Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Are my feelings for Jude written in my eyes?
I try to fashion an answer that doesn’t give anything away, but as I do, it occurs to me I don’t want to tell Alex. I don’t want to tell anyone. I want to clutch last night in my hands, keep it safe as a memory, save it for myself.
Once I share it, then I’ll have to explain it. Well, you see, I slept with my roomie because I’m falling for him, so yeah, sex seemed brilliant, and now it seems foolish, yet I’m dying to see him tonight.
And tomorrow.
And the next day.
And I know this won’t work, but so it goes . . .
“Last night was fun,” I say evasively.
Alex arches a brow. “Got it,” he says, then winks and heads to his cube.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but it hardly lasts when the news manager barks out my name in a gruff English accent.
“Ashford. Come to my office.”
Like a good soldier, I follow him. Alex catches my gaze as I go, his eyes asking what’s up.
No idea, I mouth.
When I head into Richard’s office, he gestures to a chair across from his desk. I sit, nerves racing as he plops into his chair.
“TJ,” he begins. “Your work here is excellent.”
My stomach plummets. The only thing coming next is a but.
The trouble is, I can’t figure out what I’ve done wrong. My stories have been great. My reporting is solid. My work ethic—top-notch.
“So excellent, I can’t keep you,” he adds.
That makes zero sense. “Why not?”
“There’s an opening for a senior reporter. Turns out, our just-completed analysis of consumer behavior says articles on media and advertising fare better than financial pieces, and they want you for the promotion. It comes with a twenty percent raise and a gym membership since 24News just bought a chain of gyms. Must diversify these days. So, there you go. You’re a very good writer, and you were a shoo-in. But don’t let that go to your head.”
“I won’t,” I say, though I’m stoked. Very good is editor speak for head and shoulders above the rest.
But that’s not the most exciting part.
Not by a mile.
Since they’re promoting me, I could maybe use that raise for a new place. I do the math quickly, and I’m guessing the extra might cover the three-month fee for breaking the lease. That way, Jude won’t be screwed on the rent. My mind leaps ahead, picturing getting a studio in Bloomsbury maybe. A flat I can afford on my own with the raise. Closing out my gym membership and putting that money to rent.
Most of all, my mind jumps to the best part.
Seeing Jude on the reg.
Asking him to be my boyfriend risk-free.
My heart thunders so wildly, and I nearly set a hand on my chest to calm it down. Surely, Richard can hear it.
I smile, too big for work, but I don’t care. This solves everything. This is the best news ever. There’s only one question—Richard hasn’t said when the new job begins.
“So, when do I make the change?”
He glances at the wall as if the answer resides on a clock. “Monday,” he says evenly, as if he were giving me a deadline on a deep-dive piece.
Holy shit. I could be making more money in a week. I could have enough to pull this off—romance and work.
Sex and a career.
Jude . . . and me.
“So, I’ll work out the week in finance, then I’ll move desks on Friday,” I say, trying but failing to hide my enthusiasm.
This is some kind of luck. This is like finding Jude on Cecil Court. This is rom-com meet-cute fate.
“No. You can have the weekend off to pack and unpack, of course,” he says.
“Pack?” I don’t have that much on my desk. What’s he talking about?
“Oh!” He chortles, like I’m a silly boy. “The job’s in New York, TJ.”
Ohhhh.
Right.
My shoulders sag.
“Media and TV and marketing. That’s a New York post,” he says, like duh. How did you not know this, you idiot we just promoted?
“Yes. Of course,” I say lightly, swallowing past the knot of disappointment lodged in my throat.
“We’re sending you back to New York,” he adds. “On Friday. So you can start Monday.”
The floor drops from under me, and for a few seconds, the office spins. My head spins. The whole city whips on its axis. “This weekend?” I repeat.
“Yes. Friday is this weekend,” he says, clipped, like he doesn’t have time for ridiculous questions.
Understandable.
“What happens to the job here?” I ask, and I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’ll beg to stay. When you’re twenty-three and get a big, fat raise, you follow the job.
You don’t follow the man.
“We’re going to outsource your post to a freelancer. The New York bureau is eager to have you back. HR has all the details. Hope you enjoyed your time in London. Be sure to go to Fortnum and Mason before you leave.”