Page 2 of Don’t Forget Me

I let out a breath, biting the inside of my cheek to withhold any cursing.

Just one cup of caffeine. Then I could deal with these producers —no problem. Hopefully, they weren’t as pushy as the last pair.

“You don’t want me to go with you, do you?” Camille asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That easy to tell?” I almost smiled, even as dread filled my gut.

“I’ll be here waiting for you.” She nodded with a fair grin.

Heaving a sigh, I departed the conference room and headed for the elevator. This routine of mine, pressing the buttons, waiting thirty seconds for it to ding again, and walking through the busy streets of Edinburgh to find a very much needed cup of iced coffee, was probably the highlight of my day. Especially when the day included an event like today’s.

But no matter how mechanical my routine, I loved my career. I got to work with my best friend. We graduated from boarding school together, and we both got accepted to the University of Edinburgh. We no longer needed to go back to the States. There was nothing for us there. Especially for me.

Cami’s dream of being a literary agent jumpstarted with me. She’s been pushing my career forward ever since she got promoted. Hence, the reason she accepted that meeting from Blue Tower Productions.

Personally, I believe it's the worst production company in Scotland. I've heard about all the mishaps they’d had with other authors from various publishing houses. Then again, they were just rumors. I knew I needed to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The bell of the coffee shop jingled as I opened the glass door. The warm scent of caramel and vanilla enveloped me, and I couldn’t help but smile. There were two small refrigerators at the entrance, near the napkin area. One filled to the brim with pastries such as millionaire’s shortcake, cream buns, tarts, and coffee kisses. The other stocked with water bottles and branded sodas.

There was a grand window lining the entire entrance wall, next to their signature wooden tables with matching chairs. As I made my way through the shop, I noticed the usual leathered beige love seats at the far end with matching coffee tables. A faux olive tree in the corner surrounding the cozy setup.

Thankfully, there wasn’t a line, so I beelined straight for the counter.

A young girl stood behind the register. She was new, but I think she recognized my face. I was a frequent visitor, after all.

She had bright red hair tied in a messy bun, and the shirt under her apron was black with swirling patterns covering most of it. Her nails were covered in chipped black paint.

I grinned. “Hi, can I get an iced brown sugar espresso?”

She nodded, punching in the order. “Sure. It’ll be £4.20.”

The pound note slipped from my fingers onto the counter, cheeks flushing. Swiftly, I grabbed the note and handed it to her. “Sorry, here you go.”

How embarrassing.

But she didn’t reply. She gave me my change, and I walked to the other side of the counter, waiting for my vice. I deeply hoped that I wouldn’t regret this meeting. I didn’t want to read about him being spotted at a movie premiere with my name on the poster.

Our romance should’ve stayed buried. Yet, I had no willpower to stop myself from writing about it. I knew it was one of the best stories I’d ever written because of the traction it received. So many people welcomed it into their hearts. It’d become a bestseller in Europe and in the United States.

I knew my readers would love this. I just had to keep them in mind if I were to go through with this deal.

Everything I did was for my readers.

I heard my name being called, and my head snapped up. The girl who’d taken my order had her lips set in a thin line with my coffee in hand, motioning impatiently in my direction.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, grabbing the cold plastic cup from her.

Before leaving, I headed to the napkin area looking for a coffee sleeve. When I made it to the station, there was a young man throwing away his cup. I stopped when his piercing ocean eyes met mine.

No…

I would recognize that look anywhere. It was the same look that had haunted me for the past five years—a shade I couldn’t bring myself to love again. One I hated, in fact.

“Lysandra,” he gasped.

Those blue eyes have tormented me for the past five years. I couldn’t help but note his pristine suit, pressed and elegant without a wrinkle in sight. That watch on his left wrist probably cost more than my entire life. And those glasses. The ones that made him look sophisticated and empowering. His black hair, which I used to brush my fingers through, and his pale skin, which used to give me warmth.

He was here, in the same place I was.