Clive looks at me, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“Does that answer your question?” I ask.
His lips twitch. “Not sure.”
“Well, at least you got free coffee.” I shrug as I pick up my cup. “I should get home. I’ve got some work to do.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” he says. “Sorry if I kept you.”
“You didn’t. I’m happy to help.” I stand. “Look, man, don’t over-think it. If she’s the one, you’ll know it. If she’s not, you’ll figure that out eventually, too. For what it’s worth, I say go for it. Nora’s happy — happy in ways I’ve never seen on her before. She deserves you.”
Clive exhales with relief and smiles. “Thanks, Rob.”
“But if I find out you’re playing her again, Trix’s mafia brothers won’t even have time to kill you. Do you understand?”
He pauses, slowly nodding. “Yeah, I got you.”
I grin. “Tootles.”
I exit the shop, leaving Clive looking a little green, but he’ll live. I love second chances, obviously, but I’d die for these girls. I expect the same from their men.
What can I say? I’m a big romance fan.
Nine
Melanie
I take another sip from my drink as I wait. Seriously, how long does it take for a man to read a few chapters? Then again, this is Robbie we’re talking about here. He doesn’t just read my words; he studies them like an archaeologist and some old, sacred text.
I always appreciated that, though. His critique is honest, sometimes brutally so, but it made me a better writer.
He told me he’d get to them after he got off work. Assuming he got off at five, then he’s only been home for forty-five minutes tops. He also works construction, meaning he probably hopped right into the shower to wash the dirt and grime off his tight and toned…
Focus, Melanie.
I pull my laptop closer. No reason I can’t use this pent-up emotion to hammer out a few more scenes before Robbie comes through.
Assuming he does.
Come on, Melanie. This is Robbie Wheeler we’re thinking about here.
Remember Robbie?
Like, really remember Robbie?
The guy who lied to you constantly?
Who ripped your heart out and stomped on it?
Why are we trusting him again?
I let out a groan as I slide deeper into the couch cushions. Is a sweet smile on a chiseled jawline really all it takes for me to forget everything wrong with Robbie? Getting sober was one huge step forward, but one step forward is a small thing on a road of step backs.
Whatever this thing is with Robbie right now, it’s professional only. I’m asking a reader to beta read my writing. That’s it. I’ll find some way to compensate him for his time that doesn’t include getting naked and saying sweet hello to that amazing jawline.
I need a drink.
I roll off the couch and make my way across the apartment toward the kitchen. A few sips of old whiskey should be enough to calm me down.
I pause, standing still in the refrigerator’s light with the bottle in my hand. All those nights together with Robbie, getting drunk on wrinkled bedsheets.
Just one more drink.
Just one more time.
Fuck it. Let’s go all night.
But he’s sober now. He has a real job. He looks more handsome than ever.
He’s getting better one day at a time because I’m not there to enable him anymore.
I put the bottle back and close the door. The force of it knocks a magnet off and I watch as the ribbons tumble to the floor. I pick them up, thinking I should probably find another solution for these. It’s getting too heavy for one magnet to support alone.
I run my fingers through them, and I think about him. Him. I still don’t even know his name. I don’t know what neighborhood he lives in or what car he drives or what he does for a living, but butterflies attack my stomach regardless whenever I think about him. It’s new and exciting. There’s no expectation or baggage.
It’s nothing like Robbie.
I latch onto the feeling as I shuffle back to the couch in search of my phone. Maybe, just maybe, tonight is the night I’ll finally hear from him again.
I tap out a quick message to my mystery man.
Hey. Is everything all right? Been a while…
My thumb hovers over send for a moment before I give in and tap it. The message pops up on the screen, wrapped in a bright word bubble, and I wait. I stare at it, hoping for something, anything that’ll tell me he’s still interested in… well, me.
I keep waiting. I wait until the screen turns off on its own.
I exhale, disappointed.
Well, shit.
Maybe it is like Robbie.
Ten
Robbie
Roger stares at me across the table at Moira’s Cafe. He slowly leans forward and sets his elbows on the table, bringing his fingers together in a steeple in front of him.
Judgment teems from his eyeballs. “Robbie,” he finally says, “do you know what emotional manipulation is?”
I laugh. “Oh, come on.”
“Do you?”
“I am not emotionally manipulating Melanie.”
His face screws up. “Aren’t you, though?”
“Maybe it looks that way on the surface, but no one knows Melanie Rose like I know Melanie Rose, all right? This is necessary.”
Roger sits back, arms crossed. “Why?” he asks.
“Melanie needs to be pushed,” I say. “The best way to do that is to show her
