Novelista Girl Page 2

  His brown eyes probing mine, Nicholas said, “Just think about it, Kimmie. We spend several nights a week at each other’s apartments anyway, and mine is more spacious. Why pay the extra rent?”

  I gaped at him, still in a semi state of shock. “Isn’t it too soon?”

  Nicholas shrugged and ran a hand through his short dark hair. “Later this month will be six months we’ve been dating. Would be longer if you weren’t such a stubborn brat.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he put his finger to my lips and smiled. “Joking.” Nicholas sat on the bed and kissed the top of my head. “I’ve been thinking about us moving in together for a while.”

  “You have?” This was news to me, albeit good news.

  Nicholas nodded. “Unless you’re not taking this relationship seriously.” With a straight face, he went on to repeat verbatim what I said to him after the first time we had sex. “I’m not looking for a friends-with-benefits situation.” And yes, I’m aware I should have mentioned that before getting naked with him.

  I jabbed his elbow with mine. “Okay, I’ll give it some thought.”

  While Nicholas continued getting dressed, I began thinking out loud. “My lease is up next month, so the timing is good. It would be weird living so far away from Bridget, but since Jonathan moved into her apartment, I don’t see her as much anyway. At least your place is close to the subway, and the Village is hipper than the Upper East Side with more coffee shops for me to write—”

  Chuckling, Nicholas said, “You keep thinking about it, Kimmie.” He bent down and twirled a strand of my long, light brown hair around his finger. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. As I followed him to my front door, I visualized his apartment, already mentally redecorating it with splashes of femininity. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on my tippy-toes to give him a real kiss goodbye. At four foot eleven, I was still significantly shorter than Nicholas, who was also somewhat vertically challenged (but hot) at five foot seven. “Get home safely.”

  “I will, Kimmie Long.” He gazed into my eyes for a moment and then gave me a soft smile. “I love you.”

  Before I could digest the magnitude of those three words—words we had yet to exchange in the entirety of our relationship—he turned his back on me and jogged down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of my building, whistling to the tune of “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.”

  “I love you too,” I whispered to the air before closing my front door and leaning against it with a huge smile on my face.

  He loved me. I couldn’t wait to tell Bridget.

  Chapter 2

  “Long!”

  I rolled my eyes. I hated when Rob, my boss and prominent senior partner at the law firm where I worked, shouted to me from his office instead of calling me on the phone or simply walking to my cubicle right outside his door. I was convinced he did it on purpose to piss me off. I had worked for him at our current firm for just under a year and for nearly two years at our previous one. We secretly loved each other (in a totally non-scuzzy way), but publicly bickered nonstop because it was fun and because our colleagues enjoyed the show. I put my office phone on speaker and dialed his extension. “Yes, Boss Man?”

  “Can you please come in here?”

  “Of course.” When I entered Rob’s office, legal pad in hand, I noticed Daneen, Rob’s junior associate, sitting on the other side of his desk in his guest chair. Rob’s legal team comprised David (the paralegal), Daneen, and Lucy (another attorney). Although the rest of them also considered me a member of what Rob liked to call “the squad,” to Daneen I was “just the secretary.”

  She angled her lanky body in my direction and gave me a phony smile, all the while not so subtly looking me up and down. I was wearing a Diane von Furstenberg black wrap dress with bright red pumps. I wouldn’t have scraped together three hundred and twenty-five dollars for the dress if it wasn’t flattering, and I stood up straighter in a show of confidence.

  After returning her fake grin, I turned to Rob. “You beckoned?”

  Rob nodded. “And it only took you half a lifetime to get here. Lost in a book, I assume? What’s this one called, Surrender to Love, Hearts and Flowers, or some other corny romantic title?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I was revising your bills for the month. And I don’t read that mushy stuff, and you know it.” Most of the time. I was kind of digging some of the recent new adult titles, and they were definitely steamy, if not mushy.

