“Delivery for Olive Lively.”
I open the door, wondering what it could possibly be since I haven’t ordered anything. “Ma’am,” the deliveryman says, tipping his hat and handing me an envelope. I look down and know immediately that it’s from Thomas.
“Thanks,” I say to the deliveryman’s back since he already turned and is heading toward the elevator.
I close the door in a bit of a haze. I just wrote a goodbye letter to Thomas, and here he is sending me another letter. Before I can stress over it too much, I open the letter and read it.
Dear Olive,
I work in finance. That’s the easiest explanation for something that most people find terribly dull. I enjoy the work. I enjoy taking companies that are struggling and turning them into moneymakers. Though I have to admit lately, I find myself distracted from my work by outside pursuits.
Funny how quickly something can turn a person’s head.
I know you said you’re an author, I’m curious about what you’re working on. Can I ask that? I don’t know theetiquette for these kinds of things. I’m interested to hear about it though.
I’ll be completely transparent with you. I didn’t put much faith in Rita’s abilities to find me a perfect match. I have to say, I’m quite pleased with her work.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours,
Thomas
Fuck. Me.
Guilt screams through my system. I reread the letter, wondering what kind of outside pursuits could turn a man like him away from his work… could it be me? Surely not. We’ve barely exchanged any letters. At this point, we are virtual strangers.
Then why do I find myself wanting to respond? Wanting to answer his questions and tell him about my book. He’s so much like Harrison it’s uncanny. That thought is enough to have me addressing the letter to Thomas.
I can’t do this.
Harrison is the one that I want. No matter how it ends.
I quickly get dressed and catch a cab to Rita Matches. Thankfully, Rita is with a client so she can’t sneak out of her office to see me. I leave my letter with her assistant and escape quickly.
As soon as I’m back home, I sit down at my computer and start to write. I’m at a pivotal moment in the book where my heroine catches the hero in a sketchy situation. This is the point that will test their love. It’s time to make my readers hate mein the best way. Time to make them bleed over the characters breaking up and hating themselves and each other for it.
Hours later, my door opens and closes as Zoe lets herself in. She takes one look at me sitting cross-legged on the couch with my computer on my lap, typing away, and leaves. I’m not sure how much time passes, but Zoe comes back with a pizza and a bottle of wine.
“Time to eat,” she announces.
I pull myself away from the computer screen and give her a dirty look. She holds her hands up in a calming manner.
“When was the last time you ate?” she asks.
“Waffles this morning,” I grumble.
“Then it’s definitely time to eat.”
She grabs my computer and sets it aside, then drops the pizza box on my lap. The smell of greasy, cheesy goodness has my stomach grumbling. I open the box and salivate at the sight of my favorite—ham and black olives with extra cheese. Zoe knows me so well.
“I take it that the book is going well?” she asks.
“Very well. My muse won’t shut up.”
“That’s awesome, Olive. I’m so glad you’re back on track.”
“Me too.” I take a huge bite of pizza.
