Page 68 of The Do-Over Girl

KALI

It sounded like a woman’s voice on the phone.

This thought pops into my head far too often all day long as I put the finishing touches on my manuscript, putting aside all the emails and phone calls I need to get to for the APA mission.

I’m too close to the end, to finally being finished with my book, one I’m proud of, to stop working on it, to put the mission first.

That’s how I justify taking the time off. I push my hair from my face as I lean over my desk, scrolling slowly past the last few pages for the millionth time.

Plus, there’s something therapeutic about working on my story that I don’t get from working on business—especially when that business constantly reminds me of him.

Where the hell is he, and why did he go?

Who was that woman on the phone?

And the biggest question of all is, why am I letting it bother me so much when I’ve come to terms with the fact that Nash and I are a temporary thing?

Weare temporary. Aren’t we?

* * *

Well after dinner,he walks into the parlor where I’m sitting on the couch with Steve, showing him my final manuscript and sipping the glass of champagne he insisted we have to celebrate. It’s finished, and I had to share the accomplishment with someone.

“Kali. Steve.” He stands there, watching us. He doesn’t say where he’s been, and I’m still not sure whether I have a right to ask.

No, that’s not true. I’m absolutely certain I have no rights where it concerns Nash. None.

I want to tell him about my book, but his stare isn’t right. Something’s not right. I stand, pick up my laptop, and leave the half-empty flute of champagne.

“Thank you for all your help, Steve. And for celebrating with me.”

“Congratulations on finishing your book, Kali. You have a good one there.”

“You finished your book?” Nash moves in, getting close as I head for the stairs. He doesn’t let me pass by him. His stare stops me, and I face him. I smile because I’m proud and happy about finishing the book.

I nod.

Reaching his bad arm, sling and all around me, he swoops in and kisses me so fast it knocks the breath from me, making me dizzy, making a mockery of my mini celebration with Steve.

His other hand cups the back of my head, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss. But it’s not a savage kiss as much as a deep joining, a statement kiss like, Holy fuck, congratulations, Kali, only with his tongue in my mouth and his hot breath infusing me with his excitement, all levels, from passion and lust to pride and pure joy.

The sound of Steve’s whistle should stop us, not that he’s sending a warning, because it’s more like he’s saying, Wowza.

But maybe it should have been a warning because the next sound does stop us, and it’s not a whistle. It’s the sound of a plate crashing to the floor.

“Shit.” We both say it, shocking from me but mild from Nash.

He lets me go, and I jump back from him, turning too late to make excuses or explain the kiss away.

Charline—feeling more like Mrs. Pike right now—stands there, no longer holding her plate of cookies.

“Nash—Kali! I’m shocked at your behavior,” she says.

I say, “Nash was…congratulating me on finishing my book.” As if that justifies what I know is a clear infraction of the hanky-panky rule. And even when I shouldn’t feel like a guilty kid because she’s not my mother and we’re not kids, I somehow do feel guilty because I’ve disrespected her.

Shit.

Steve hurries to pick up the pieces of the plate, shaking his head as he also retrieves the cookies, now uneatable because they’ve been contaminated with possible shards of glass.