Hold a Lover Close
words: 5,466
Sadie is undeniably the worst kisser in the bar, but that doesn’t stop men from buying her drinks, sliding their palms up her velvet-covered thighs, and walking away with her signature red smeared across their mouths. Just below the deafening thump of an overcompensating bass line, she purrs at an innocent stuffed shirt, reeling him in with the crook of her finger. “Come here often?” she asks, already sliding her hand up his stupid-expensive button down to curl around his neck. He breathes out an answer that doesn’t matter, fingertips skating up and down her bare arms, while she hums and flutters her lashes. The perfume wafting from her wrists, behind her ears, between her breasts, is more alcohol than the amber and gardenia she spritzed on hours ago, but he leans in anyway, nose pressed against her jaw. If this was a night out during college, Sadie would be disgusted at his eagerness. But she isn’t a lonely undergrad anymore; she’s got two novels under her belt and a third in the works. So when he tilts his head and presses his dry lips to her ruby red glossy ones, she smiles into it. It’s always too much teeth, all edge and no tenderness. Still, when they finally come up for air, his face is twisted up into a dumbfounded grin.
“I’m Archer,” he says, making a futile attempt at wiping the lipstick from his chin. It always winds up on their chins. Sadie rolls her eyes. “And you are?”
“A writer,” Sadie says, deciding that’s enough information. They won’t see each other again—she’s never run into a research opportunity outside of the field before. A lot of the men who frequent this bar are traveling, or trying to escape wives they no longer love, or wanting to get so wasted they don’t remember anything or anyone the next morning. She doesn’t ask.
“Oh my God,” he starts, hand curling around her shoulder, “that’s so cool. Can I read some of your work?”
She arches a well-filled-in brow. “We just met.”
“Yeah, but, like, I used to write! When I was little.” He teeters a little, first or second drink probably kicking in. “Now I’m just a boring old lawyer.”
A lawyer? Perfect. She hasn’t written a lawyer before. Jordan might enjoy one. God knows her agent’s been asking for something different. Her pleading, “Your love interests are always firefighters or teachers so can you please just pick another profession for once,” buzzes through her head alongside the vodka cranberry she downed earlier.
“I happen to be looking for a boring old lawyer,” Sadie purrs, watching Archer’s eyes go dark. He swallows, and she leans forward to kiss him again. Less teeth this time, a little softer around the edges. He doesn’t kiss like she expected a lawyer might; instead, Archer matches her gentleness in a way that feels wildly uncharacteristic for two people making out in the middle of a crowded bar. It’s not, on the whole, bad.
When she finally pulls away, a little out of breath and flushed, he’s smiling a dumb, goofy smile that only spells trouble. “Wha’dya write?” he asks, slurring a little more than before.
Sadie pushes up off of the barstool and sways on her heels. She reaches around to grab her purse from a hook underneath the bar top, shaking her head in an attempt to regain some sense. “Romance novels,” she says, then slinks away from him and out the door.
The next morning, Sadie sits in the corner of her local Starbucks, velvet dress traded for leggings and an old college t-shirt. Hairspray and a night of fitful sleep forced her hair into its current bun, which she hopes looks intentionally messy as opposed to the last resort it was three minutes before she had to leave her apartment. She taps her fingers against her second caramel macchiato trying to come up with the best opening line for Benjamin the lawyer.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?” Sadie writes, then immediately backspaces. It’s too stereotypical, an attitude her love interests usually possess. Jordan wants—no, demands—something fresh. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sadie thinks back to last night, trying to ignore the dull ache at the base of her skull from the alcohol. Archer, the ridiculously endearing labradoodle of a lawyer, wasn’t particularly suave. He was enthusiastic and sincere—a true departure from the norm.
She tries again, tapping out, “Wow, you look like you belong in a movie.” It feels better, closer to the real atmosphere from last night. Scarlett, spitfire heroine that she is, might be intrigued by a line like that. A businesswoman after a CEO position, Scarlett might want someone less conniving and smarmy. The depth of a kind lawyer could be enough to keep her interested for the duration of a novel.
Sadie types up seven and a half pages before Jordan sweeps through the double doors, bringing the breeze and a deadline with her. She sits across from Sadie, flipping her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head.
“Good morning,” she says, pulling an iPad from her bag. “So. What do you have for me?”
This is the part Sadie hates. Pitching an idea to Jordan is akin to wearing raw steak as a hat and then begging a lion not to eat her. A knot worms its way down Sadie’s throat and into her gut, settling right behind her belly button. “A lawyer. Scarlett’s going to fall for a lawyer.”
