Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Cool. I want to expand our marketing. I’ll reach out soon.”
“Great,” I say, then a flash of a sexy silhouette catches my gaze. I can’t help but smile when a bearded man in slim-fit shorts and a casual green polo waves from the sidewalk. I beckon him up the steps. “This is Milo. He owns Bikes and Blooms,” I say, introducing them. “This is Jessica. She runs Little Artists, and she got a new bike from your shop a few weeks ago.”
“Sweet,” he says, shaking her hand. As they talk wheels for a minute, my mind returns to the emails. Will other publishers decline so quickly? I still haven’t heard from Tiffany, TJ’s contact. But maybe I will soon. I draw a deep breath, trying to ease my anxiety.
I reconnect with Milo and Jessica’s conversation as they talk about an upcoming charity ride Milo plans to do. “One of my business partners asked me to join his team,” he says.
I paste on a smile so they don’t think I went to la-la land.
Jessica turns to me but wags a finger at Milo. “And don’t you dare let her go, but I might want to steal her away every now and then to do some social media for us. National Pajama Day was my favorite.”
Milo deals me a smile that feels both personal and professional. “Thanks. Veronica is a rock star,” he says.
His professional praise is a welcome counterbalance to the two rejections. But I’m still not ready to think about a future in social media.
We say goodbye, then Milo and I dart a few blocks over to Charles Street.
After we grab a table at a Middle Eastern café, ordering falafels and hummus, I zoom in on him, pushing the book business as far away as I can. “What’s the bike ride you’re doing? And is that why you like sexy pants—because you’re so used to tight bike shorts?” I ask, cradling my chin in my hand.
He glances down at his shorts. “I like clothes. I’m just not one of those Levi jeans-and-gray-shirts guys,” he says, giving a simple answer that I adore.
“Hallelujah.”
“I’d say, since my clothes got you to notice me,” he says, with a crooked smile. “Anyway, Chet from Fletcher Parts is doing a two-day ride this weekend. It’s a charity fundraiser, and he has room on his team. So I think I’ll join him, and maybe convince some of my buddies too. The cause is near and dear to my heart.”
I sit up straighter, eager for details. I want to know more about the man. “Is it an animal rescue?”
“Actually, it’s for a crisis hotline and online support groups for anxiety and depression. My mom works in the field, and I just think mental health doesn’t get enough attention. I’ve always tried to help raise awareness when I can.”
My heart warms, thumping harder. “That’s lovely. Is that why you say it’s near and dear? Because of her work?”
“Definitely. I personally haven’t struggled with those issues, but she really helped my brother and me when we were growing up to see the scope of things people deal with and their different coping mechanisms. Back in high school, I helped out with some groups that tried to raise awareness for teen mental health, then in college too. So it’s always something I’ve done,” he says.
“You’re an ally,” I say.
“I try,” he says with an easy shrug.
My heart flutters, and I dip my face.
“Why are you being all shy?” he asks.
I wave a hand, trying to dismiss my reaction. “Maybe just stop being so . . . yummy,” I mutter.
With a soft laugh, he presses his forehead to mine. “Sorry, not sorry. That’d be impossible. I’m delectable and you know it.”
But he’s also unavailable. Last night, he said he was taking a hiatus. He didn’t say his timeout had ended, but he didn’t have to. The implication was there—he’s still detoxing and knowing how off-limits he is hurts a bit. Though I get it. I have to get it. And maybe his status frees me to say the next thing. “You sure are.”
Since I know we’re going nowhere. Which means I better embrace every second of our to-do-list days.
When the food arrives and we tuck in, Milo gestures down the street toward Little Artists. “What Jessica suggested—is that something you want to do? Social media?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it before. I really want to return to publishing, but I got two rejections today,” I say, as I slice a chunk of the falafel then dip it into the hummus.
He frowns. “That stinks. But there have to be more jobs out there.”
“There are, but it’s a small field. There aren’t many publishing houses, and I’m a little worried I might never get a gig,” I admit.
“Why’s that?” he asks, concerned as he swipes a pita through the hummus.