I wasn’t entirely sure why I was so surprised. I was beginning to learn that, with Ryan Ford, what you saw wasn’t what you got.
“He’s different when we’re alone,” I admitted.
Whitney lifted her brows and sipped from her mug. “That’s very diplomatic of you,” she said calmly. “Blink twice if he made you say that.”
I laughed. “I’m serious. I don’t . . . I don’t like the man, but I don’t hate him. He’s easy to be around.”
“Oh my God!" she whispered with barely restrained excitement. “Are you banging him?”
I burst into a fit of laughter. “What? No. Of course not.”
“Uh, why not?”
“Because we’re not actually together.”
“So?”
I rolled my eyes. “You know we’re not going to magically fall in love, right? Three months isn’t long enough for anyone to fall in love.”
Whitney awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck.
“Well, except for you and Miles. But you guys are soulmates. I’m pretty sure he would have married you after the first day.”
“You’re not wrong,” Whitney said. “But what about Wander and Jack? They fell in love in just a few months.”
“Soulmates. They renovated a whole house together. Even married couples couldn’t do that without at least three threats of divorce.”
She propped her elbow on the table and dropped her chin into her hand. “And what if you and Ryan are soulmates?”
“Then that would be very unfortunate for me,” I clipped as I reached into my bag and pulled out my laptop.
Whitney’s laptop and plotting notes were already sprawled across her side of the table. I shuffled my empty plate to the side and made space to spread out.
“I’m choosing to look on the bright side. If I have to do PR and crisis management with anyone for three months, I’m mature enough to admit that it could be a lot worse.”
“Or you could admit that he isn’t the person you thought he was, and that you actually like him,” Whitney said as she typed away on her computer.
I glared at her. “Let’s not get crazy. He’s still following hismethodto aT. This is a game to him. But at least I got some good food out of week two’s core memory moment.”
The two of us sat in companionable silence for hours, working diligently. Whitney’s fingers never stopped moving as she raced toward her deadline. I got caught up on all the things that would keep me from writing when I picked it back up—emails, social media posts, and ads.
While Whitney dabbled in all different publishing routes and Wander went the traditional way, I was a one-woman show.
Shep liked to say it was because I didn’t trust anyone to do things the way I wanted them done, and he was right.
But it worked for me.
I made my own schedules and wrote whatever the hell I wanted to write. I loved the autonomy of it all.
Still, part of me felt unsettled. I loved a plan and, right now, I didn't have one. I didn’t know what I was writing next or where I would write it.
Instead of finishing the last of my emails, I logged onto the rental website and started browsing. I must have completely lost track of time, scrolling through the listings, because the next thing I knew, Miles was strolling in. His bright yellow Crocs squeaked across the cobblestone floor of the dining room.
“There’s my beautiful mother duck,” he said with a cheery lilt to his voice. “And my favorite bubblegum baddie. How’s it hanging, Willow?”
“Like a piñata. One whack away from falling apart,” I muttered as I typed away at yet another email.
“Nah. It can’t be that bad,” Miles said as he started unloading the pockets of his swim trunks. They were fuschia with yellow ducks wearing sunglasses all over the fabric. One by one, he pulled out little plastic cups full of salsa.