Jordan looks up at her. “That’s new. Since when?”
“Last night,” Sadie offers. “But not just any lawyer—a nice one.”
“What does that mean?” Jordan asks, fingers jumping across the tablet screen.
Sadie turns her laptop around. “Here. Just read and see.”
Jordan pulls the computer into her lap and immediately starts typing notes into the margins. She smiles occasionally, but also frowns. There won’t be a way of telling whether or not she likes it until she’s totally done, so Sadie tries to focus on anything else. People watching works, given their locale. She watches families and teenagers and college students come in and out, ordering all manner of drinks, from simple black coffee to non-fat triple shot half-caf extra whip monstrosities.
In walks a man in nicer clothes than the huddle of college kids studying for midterms, through he doesn’t look that much older. He orders a plain mocha, then steps to the side and catches her looking at him. Sadie looks away immediately, but he turns in her direction anyway. Shit.
“Writer girl?” he asks, hopeful smile creeping across his face. “It’s Archer! From last night?” Jordan looks up, mouths a him? at Sadie, and closes the laptop.
“Oh, hey!” she says, finally. “Sorry, didn’t quite recognize you in…well, actual light.” He looks good, though. Casual, like this is his Saturday routine after a hard week of legal battles.
“I know this is pretty unorthodox, and if you’re not into it there are no hard feelings, but I’d love to get your number?” He scratches the back of his neck and drops his gaze to the floor, waiting for an answer. “Oh!” His head snaps back up. “And your name, obviously.”
Beside her, Jordan kicks her and hisses a do it! under her breath. “Um,” Sadie starts, trying to sound cam and collected, “sure. Yeah, uh, I’m Sadie.” She reaches into her bag for a scrap of paper and scribbles her number across the top. “Here you go.”
Archer takes it with that same goofy grin from last night. Something flutters in her stomach—something not particularly conducive to emotionally distancing herself from her latest love interest’s inspiration. “Okay, cool, I’ll text you later! Sorry to interrupt you two,” he says, punctuating himself with a small wave.
“We don’t mind!” Jordan calls as he walks back to the counter. Once he’s safely out of earshot, she leans closer to Sadie and looks her right in the eye. “You have to keep seeing him.”
“Why do you care?” Sadie asks, wanting very much to pull her laptop away from Jordan and go home. “You’ve never had an interest in my love life.”
“Oh, I do now. Scarlett’s love interest? That’s my interest in your love life.”
Sadie can’t deny there’s something different about this one. Normally, her male leads are sleaze bags that she’d cross a busy street Frogger-style before talking to outside of a bar. Archer isn’t. He could be the kind of guy she’d bring home to her family and have to fend off not-so-subtle advances from her younger sister. The kind of guy her mother would love, that her father wouldn’t immediately hate. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, cheeks pinking at the thought of seeing him again.
“If you pull this off, your next book’s going to be a real breakthrough, you hear me?”
Of course there’s a catch. The giddiness in her stomach sours. “Loud and clear.”
The restaurant Archer picked is the fanciest Sadie’s been to since the night of her college graduation. Candlelit tables line a marble floor and soft classical music wafts through the air alongside the smell of French cuisine. He’s sitting beside her in a booth, turning each time she says something. By the end of the night, Sadie’s sure he’ll have a crick in his neck. What kind of person sits next to their date? she thinks as he rattles off a wine order to the waitress. Her bra, the only push-up she owns, is a size too small and cutting into her ribcage like a tightening rope. Can he tell she keeps rubbing a hand across the band?
The first time they met, it was easy. They were at a bar, and the expectation was clear from the get-go. This is different, both more formal and less concrete at the same time. They might go back to his place, or they might go separate ways after a dull dinner with no spark. Either way, tonight has options that their first encounter didn’t.
“Hey,” Archer starts, after a solid thirty seconds of her eyes darting around without landing on him, “I know this is way more intense than the first time we hung out.” Hung out, as if they didn’t suck face like teenagers. “I’ll admit, this is kind of my standard date idea. But we can chill it out a little, if you want.”
She nods, the idea of chill sounding awfully appealing.
“Wanna blow this place and grab a burger or something?”
She nods her head harder this time, chasing the promise of food she can pronounce and music that doesn’t remind her of being on hold with the bank. They sneak into the parking lot like they’re skipping out on a meal, even though they hadn’t actually gotten to ordering food. In his car, he turns the radio to a station affectionately referring to itself as “The Waterin’ Hole,” sending her into a fit of giggles.
