I take a step toward her, ready to march over there and slant my mouth over hers, then I realize she’s not alone.
She’s. Not. Alone.
A guy—one I already hate with every fiber of my being—leans into her, his arm linked with hers, his mouth moving as he whispers something in her ear, and now my body is vibrating for a whole different reason. I want to hit someone. More specifically, I want to punch this man who has dared to lay a hand on what belongs to me.
My eyes fall to her left hand, the one absent of the ring I slid on it ten years ago, and all it does is exacerbate the fury.
“Keller, you okay, man?”
I don’t know who asks the question, but I find myself biting out a single word. “Fine.”
It’s a damn lie. I’m not fine. Not even fucking close. My body is thrumming with more anger than I’ve felt in…fuck, I’m not even sure how long. All I know is this can’t be compared to how I felt last week pummeling that guy from Vegas, and that’s saying a lot because I fucking loathe that team.
It’s more than that. This is rage. Blinding and white, and it has me gnashing my teeth so damn hard I’m afraid they’ll break.
I don’t care, though. Let them. I’ll happily lose them all if it means he’ll stop touching her.
“Do you know her or something?” This time, I know it’s Lawson who asks the question, and that’s only because I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so somber before. It’s fitting for how I feel in this moment.
“You could say that,” I say, unable to take my eyes off her even as the guy inches closer and her smile widens. “She’s my wife.”
CHAPTER 2
CHLOE
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Oh, no, of course not.”
I force a smile because I do mind. I minda lot. Going to a random bar on New Year’s Eve sounds like my worst nightmare, but if I want a full-time writing gig atSeattle Daily, I need to learn to suck it up and play nice.
I can hear my mother’s words from our call earlier still ringing in my head.
“I thought this was what you wanted, Chloe. It’s why you gave up on the biology degree your father and I paid for. You wanted to be a writer, didn’t you? Well, sometimes you have to make sacrifices for what you want.”
And don’t I know that better than anyone.
Even though my mother has never truly supported my decision to be a writer, she is right about this. I did ask for this career, and I gave up a hell of a lot for it, too. So I’m going to do the damn thing, even when I don’t want to.
Besides, getting the job will mean my name on the byline every day, a massive pay raise—which I desperately need—and they’ll cover the relocation costs. On paper, it’s the ideal job forme and everything I’ve been working toward, but I’m still on the fence about it.
I try to tell myself it’s most definitelynotbecause Dirk has paid a little too much attention to the way my dress hugs my breasts, but that would be a lie. It absolutely factors in.
For the third time, I curse myself for not insisting on taking an Uber, all because I’m trying to save money on this trip that I’m not even sure will pan out. I guess that’s what I get for giving up my steady job as a lab technician and trading it for the tumultuous path of a freelance writer. Sure, I had a big surge and got good money from the two viral articles I wrote about navigating life after making bold decisions, but that’s long gone. Now I’m banking on this offer fromSeattle Dailygoing through so I can figure out my next move before the rest of my meager wages vanishes.
“You’re going to love this place,” Dirk says. “The perfect vibes.” He grins at me from the driver’s seat of his Volkswagen sedan, which could use a wash and vacuum, the red from the stoplight we’re at casting an almost eerie glow over his face.
The light changes to green, and the second he turns his attention back to the road, I drop my fake smile and sag lower in my seat while he navigates the rainy streets of downtown Seattle. My phone buzzes in my purse, no doubt a text from my best friend, Talia, checking in for the day, but I ignore it in an attempt to remain professional.
I try to relax as best I can with music I don’t recognize playing softly in the background, watching as we pass tall buildings and various businesses, all packed with people out celebrating the holiday.
Once upon a time, that was me, too. I loved New Year’s Eve more than any other day of the year, even Christmas, which just sounds ridiculous. I would drag everyone I knew out to a party or throw one myself. It meant far more to me than openingexpensive gifts or stuffing my face with too much food. It was a chance for somethingnew, something fresh, and that was what I loved about it—the opportunity to begin again. I really wanted to begin again, especially three years ago when I officially stopped celebrating the holiday.
“All good?” Dirk’s words break through the trip down memory lane my brain is trying to take, and I’m grateful for it. The last thing I want is to spend this night reminiscing when I’m supposed to be focused on my future.
I give my head a shake. “Yes, sorry. Just…taking in the city.”
“I get that.” He nods. “It can be overwhelming to a newcomer. You said this is your first time in Seattle, right?”
