CHAPTER 6
ALI
Thursday takes forever to arrive. Darla’s back in the city from her West Coast conference, and she wants to meet today so that we can go over my contract and make a final decision on whether we’re going to sign it.
“Hi,” I say when I see her. My tiny, redheaded superstar of an agent takes the seat across from me at our favorite New York City café. This is where I signed her agency contract, where we spent hours going over my manuscript, and it’s the perfect place to finally sign a publishing contract. If that’s what we decide to do.
“How are you, Ali? How are you feeling?”
I play with my hands nervously. “Anxious,” I admit. “It all feels so real. Being a published author has been my dream since I started writing princess stories in second grade. And now… I’m almost there.”
Darla beams at me. Having an agent like her has been amazing. I had a few offers when I was starting out, but Darla’s personality and her friendliness won me over. She’s an amazing businessperson and an amazing person. We work together perfectly, and I adore her.
“How did the meeting go last week?”
I blush, but I don’t think Darla notices. There’s no way I can tell her I slept with the CEO. She would probably take the contract and destroy it. She certainly wouldn’t let me go to Chris’s office tomorrow.
“It went well,” I lie glibly. “Jenny and the CEO, Chris, they’re both really passionate about the project. They want to publish my book. Chris even said that there wouldn’t be a lot of edits for me to do.”
“That’s great, Ali. It sounds like we’ve found the perfect place.”
“I think we have.”
“Well, let’s not beat around the bush then.” Darla pulls a stack of paper from her briefcase and lays it on the table in front of us. “This is an incredible contract. We’d be crazy not to sign it.”
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it’s trying to fight its way out of my chest. “What?”
Darla puts her hand over mine. “I negotiated some better terms. Different rights agreements and more percentage points on royalties. This contract is one of the best I’ve ever seen. Carmichael Publishing wants you and we should want them back.”
“I do,” I say breathlessly. “You know they’ve been my number one since we started submitting.”
“I know. So what do you say? Are you ready to sign?”
I smile and take the pen from the table. “You promise this is a good contract and I’m not signing my life away? Like they won’t be asking for my firstborn child and pinkie finger next?”
Darla cackles with laughter.
“I promise. I wouldn’t lead you wrong, sweetheart. You’re like a daughter to me.”
I know she wouldn’t. An agent gets paid when the author gets paid. It’s in her best interest to get me a good contract because she would be screwed over by a bad contract, too.
Darla pushes the sheaf of paper to me, and I sign the flagged pages. When it’s done, I sit back and let out a deep, cleansing exhale. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I sent my first query letter. And now I’m going to be a published author.
“This is it, girlie. Do you want me to run this contract over to Carmichael right now?” Darla asks, already starting to pack up her bag.
“No,” I say, careful not to sound too desperate. “Jenny and Chris asked me to stop by with it tomorrow.”
Darla shrugs. “Okay. I’ll leave it with you, then.” She places my newly signed contract into a folder and pushes it across the table to me before checking the time on her watch. “Listen, I hate to sign and ditch, but I have another meeting in twenty minutes. This is what I get for leaving town for two weeks. I’ve been in meetings all week. I need a drink.”
I giggle.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
She wriggles her brows at me.
“A mimosa it is then. Definitely,” my agent says with a laugh. “Give me a call after you meet with Carmichael Publishing tomorrow.”
We stand, and Darla blows air kisses before running out of the café for her next meeting. I still have coffee and a muffin left, so I sit back down and finish my meal.
Reading through my manuscript that night, my brow furrows. I haven’t read it since Darla started submitting it to publishers. The last thing I want to be is conceited, but as I’m going over my own work, I end up crying with the characters. My writing is powerful. I’m good at this, and a rush of gratitude and elation fills my heart.
Plus, with the help of Carmichael Publishing, more people are going to see my talent. The company’s going to market me and turn my life upside down, making me into one of the Thirty Under Thirty new must-read new authors. I can’t wait, and with a contented sigh, turn in.
But when I wake up in the morning, my laptop has fallen off the couch from where I fell asleep. Oof. These things are expensive and I don’t have the money to replace it yet. Lifting it up, the screen buzzes back to life and I flush. Because oh god, but I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at pictures of Chris last night. The gorgeous man in these photos was literally inside me last week. How did that happen? Plus, I’m meeting with him again today at his offices once more.
I won’t sleep with him again. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. Not that there’s even a possibility of it happening. After all, this is a professional meeting where we’re going to sign papers and do other boring professional things.
Except I make sure to put on my best bra and panties before heading to the train station into the city. I head out earlier than I need to. The train ride from my town into the city is only twenty minutes, but I leave at ten thirty, so I can psych myself up for the meeting and convince myself I should absolutely, under no circumstances, sleep with Chris again.