“You listen to this stuff?” Sadie asks after she can breathe again.
He scoffs in mock indignation. “As a matter of fact, I enjoy a little boot scootin’ after a hard day of lawyering.”
“Apparently,” she says, imagining him in a cowboy hat with one of his nice suits. She starts laughing again—back in the restaurant, everything was serious. If that date continued, she’d wind up in his bed, with him looking displeased at the red marks her underwear left across the tops of her thighs. She might sleep with him, but it wouldn’t be great. This date, starting with bad country music in the parking lot, has vastly different possibilities.
They don’t sleep together. In fact, they spend most of the evening talking, curled up on his fancy lawyer couch with a slow jazz album playing in the background. She tells him everything about herself, other than the details surrounding her writing career. He tells her about law school, then about his siblings and nieces and nephews. Sadie can’t contain the smile that blooms across her face when mentions his sister’s kids call him Uncle Archie. Then there’s a lull, and she thinks he might reach across the couch, drag her into his lap like the end of most of her dates. He doesn’t.
“Look,” Archer starts, face endearingly earnest, “I like you. I don’t want this to be a one time thing, if you don’t.”
“I don’t,” Sadie says.
“Okay, good. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t putting the moves on you because I’m not interested.” Archer raises his brows for comical effect. “I just figured it could wait until next time.”
“I like the way you think, Archie.”
He chokes out a laugh, face going burgundy. “Oh god, I am so going to regret telling you that.”
Sadie winks, and the night goes on from there.
Two days later, Sadie dials Jordan’s number in a panic. The, “I don’t think I can do this,” bursts from her lips as soon as the call goes through. It’s been forty-eight hours, too soon to know if Archer’s the elusive one, but something feels distinctly different compared to the few guys she’s dated in the past. Archer doesn’t make her beg for attention—in fact, her phone’s been buzzing a pleasant rhythm since he dropped her back at her place early Sunday morning.
“Can’t do what?” Jordan answers. Through the phone, Sadie hears the monotonous typing that her agent claims makes up most of her job. “Can’t write your novel? Hate to break it to you, babe, but you have a contract.”
“I know. I know. But I like this guy.” Sadie pauses, scanning the massive log of texts from Archer on her laptop. Right now, he’s at a company luncheon at some suspect seafood place, complaining to her that there isn’t an ocean around for thousands of miles, so fresh catch of the day might be fraud. “I don’t think I can write about him.”
“Sadie, for fuck’s sake. You don’t think writers use their relationships for fodder?”
“As blatantly as you’re suggesting?”
Jordan sighs and the typing sound stops. “Listen. You self-published your first book on Amazon. How much did you make, exactly?”
“Next to nothing,” Sadie says, feeling the strongest urge to roll her eyes.
“And then you found me, and I got your next one published with an actual publishing house. How much did you make then?”
She scoffs. “A little more than next to nothing.”
“This time? I got you a deal with Harlequin. You’re gonna make bank, Sadie. But you have to listen to me. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
Sadie’s computer dings, and it’s Archer wondering when they can go out again. tonight? she types before she can think better of it. “Yeah,” she finally answers. “No, I know.”
“Besides,” Jordan adds, typing again, “It’s not like he won’t be telling his pals about your relationship. Your audience is just bigger. Down the line, he might not even care.”
The call ends and Sadie’s head starts pounding. Probably from staring at a screen all morning, trying to get Scarlett and Benjamin on their first official date. Every piece of writing advice she’s ever gotten has boiled down to write what you know, and what could she know better than her own relationship? Jordan has a point—if he’s around friends, there’s a good chance Archer’s doing the same thing she is, minus the name changing. She downs an aspirin, sits back down at her computer, and soldiers on.
If she squints, she can almost convince herself this isn’t a huge mistake.
“I have a question for you,” Archer starts, turning on his side to look at her. It’s a lazy Saturday morning a few months after their first date, with sunlight streaming through his curtains and painting the bedroom a pale gold. They have plans to go to brunch later, at their usual cafe, and then Sadie has a meeting with Jordan. “What are you writing right now?”
Her stomach drops.
“Me?” Sadie asks in an excellent attempt at deflection. “A novel.”
He snorts. “Yeah, but what’s it about?”
