ISABELLA
If you type any faster, you’ll sprain your wrist,” Sloane said without looking up from her computer. “Slow down.”
“I can’t slow down. I have less than a month to finish this book, and I only have”—I checked my word count—“forty two thousand, six hundred and four words, several hundred of which are placeholders.”
It was the week after New Year’s. People were back from the holidays, and the Upper West Side café where Sloane and I had set up camp buzzed with activity. She had a client meeting nearby in an hour, and I needed somewhere noisy where I could focus.
Normally, I used Vivian’s office as my writing space while she did admin work, but it was an offsite day for her. So here I was, my butt planted on a wooden stool, my heart racing, and my hands jittery from four cups of espresso as I attempted to wrangle my manuscript into shape.
The holidays had been a dream. I ate, slept, and floated through the city with Kai by my side and not a care in the world. But now that they were over and Manhattan had resumed its snarling, frenetic energy, the sheer impossibility of my task loomed before me like Mount Everest.
Forty thousand words in three weeks. God, why hadn’t I been more disciplined about my writing before?
Because you were distracted.
Because you always run from the hard stuff.
Because it’s easy to keep pushing the hard stuff to tomorrow until there are no tomorrows left.
Panic and self-loathing formed a tight knot in my throat.
Across from me, Sloane tapped away, her face a mask of cool efficiency. We were roughly the same age, and she owned her own super successful business. So did Vivian. How come they had their shit together and I didn’t? What was their secret?
I had a steady paycheck and a decent lifestyle, but I was merely surviving while they were thriving. I didn’t begrudge my friends their success; however, the weight of my failures sat all too heavy on my chest. Why can’t I show up for myself where it really counts?
“How are things with Xavier?” I asked. I needed a distraction or I’d spiral into a wasteland of productivity. Nothing blocked my creativity more than creeping self-doubt. “Is he still alive, or have you murdered him and stashed his body in the trunk of your car?”
“Alive for now, but ask me again in twenty-four hours,” Sloane muttered. “I’m one irreverent quip away from hacking him to pieces with a butcher’s knife. It’ll be bad PR for me, but I can spin it. He’s insufferable.”
The Lululemon-wearing blonde next to us glanced up and slowly inched toward the other side of the long, communal table.
“Why did you take him on as your client if you hate him so much?” Sloane had been complaining about him since the day she picked him up from the airport. I thought they would’ve learned to get along by now, but her irritation seemed to expand by the day.
“Favor to his father.” Her curt tone disinvited further probing. “Don’t worry. I can handle Xavier Castillo. His stupid smile and dimples and joke gifts will not”—she jabbed at her keyboard—“deter me from my duties.”
My eyebrows skyrocketed. I had never, in all the years I’d known her, seen Sloane so heated.
“Of course not.” I paused. “What are your duties again?”
“Being a professional—” She sucked in a deep breath, held, and released before smoothing a hand over her perfect bun. Her voice leveled off. “Repairing, cultivating, and maintaining his reputation as a valuable member of society, not a spendthrift playboy with zero goals or ambition.”
“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you,” I said cheerfully, wisely skipping over the reality that Xavier was, in fact, a spendthrift playboy with no discernible aspirations. “I have faith in you.”