Julianna

“It’s been three weeks, Jules.”

Three weeks and two days. If I learned anything from my time with RJ it’s to never discount the significance of what can happen in two days.

“You should call him.” Gretchen prods my leg beneath the bistro table. I couldn’t stand another second of Oscar’s gloating about the rave reviews my interview was bringing it, so I made her take me to lunch.

Stirring the straw through my iced coffee, I glance out at the hustle and bustle of downtown Chicago and sigh. “I have nothing to say.”

“How can you not have anything to say? You’ve been pouting since you came home.”

“I have not.”

“Holy denial.”

“Not really. I’ve thought it through, believe me.” I’m solid on where RJ and I stand and that’s precisely nowhere. He’s a domineering guy. If he wanted me in his life, he would have looked me up by now.

“Have you? Really thought about it, I mean?” My best friend smiles softly. “Because I’m pretty sure a well-conducted analysis includes exploration of all possible outcomes and options.”

“What options?” I ask bitterly, watching a couple stop on the sidewalk in front of the window and steal a kiss. He brushes a snowflake off her nose and my insides twist into an envious knot. “We were never meant to be. The only outcome we could have ever had was exactly what happened.”

“That’s such bullshit.” Leaning back in her chair, Gretchen narrows her eyes. I’m used to the look. She’s been disgusted about everything related to RJ since I came back home. That I never told her about him, that he ended up being the man she’d wanted for herself, that I walked away... “I thought you were a tougher bitch than this. Smarter.”

“What?” I laugh. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to leave like I did?” I cried the entire way back to Chicago. I’ve cried every single day since, too.

“Yeah.” She nods. “I do know. I also know that when you want something bad enough, you work your ass off to get it. Plan A bombs? You move onto Plan B.”

“This is Plan B.”

“No, this is Plan Bullshit,” she counters, leaning in again, her soft blonde curls contrasting the sharp glare in her blue eyes.

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m being realistic. We would have never worked out. I’ve accepted that.”

“Wrong again.”

I roll my eyes.

“Sweetie, I’m not trying to make this harder on you. I’m really not. I know it hurts and I know falling for him as quickly as you did goes against every sensible bone in your body. But life isn’t always sensible and love... Love is never sensible.”

Love?

“Don’t give me that look.” She smiles and pokes my leg again with her pointy shoe. “People don’t sulk about missing someone as much as you have him if there aren’t some pretty intense feelings involved.”

“He saved my butt. Several times over.”

She duckbills her lips and nods. “Yep. He showed concern for you. Took it upon himself to help you. Protect you, even. Men do that sometimes when they care about a woman. Shocking, I know.”

“He lied to me, Gretch.”

“Not really, and I’m fairly sure we’ve already had this conversation. He didn’t tell you to be malicious—he didn’t tell you because he wanted a fair shot with you.”

“And how was that fair to me? He had the upper hand and I ended up looking like a fool.”

“To who?”

“Him!”

“No, sweetie—you felt like a fool because you like him. I highly doubt he ever intended to make you look bad. In fact, the only people who even know what happened are the two of you.”

“And you,” I remind her with a sigh.

“I don’t count because I love you and I’m biased.”

“Toward him obviously.”

She snorts. “Can you blame me for wanting you to be happy?”

What would make me happy is for the buzz around this interview to go away. Then I could put this mess behind me and get on with my life. Unfortunately, it only went live a few days ago and Oscar has his heart set on riding the wave of publicity as long as he can.

I can’t say I blame him. Despite all of the tears, wine, and sleepless nights that went into writing about my interview with Rushton Cole—and my personal feelings on the subject matter aside—it’s the best article I’ve ever written.

Gretchen said it has heart, something I couldn’t have so accurately captured without putting my car in the ditch at the end of his driveway.

Oscar said it was ‘brilliantly insightful’. A feat that could have only been accomplished by someone who shared a similar history. Uh huh. Shared a few kisses and sharp words is more like it, but what Oscar doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Andrew said the article portrayed Rushton in his truest light. That I’d somehow managed to peel back the layers that have shadowed his image and prohibited him from connecting with the diverse readership he deserves.

RJ...well, I have no idea what he thought. Am I disappointed that I haven’t heard from him? Yeah, I am. Even a quick email to acknowledge that I didn’t humiliate him would have been nice, but does he owe that to me? No.

Do I owe it to myself to admit I fell in love?

Well, I’m still work on that one.

***  

RJ

“Did you read it yet?” Andy’s aggravating voice squawks through the speaker on my laptop as I sit at the coffee table in my condo, wrapping up another chapter. I’m supposed to be working on the book I’m under contract to have finished by the end of March, but I’m elbows deep in something new. Something...unexpected.

“No time,” I grumble, deleting my last sentence and then rewriting it the exact same way. Dammit, I need to focus right now, not listen to his same song and dance.

Ping. An email notification flashes on my screen. Andrew Bishop. FW: Modesty in a Modern World: My Time with Rushton Cole by Julianna LaMott.

“Quit fucking sending it to me!”

Andy laughs and my computer pings again.

“I’ll block your ass,” I snap. But knowing him, he’d just show up on my doorstep with a paper copy instead.

“Read it. It’s not nearly as boring as I thought it would be, considering the topic.”

Fucker. “Is this all you called for? To give me shit?”

“Well...” He pauses ominously and my stomach churns. I already know what’s coming. I’ve been dreading this phone call for the past three weeks. “It’s time we discuss more publicity.”

“The article wasn’t enough? It’s only been out a few days. Let it do its thing.”

Andy grunts. “It’s called momentum, RJ. You need it.”

“You’ve seen my bank account. I don’t need it.”

“If you want that bank account to last until you’re pushing up daisies, you need it,” he retorts. “The market has changed. Either you change with it or you fade away. You choose.”

“I choose to hang up right now. I don’t have time for this.” I have to get this book done. The longer it takes, the fucking longer I have to pretend I’m over what happened.

“When you brought me onboard last year, I told you what I had in mind,” the asshole speaks up again.

“Yeah, and I told you I wasn’t going to do it.” Social media isn’t my thing. Most of the time it feels like a big smoke and mirrors show, everyone pretending to be something they’re not. I know all too well how that shit works out.

“I can’t do this for you if you don’t take me seriously and actually do the shit I suggest.”

“Suggest is the key word there, man.”

“Jesus Christ, RJ. The fucking seal has been broken. We do this now or we don’t do it at all.” Frustration weighs heavy on his words and guilt tugs at my gut. I know he’s right, but right now, nothing matters more than finishing this damn book. “Look, I know you’re still sour about how things went down with Julianna—”

“Leave her out of this.”

Andy laughs. “Maybe sour isn’t the right word.”

“Go to hell, man.”

“Not in my travel budget, sorry.” His chuckles morphs to a resigned sigh. “I’ll give you one more week to wallow in self-pity. In the meantime, read the fucking article.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, my focus already back on the screen. He thinks Julianna’s story is going to light some kind of fire under my ass, but the truth is she did that when she walked out my door.

Her words about me aren’t going to change that.

But my words for her just might.