  “Yes, we all know your taste in literature is far more intellectual.” Daneen snorted at her own attempt at humor while I glared at her.

  Rob cleared his throat. “Can you please show Daneen the exhibit chart you created for the Orange Essence case?”

  The Orange Essence case involved a dispute over a perfume scent. Normally, I went through the motions of my job without giving the details much thought, but since we were representing Nicholas’s company, the plaintiff in the case, I gave it tender loving care. “Sure thing. Now?”

  “If you can fit it into your busy schedule, then yes,” he said, his dark-blue eyes twinkling under full brows.

  A witty comeback at the ready, but knowing we could go all day, I motioned for Daneen to follow me to my desk. I sat down while she hovered over my chair, her head so close to mine I could smell the spearmint flavor of her gum over stale coffee breath. Locating the document on my computer, I said, “Am I just showing you the chart, or do you need me to email it to you too?”

  “Rob said Nicholas will be sending more materials that will be added, but I want to see what we have so far. If you don’t know to what the exhibit names correspond, don’t worry about it. I’m sure I can figure it out or ask David.”

  I turned around to face her and smiled sweetly. “I know to what the exhibit names correspond,” I said, mimicking her proper speech pattern. God forbid she end a sentence in a preposition, even in casual speech. “David and I have been going through the various materials together.” I slid my chair back to give her better access to my screen. “And here it is.”

  “Impressive,” she said. As her hazel eyes scanned the Excel chart, she tapped a finger along her narrow and, in my opinion after careful scrutiny, slightly long nose. “So, Nicholas tells me you’re submitting your novel to agents.”

  My mouth fell open in surprise that Nicholas would share something so personal about me with Daneen, a woman he knew I hated. Not only was her crush on Nicholas beyond obvious to both of us, but his tendency to downplay her treatment of me like an intellectually challenged indentured servant, rather than have my back, was another contributing factor to our earlier breakup.

  “That is correct,” I said. Hoping to subtly change the subject, I pointed at the computer monitor. “The chart is organized with the oldest evidence first.”

  Daneen glanced at the screen briefly and nodded. Frowning at me, she said, “He mentioned you hadn’t received any offers yet.”

  I was going to kill him. Or withhold blow jobs for a month. At least.

  “But I think it’s great you’re putting yourself out there like that. You do know the average quality agent signs two, maybe three, new clients a year?”

  From the look of pity on her face, I gathered she was not confident I would make the cut. Dryly, I responded, “I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about the publishing process.” I pressed my lips together to avoid asking her the last time she shit herself while having sex—the one piece of dirt I’d managed to dig up on her. Although I dangled my knowledge of Daneen’s “most embarrassing moment” in her face once in an attempt to get her off my back, I didn’t have it in me to actually use the juicy gossip against her. A change of topic was in order. Hopefully one that would wipe the smug expression off her face. “Did Nicholas also tell you we were moving in together?” I hadn’t technically given Nicholas my answer
yet, but living with the man of my dreams was an offer I knew I couldn’t refuse. When Daneen’s eyes bugged out, I knew I’d caught her off guard.

  “Congratulations. Although I personally would never move in without a ring, it’s a nice offer for a girl like you.” Daneen flipped her long straight auburn hair and turned her attention to the computer. “I’d prefer the newest evidence on top.” Glancing at her watch, she said, “And I’ll need the amended document by lunch.” With an exaggerated pout, she added, “Sorry for the extra work,” before pivoting on her heel and walking away with long strides. As I observed her, I wondered how such a skinny woman managed to sound like a herd of elephants each time her three-inch black pumps met the carpet. Then, I turned back to the chart and with a single click of my mouse, changed the order of the exhibits from ascending to descending. For a talented attorney, Daneen was pretty clueless about some basic computer programs.