I walk around the city for an hour, careful not to work up a sweat because the last thing I need is to show up at my meeting smelling like I’ve been walking around the city for an hour. Ugh. Exhaust fumes and NYC garbage don’t exactly make for an appetizing mix.
I arrive at the sleek Midtown building that houses Carmichael Publishing with fifteen minutes to spare. My stomach grumbles as I hit the elevator button to the seventeenth floor. I should have spent my extra hour eating, but then my breath might have smelled bad. That would have been worse than smelling like sweat. Why am I so nervous about going in with my best foot forward? The contract’s already in my hands, and it’s signed, no less. I can relax and let go a little. This is really happening.
The elevator opens onto the Carmichael Publishing floor. The same receptionist I met last week is sitting at the large front desk, phone pinned to her ear. She holds up a finger, asking me to wait. Once she hangs up, I approach the desk.
“Hi, I’m…”
“Ali Hartman. I remember,” she interrupts. The receptionist smiles at me, her face open and friendly. “I’m good with names and faces.”
“That must make your job a bit easier.”
She laughs. “It really does. Jenny is expecting you. Do you remember how to get to her desk?”
“I’m not great with directions,” I tell her honestly. “Can you point me where I need to go?”
“Of course. Her desk is at the end of the row just to your left.”
“Perfect. Thanks so much!”
“Sure thing!”
I walk to Jenny’s desk, and the woman jumps up and gives me a hug as I approach. “Ali! Are you here with good news?”
I pull the folder from my bag. “I am!”
Jenny practically shakes with excitement. She’s a friendly person and I love her for it. “This is amazing. I’m so excited to get to work! I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve already got your editorial letter ready. I figured I’d trash it if you went somewhere else.”
I laugh. “I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
She smiles and takes her seat again. “I’ll get this contract filed and send the editorial letter to your agent next week. I want to give the manuscript one more look before I send you my notes.”
“Sounds good,” I say shyly. “I really appreciate it.”
Jenny nods, her head bobbing up and down like a toy puppy dog.
“Chris wants to see you, too. You can go straight down this row and take a right. His assistant will let you in.”
“Cool. Thank you so much, by the way. You’ve been a dream to work with.”
She grins sassily.
“No worries. You’re welcome. I’ll see you around.”
And with one last wave, I follow Jenny’s directions and end up outside Chris’s door. His assistant knocks and lets me in. But I know I’m in for trouble when I see Chris looking just as perfect as he did the last time we met. Better, in fact. Today, his hair is hanging in a black comma over those startling blue eyes, his broad form draped in a perfectly cut suit. Were his shoulders this broad last time? His chest this deep and muscular? All I know is that I can’t wait to feel those pecs again … if it happens.
I blush, and the man grins like he’s reading my mind.
“I’m glad you came,” he says, his voice deep.
“Um me too,” I stammer
Chris closes the door and locks it. Any resolve I had when I left my apartment this morning disappears. Chris kisses me hard, and we end up on the floor of his office next to a pile of our clothes. Oh god, it feels so good. Every thought I had of staying away from this man flies out of my head the moment he lays a hand on me. Pretty soon, I’m a moaning, creaming mess, writhing on the rug like a wanton whore.
“Yes,” I gasp as he plunges into me. “Yes, yes!”
“You’re so fucking tight,” he rasps into my ear. “Your pussy’s so tiny and unused.”
And both of us soar to new heights before exploding into a glittery mass. Because holy shit, I’ve been missing out. I’d heard sex was good, but this good? I’m ready to sell my soul to the devil for more one-on-one time with this man.
But this is a normal work day, and everything has to end. With an obscene sucking sound, he pulls out of me and just like the first time, I clean myself up in Chris’s bathroom. Oh god. We didn’t use protection, and his semen’s dripping down my thigh again. What should I do? I resolve to get some of the morning after pill. It’s absolutely necessary at this point.
But when I open the door, he smiles like nothing’s wrong. The CEO takes me into his arms again and kisses me breathless.
“It was good seeing you again,” he murmurs against my lips.
A smile tugs at my lips. “Really?”
He lightly brushes his lips against mine in a feather-light kiss. “Yeah, sweetheart. Real good.”
And with that, the man pats me on the butt and shows me the door. As I walk through the office space to the elevator, eyes follow me. I can’t check my dress to make sure it’s on right because that might look even more suspicious.
Regardless, I feel like everyone here knows what happened behind Chris’s closed door. We were quieter this time. Or so I thought. Maybe they heard us?
My heart races in the lift. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe no one knows what’s going on.
Or maybe everyone knows I just did the walk of shame after sleeping with their boss. Again.