Page 29 of Based on You

My mind had been stuck on that lunch since the moment it ended. I kept picturing Sloane and Olivia across from me, Simon beside them, and how curious he'd been about my life. He'd asked questions and taken in my answers like they carried weight. He'd leaned in when I spoke. He'd followed up on passing comments, built on them, asked the next logical thing. He'd shown real interest in me, and it lit a dangerous warmth in a part of myself that wasn't allowed to feel anything for him.

I set my pen down and leaned back, exhaling.

It meant nothing. That was the hollow conclusion I kept circling back to, the one I needed to believe. He was a curious person by nature, always had been. Sloane was curious about my life too, and I'd never once picked apart her interest beyond the simple fact that she was my best friend and that's what best friends did. Simon asking about my gym habits was no different. People asked questions. It was standard social currency at a lunch table with four people.

I picked the pen back up and stared at my notes.

He'd said, "You're perfect like this," and the raw honesty in his voice proved he meant it. That moment was the one I couldn't explain away. He'd locked eyes with me right before the line, and I'd dropped my gaze to the table because I had no idea what to do with a look like that. I was staring at the same invisible table now, frozen at my desk.

But this wasn't a story. This wasn't a V.M. Ashby novel where the brooding CEO falls hopelessly for his assistant and charms his way through corporate complications to a clean, permanent happily-ever-after. This was a real office in a corporate tower, and he was my actual employer.

Whatever charge hummed under our conversations was warmth on his end, born of grief. Losing Elena had cracked his armor open, and I happened to be standing close enough to feel the heat.

He didn't like me. Not in any way that mattered.

I exhaled and forced my attention back to the screen. I needed to get that lunch out of my head and write.

The Beatrice Holm sales figures had come through that morning. Five hundred thousand copies moved in two days, the publishing industry's biggest debut in over a decade. The whole floor had been crackling ever since the dashboard updated. A celebration was set for that night, a full evening event with premium catering, a rented venue, and a high-profile guest list that would force a formal speech out of Simon.

Beatrice Holm wrote romance too, though nothing like the scrappy, serialized, anonymous stuff I published as V.M. Ashby. Hers was elevated literary romance, reviewed by critics, debated by scholars, shelved next to "serious" literature. She wrote about real couples, catching the gritty texture of two people who'd sat across from each other at their worst moments and chosen to stay together anyway.

Her fans spent hours arguing over whether her protagonists came straight from her real life. Whenever the question came up, she swore it was pure fiction, but she sold the denial with a sly edge that made people believe the opposite, which was probably the whole point. Her debut had made three of my stoic colleagues weep on their train commutes, a fact I knew only because they'd confessed it to me with the earnestness of people who rarely cry in public.

I wanted to be that good. Maybe not in the same prestigious register, but just as committed. Just as true. Simon had said once, during our midnight call, that writing was subjective, and the only thing that counted was whether the reader felt something. I'd scribbled that line in the margins of my notebook. I hadn't told him about it.

I checked my phone.

Still nothing from the landlord. I'd texted him twice, and the read receipts sat under both messages with no reply. The lease was expiring fast. I'd been plain about renewing and given him plenty of time to draft the paperwork, and building management had answered with a silence that sat at the back of my mind, a worry that kept snagging at me, one I shoved past because dealing with it took energy I was spending elsewhere.

I set the phone face-down and dove back into my work.

The elevator dinged at the end of the hall.

I rose to my feet on instinct. Steady footsteps came around the corner, and Simon appeared in a sharp black suit with a crisp white shirt underneath, the jacket sitting square on his broad shoulders. He stopped right in front of my desk, a knowing smile already playing on his lips.

"So, you decided to complement rather than match today," he said, his eyes sweeping over my dress.

I glanced down at my outfit. The off-white pleated dress fell a modest few inches past my knee, clean and tailored, with a cut that swayed whenever I moved.

"I thought complementing would be a much safer bet."

He nodded, like he was giving it serious thought. "You nailed it." He paused, his gaze going soft. "You look beautiful, Violet."

I smiled up at him, a flush rising to my cheeks. "Thank you, sir."

He tilted his head, shifting gears. "I have something to tell you."

I lifted my eyebrows. "What is it?"

"Olivia had a really good time the other day," he began, sliding one hand into his pocket. "With you and Sloane. She wants to invite you up to the lake house for her birthday weekend."

I blinked, stunned. Warmth flooded my chest. "Really?"

"She asked for you specifically. She wants Sloane to come as well."

"Sloane isn't here right now," I said, trying to process the invitation, "but I'll reach out to her. I'm sure she'll bend over backward to make it work. And if she can't, I'll let you know right away."

He gave a satisfied nod. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, reached over, and settled it on my shoulder, giving it a brief, firm press. "Don't work too hard today, all right? Make sure you take a breath somewhere in there."