  I was dying to prove how quickly I finished her petty assignment despite her obvious desire to ruin my day. I mimicked, “It’s a nice offer for a girl like you.” Seriously? Lots of couples lived together before they got married these days. It was the twenty-first century, not Leave It to Beaver Land. Daneen was a clueless and boyfriend-less workaholic. Why was I even listening to her? I swallowed back the morsel of doubt in my mind and returned my attention to the project at hand. I decided against sending the revised document immediately, knowing Daneen would probably pull another meaningless and oh-so-urgent project out of her ass in retaliation. After checking in with Rob to see if he needed anything and getting a muffled “no” in response, I pulled up my latest draft review for Pastel Is the New Black.

  What if you were forced to play out the same day over and over and over again until you got it right, only you had no idea what wrongdoing you were required to fix? This is the plight of Starbucks barista Mariah Peters in The Daily Grind by Hattie Angeles.

  As I continued to type, the Gmail icon on the bottom of my screen notified me I had received another email, and I sucked in my breath when I saw it was from an agent. I closed my eyes and muttered, “Please don’t be a rejection. Please don’t be a rejection.” Then I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, and released it before opening the email.

  Dear Author,

  Thank you for your query. We apologize for the impersonal nature of this response, but rest assured, we read each and every query we receive. After careful consideration, we do not feel your project is right for our list, but we wish you success in finding another agent.

  Sincerely,

  Alex P. Keans Literary

  I could have deleted the message after the greeting, “Dear Author,” since any request for additional pages would have at least addressed me by my proper name. But I was a glutton for punishment, as well as an eternal optimist, who hoped maybe, just maybe, the agent would write something promising in the last sentence. Alas, he did not. I tried to take comfort in being categorized as an “author”—something that never would have happened if Nicholas hadn’t forced me to face my long-buried dream of writing a novel, but all I wanted to do was go home and sulk into a bowl of ice cream. It only took one agent, but what if every single one of them rejected me?

  I perked up when I remembered I had a girls’ night scheduled with Bridget, my best friend since the seventh grade, after work. Substitute “ice cream” with Skinny Girl Margaritas, and my sullen mood was bound to improve. And at least Ginny Webber—my dream agent—hadn’t passed yet. Ginny was bestselling chick lit author Olivia Geffen’s agent, and I was waiting to hear back from her. Her response time to an initial query, based on what other authors posted on the Absolute Scribe website, was approximately four weeks. I refreshed my email. Any minute now.

  While I waited, I still had an extremely successful blog to manage and so, after telling Rob I was stepping away and sending Daneen the updated chart, I headed to the cafeteria, where I ate lunch and finished the four-pink-champagne-flutes review of The Daily Grind.

  Chapter 3

  “To cohabitation,” Bridget said, clinking her glass against mine.

  “To cohabitation,” I repeated, before taking a sip of the white sangria Bridget had made from scratch. I smacked my lips together. “This is amazing, Bridget.”

  Grinning, Bridget said, “I know, right? I modified the recipe slightly to add more peach schnapps.”

  Taking another sip, I replied, “Whatever you did, it worked.”

  “Thanks.” Bridget’s fair skin beamed with pride as she placed her glass gently on the surface of her white antique coffee table. She leaned against her purple suede couch and sighed contently. “If I told you last December we’d both be living with boyfriends in a year, would you have believed me?”

  “Um, considering I had yet to string two sentences together in conversation with Nicholas and was still sleeping with Jonathan, definitely not.” I swallowed hard, wishing I could take back the last half of the sentence. I was definitely getting used to Bridget and Jonathan in luurve, but Jonathan was my high-school boyfriend, the first guy I slept with, and my on-again/off-again friend with benefits for several years. It came as a complete surprise when I discovered Bridget had a secret crush on him. It wasn’t a “bad” surprise, since my lustful feelings for Jonathan were long gone, and I was already seriously into Nicholas by the time they started dating. But my best friend of over fifteen years in reciprocated love with my first boyfriend was still…awkward.