The thing about writers is that they’re great on the page. Really, give them a few days (or weeks, or even months) and they can churn out some killer prose. In the moment, it’s different; there isn’t a backspace key for realtime conversations, and usually not enough downtime to stare into space like they’re able to during the writing process. So when Sadie blurts out an overacted, “Not you. Obviously,” she immediately wants to scoop the words back into her mouth and make for the hills.
Archer stares at her, then smiles a cautious smile. “I wasn’t expecting it to be.” She starts to breathe a sigh of relief that turns to a coughing fit when he adds, “God, can you imagine?”
After the air returns to her lungs, Sadie manages an, “Yeah, who’d do something like that?”
“Not someone I’d wanna be with, that’s for damn sure.” He snorts. “Hell, there could even be legal ramifications.”
Sadie’s heartbeat revs up to ten-thousand beats per minute. “Really?” she squeaks.
“Probably not, but it would be an interesting case to try. Doubt something like that would make it to court, though.” He hums and presses a kiss to her forehead. “But seriously, what’s it about? You told me you write romance novels the first time we met, unless that was a line you use on all of the guys in bars.”
Sadie sits up, hoping the change from horizontal to vertical will somehow make her smoother. “I do,” she says, “but you probably wouldn’t find them all that interesting.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, propping himself on an elbow. “I do read for fun, y’know.”
“Why does it matter what it’s about?” Sadie tries, watching Archer’s face very closely. Judging by the way his forehead wrinkles, that wasn’t the best choice.
Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “Why won’t you just tell me?”
Because I don’t want to get fucking sued. “It just doesn’t seem relevant.”
“Relevant?” he asks, finally sitting up. Then he stands, one hand rubbing absentmindedly across his neck. “We’ve been dating for three months and you still haven’t let me read your novel. Doesn’t that seem a little weird to you?”
“I’m just a private writer!” She pulls the sheet up around her bare shoulders, suddenly feeling more exposed than her tank top warrants.
Archer opens his mouth, then closes it without comment. He pads out of the bedroom and down the hall and comes back a minute later with his briefcase and a granola bar from the kitchen. Grabbing his glasses case from the bedside table because it’s too early for contacts, he sits back down on the bed and reclines against the headboard.
“What are you doing?” Sadie asks, irritation creeping into her voice. “We have brunch reservations in an hour.”
“I just figured you’d rather focus on your super secret novel, since you have that meeting with Jordan later today,” he says, flipping his briefcase open. “Besides, I have some work I might as well get a jump on if my girlfriend doesn’t feel like involving me in her life.”
“You are so overreacting,” Sadie says, knowing he’s not. “But fine.” She slides off the bed and picks up the dress she wore yesterday from the floor, alongside her bra and socks. “I’ll text you after my meeting.”
“Sounds good to me.” Archer doesn’t look up from the legal briefs and data scattered across the comforter. “But I understand if you can’t tell me what you two talk about, since it’s not really relevant.”
She changes in his bathroom and walks to her car without so much as a goodbye. It feels something like a walk of shame.
Sadie apologizes that night with takeout from their favorite Chinese place. She explains that her novel is intensely personal—not a lie—and she needs to focus on getting it done, because Jordan’s been breathing down her back about a deadline for months now. Also not a lie. Archer sighs, drops the tension from his shoulders, and draws her into a hug. They eat lo mein on his couch and watch reruns of The Office and it’s fine. They’re fine.
Scarlett and Benjamin have a similar fight in chapter twenty-four. That was Jordan’s idea, and so was them making up over Indian food and an episode of Parks and Recreation. When Sadie meets Archer’s parents the next week, Scarlett meets Benjamin’s. Sadie and Archer go away for the weekend to celebrate their six month anniversary, and Benjamin surprises Scarlett with a trip to France for theirs.
If it feels cheap—which it does—Jordan reminds her that this is what makes books sell. Real, human emotion, with engaging conflict. She throws around words like New York Times and bestseller whenever they meet, and it’s comforting. Archer leaves her novel alone, telling her he’ll wait to read it until it’s finished.
“Until it’s published,” Sadie corrects, trying to buy herself some more time to figure out how to untangle herself from this twisted storyline.
Jordan drops by Archer’s apartment nearly thirteen months to the day from the night Sadie first met him. They practically live together at this point, the rent on her own place more a nuisance than going towards actually housing her. He’s brought up her not renewing her lease a few times, usually after clearing out yet another drawer for her in the bedroom or leaving her a new box of tampons in the bathroom, next to his hand towels under the sink. Her touches are everywhere, from the plush throw across the couch to the noise machine on their dresser. Jordan notes as much as they meander through the entryway to where Sadie’s final draft lies on the coffee table.
