is the worst.”
“I technically met him because of you.” I smirk.