  Fortunately, the comment appeared to go directly over Bridget’s head. “I know. A lot can change in a year, huh?”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll find an agent who actually likes A Blogger’s Life in the next three hundred and sixty-five days.” For instance, Ginny Webber. Frowning, I said, “But I won’t hold my breath.”

  “I’m sorry, K,” Bridget said, twirling a tendril of copper-red hair around her finger. “Any agent who doesn’t want to work with my best friend is a dumbass.”

  I chuckled at Bridget’s fierce loyalty. “All of them?”

  “All of them. Screw ’em all. And it’s only been fifteen. Did you know Kathryn Stockett got sixty rejections of The Help before getting an agent?”

  “Nicholas said the same thing.”

  “Smart guy, that Nicholas. I always liked him,” Bridget said, before taking a swig of her drink.

  My phone rang. “His ears must have been ringing. Mind if I take this?”

  “Not at all. I’ll take the opportunity to grab a cig.” Ignoring the dirty look I threw her way regarding her nasty habit, Bridget headed to the windowsill.

  “Hi, baby,” I said into the phone. I stood up and walked into Bridget’s kitchen to pour a glass of water.

  “Your best friend tells me you’ve decided to move in with me,” Nicholas said in his deep, smooth voice.

  “Bridget?” As I quickly realized my mistake, my stomach dropped. “Oh, you mean Daneen.”

  Chuckling, Nicholas said, “The one and only.”

  Remembering I was supposed to be mad at him, I said, “Speaking of the devil incarnate, why are you sharing my personal business with her?” I poured a glass of water and returned the pitcher to the top shelf of Bridget’s refrigerator.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She knows I’m looking for an agent. With no success, I might add.” Returning to the couch, Bridget stretched her feet out on the coffee table and gave me a questioning look. I mouthed, “I’ll tell you later” and returned my attention to Nicholas.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Kimmie,” Nicholas said, sounding sincerely apologetic. “I can’t help myself from bragging about my future bestselling author girlfriend sometimes. But I’ll stop.”

  I smiled, touched at Nicholas’s faith in me. “I forgive you,” I whispered.

  “Thank you. So…is it true?”

  Still feeling warm and fuzzy, I asked, “Is what true?”

  “Have you decided to m
ove in with me?”

  “Oh, that. I have, in fact, made a decision.”

  “And?”

  I yelped, “Let’s do it,” as my heart beat rapidly in a mixture of excitement and anxiety. I was afraid to get too excited in case he changed his mind. And even though it was true we already bunked at each other’s places several times a week, having “overnights” with your boyfriend was significantly more casual than moving in together. Case in point—there would be bills to share, toilet seats to lower, hot water to hog…

  “Good answer, Kimmie,” Nicholas said, interrupting my self-imposed buzzkill.

  “We’ll have to sit down and figure out logistics, like how much closet space you’re going to give me. And whose furniture we should keep. I don’t want to throw out all of my stuff just because I’m moving into your place.”

  “Whoa. Slow down. We’ll make it work.”

  “Promise?” I was particularly attached to the loveseat my mom finally gave me for my twenty-ninth birthday after I had begged for years. A family heirloom of sorts, it had been passed down from generation to generation. The fabric wasn’t in great shape, so I’d had it reupholstered in a gorgeous shade of pink. I was afraid Nicholas would say pastel didn’t go well with the otherwise “masculine” vibe in his apartment. I was a very pastel sort of chick, and if Nicholas wanted me, he needed to know I came with a lot of pink.

  “I promise.” Nicholas stopped talking, and I heard voices in the background before he returned to the phone. “I need to get back to work, but I’m glad we’re doing this, Kimmie.”

  “I’m glad too,” I said softly. I thought about adding, “I love you,” since Nicholas had bolted from my apartment before I had a chance to reciprocate the day before, but I wanted to say it face to face the first time. Mostly because it was more personal that way, but also so we could have hot “we love each other” sex immediately after.