“Archer’s really into Writer’s Digest,” she says, looking at a stack of past issues on the freshly cleaned glass top.
“I just brought a few copies from home for inspiration.” Sadie sits on the couch and picks up her manuscript with delicate finger, just barely touching the four corners. This novel, the one she’s been working on for upwards of a year, the one that went through four different love interests before she finally landed on Benjamin, is finally done. Well, nothing written is ever done, exactly, but it’s ready to be sent to Harlequin. She has a giant manila envelope, professional address labels, and a bottle of champagne in the fridge.
“I just want you to know,” Jordan starts, hand flat against her sternum, “I’m really proud of you. I’ve read drafts from you before, but this one is special.”
The hair on the back of Sadie’s neck bristles. Jordan said that exact same thing, that this one is special, about Archer. She pushes past it, because Jordan has to mean well.
“Thank you,” Sadie says, unease coiling itself around her gut. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” Without Jordan, there wouldn’t be a relationship or a novel. They’re functionally the same thing. She’s proud, obviously, but she can’t ever let Archer read it. The only semi-plausible way Sadie’s figured out to get out of this mess is to tell him she’s scrapping it and starting over.
She’ll let him read the next one.
A key in the door makes Sadie sit up straight and ball her fists. Archer isn’t off work until six, but he’s the only one with a key. Maybe he wants to surprise her—he knows Jordan’s here and knows what they’re doing. She relaxes a little, and watches the door open.
It’s Archer, but he looks anything but happy for her. There are dark circles under his eyes and an anger in the set of his jaw. His mouth is a thin line, a far cry from it’s normal easy smile. He clutches a stack of papers in his fist, knuckles almost white with force.
“Babe,” Sadie starts, standing up, “what’s wrong?”
“What the fuck is this?” he asks, throwing the papers into the middle of the living room. He crosses his arms, stands like he must in court. God, his opposition must freeze when he starts in on questioning.
She leans down to grab one of the papers before the fan swirls them all away. Jordan sucks in a deep breath and mumbled what sounds like an, “Oh my God.”
“Wow, you look like you belong in a movie.”
Scarlett smiles, wrapping a well-manicured hand around his silk tie. “You’re not so bad for a soul-sucking lawyer,” she says easily.
Her blood runs cold. “How did you—?” Sadie starts, unable to even articulate the rest of a sentence. She feels dizzy, all hot and cold at the same time. Her palms itch, wanting nothing more than to scoop the papers from the floor into her arms and shred them on the spot. “I mean, where did you…” she trails, throat going dry and dusty.
“Jordan gave it to me.”
“What?” Sadie’s vision goes red. She whips around, a godawful sense of betrayal overtaking the anxiety she felt seconds earlier. “I don’t believe—how could you?”
“Sadie, I didn’t know!” Jordan’s palms go up like she’s surrendering something.
“Why?” Sadie asks, voice catching in her throat.
“I asked her for a copy,” Archer starts. She turns, eyes wide when she notices the heartbreaking openness of his face. “Wanted to surprise you, ‘cause I know you thought I didn’t want to read it. But I did, because I—” He swallows, hard. Because he loves her. Archer shifts his overpowering gaze to the ground, forces a harsh breath through his nostrils. “But then I got this.”
“I’m so—I meant to tell you, but I—” Sadie stands there like a child, eyes wide and frame shaking. “I don’t know what to say,” she manages, barely audible over the fan blades whirling above them. Jordan rests a hand on her shoulder that she immediately shakes off. “Don’t touch me!”
“I thought you had told him,” Jordan whispers feverishly. “I didn’t think you were really going to do this without telling him!”
“How could I have told him?” Sadie fires back. It feels so wrong to ignore Archer right now, but there are too many variables right now. She needs to get one of them taken care of. “You’re the one who said it was fine to go on like I was!”
“Was it all a lie?” Archer asks, stiff and quiet. Her eyes snap back to him, softening when he immediately looks away. “Did you even want to go out with me in the first place?”
“Of course I did!” Sadie’s voice comes back just enough so she can get that out. It’s true; she needs him to know that. She remembers the giddiness she felt the whole first month they were dating. How happy she was when they just….kept going out. But underneath all of that is the shame she kept ignoring—Jordan’s voice in her ear, saying he’ll understand when you’re successful or like he’ll ever be able to pick it out of a shelf of other romance novels at Barnes & Noble. All lies.
