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@MountainBoyNYC:I can swing by and grab it. The Herald?
He wants to come by the Herald? My stomach does a full-on somersault. Of course, he wants to come by. He still thinks I work there.
Which . . . I don’t.
I tap my finger against my chin, running through options.
Maybe I could meet him at a coffee shop.
But how? As Sydney Sun? I barely survived the first round with him, and the way this man scrambles my brain, with his blue eyes and stern brow, something is bound to slip. I know it.
There’s no way I’m pulling it off twice.
Don’t panic. Do. Not. Panic.
@SydneySun:I’m super busy, deadlines and all. I would ask Taylor, but she’s?—
Crap. She’s what?
Think, think, think . . .
On a Paris runway?
In Mexico, chasing down future husband number 105 because this time, he’sdefinitelythe one?
My fingers start moving before I evenrealize it.
@SydneySun:—she’s a little clumsy. This morning, she spilled an entire caramel macchiato all over her favorite pair of heels and blamed it on a ghost.
True story. Though, technically, it was last week.
@SydneySun:She’s got her hands full. But what about her friend?
@MountainBoyNYC:Friend? What friend?
Me. Your wife, you idiot.I’mthe friend.
@SydneySun:Youknow. Gorgeous. Brilliant. The kind of woman a man would be a complete fool not to sweep off her feet and ravage mercilessly for three days straight.
Too much?
Delete, delete, delete.
@SydneySun:I think her name is Jules.
There’s a long pause. Agonizingly long. Bubbles pop up. Then disappear. And it’s. Killing. Me.
@MountainBoyNYC:I’ve waited this long for the watch. A little longer won’t hurt. But I’d rather meet you. Just to talk.
Just totalk?I suck in a sharp breath. He wants to talk—tome.Not his wife?
Also me.
@SydneySun:Didn’t I read somewhere that you were married?
I hit send without overthinking it, my heart racing as I stare at my phone. I shouldn’t care.
I mean, we never saidI love you.Never even made it to second base. But the idea of him moving on so fast? It’s, ugh, infuriating.