“How could you not tell me? Or ask if I was okay with this? Fucking hell, Sadie, you wrote about everything!” Archer comes toward her on a surge of hurt and indignation, looking taller than she’s ever remembered. He won’t hurt her, she knows that, but she still wants to run, to hide, to shrink against the wall until there’s nothing but a dent where she she used to stand. “You even wrote our sex life!”
“I mean, it is a romance novel,” Jordan adds, attempt at defusing the tension failing spectacularly.
“Did you read the whole thing?” Sadie asks, which is so not the point of any of this. “I mean,” she tries again, “that was mostly fictionalized.”
“Mostly,” he spits back. “And for your information, I did read the whole thing. Spent the whole damn day pouring over it in my office. My assistant thought I was going insane.”
Sadie feels the question bubbling inside of her and tries to stifle it, tries to swallow it deep down inside of her so she doesn’t make this monumental mistake, but she’s a writer. Narcissism and the desire she’s had for months to ask win out in the end. “Did you like it?”
His eyes go wide, face paling at her absolute stupidity. Behind them, Jordan swears. “Did I like it? That’s what you’re wondering? You use our entire relationship to make a buck and you want to know if I liked it?”
That’s when she knows. Tears spring to Sadie’s eyes and she’s mad at herself because this is entirely, completely her fault and now she’s crying about it like a baby. Archer is fuzzy in front of her, but she can still pick out the disgust across his face. She’s spent a year loving that face, learning the intricacies of its emotions. Disgust is a sneer, a raised eyebrow, and dark, piercing eyes.
“I’m leaving. Going back to the office. When I get back tonight, I want you and your book and everything gone, you hear me?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, knowing it won’t make a shred of difference. He turns away, scoffing, and pulls the front door open. Sadie crumples the paper in her hand when the for slams, tears dripping down her face and turning the scattered pages of her manuscripts into miniature Rorschach tests. They inside of her body feels hollowed out, scraped bare by a dull blade.
“Sadie,” Jordan starts, “I didn’t mean to—I just thought if I didn’t tell you it was okay, you wouldn’t keep writing.” Her voice is frantic, words coming out in a hurried jumble. It’s the most emotion Sadie’s ever witnessed coming from her agent, normally so calm and collected. “Look, I’ll talk to him. I’ll go to his office and work this all out, just please give me the manuscript and let me drop it in the mail on my way.”
Jordan’s voice turns to white noise in the back of Sadie’s mind. It’s a cruel kind of karma, being lied to and manipulated when you’ve done nothing by lie and manipulate the past year. Still, the idea that Jordan was just waiting for her to come to some great moral revelation, all the while telling her it’s no big deal, stings almost as hard as Archer walking out. She went to Jordan before she was in so deep she couldn’t turn back and said she was unsure. Said she had qualms. And what did her esteemed agent offer? It’s fine. You have a contract.
“…I’m your agent and it’s my job to make sure you don’t fuck us both over and not deliver after I bust my ass to get you the contract of a lifetime!”
“Shut up,” Sadie says, barely listening. “Just shut your mouth.” The stream of justification spilling from Jordan’s mouth stops short. “You really think I can deal with this right now?”
“You’re right. I’ll just mail your manuscript and give you some time.” She steps back, gives Sadie room to finally exhale.
“I don’t care. Send it, don’t send it, it doesn’t fucking matter, Jordan.” The tears are gone, replaced by an indifference that borders on anger. She’ll cry later, once her things are boxed up and back in her desolate apartment, when she goes to sleep alone for the first time in a year. Now, she wants to fight but doesn’t have near enough energy. “Just get out.”
“You don’t care if I deliver the novel you’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into?”
“Right now I wouldn’t care if you burned the damn thing, but you’ve made it perfectly clear to me that I have a contact, so do whatever the hell you need to do to save your job. God knows that’s what you’ve been peddling to me for months.”
“Sadie, I—”
“Get out, Jordan.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jordan says, collecting her things. She slips the manuscript into an envelope and picks her purse off of the ground. As she pulls the door open, she turns and offers the least convincing smile Sadie’s ever seen. “I’ll let you know when I hear from Harlequin.”
Sadie doesn’t answer. When the door shuts, she doesn’t look up. Instead, she picks up the scattered pages of a heartbreak littered across Archer’s dark hardwoods and carries them pressed against her chest like an infant to his office. They go straight into the shredder.