Home > Just a Girl (Just a Series Book 2)(25)

Just a Girl (Just a Series Book 2)(25)
Author: Becky Monson

Henry’s eyes take a slow perusal down my face and land smack-dab on my lips. An electricity suddenly crackles between us, the clipped words and coldness forgotten. His eyes stay on my lips for longer than is considered normal. My mind starts to wonder if the utility closet might actually come to fruition.

I wonder if I should touch him. Put a hand on his arm, let him know whatever he’s thinking, whatever has lighted that fire in his eyes, is welcomed by me.

But before I can say anything, he shakes his head as if waking himself up and looks away from me, over to the side of the room toward the head of the conference table where he was just sitting.

“I’ll see you,” he says after a couple of seconds. And then he turns and walks out the door.

~*~

“So, I gave you more than a week,” a voice from behind me says. I was just grabbing my purse and was about to shut down my computer.

I swing my chair around to find Brady standing there. His brown hair is ruffled in a semi-endearing way, and his hands are shoved into his jean pockets.

“I’m sorry?” I say, blinking rapidly and trying to get my bearings. I had just finished reading my emails, and there were some scathing ones. Including this one from Grace Is Amazing:

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: How?

 

I do not understand how they keep you on this station with all the stuttering you do. You can read, can’t you?

 

Only trying to help,

Grace

 

I mean, I did stutter over my words a bit today. Even Parker was giving me odd looks. I’ve just had a lot on my mind, that’s all. But why does she have to be so cruel?

Grace, in my mind, now has a wicked case of halitosis. And maybe some festering boils.

“I don’t want to pressure you or anything; it’s just a date,” Brady says, bringing me back to him.

I pull my eyebrows inward. What’s he talking about?

“Listen, if you don’t want to go out, just tell me,” he says.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m so sorry, Brady. My mind has been elsewhere lately.”

“I noticed, which is why I waited.”

“Right.” I had forgotten. I’d forgotten that I needed to have a talk with Brady about things between us. But then that was before Henry stamped on my heart. Now there’s no longer a Henry that I’m dating, but a Henry that’s my boss.

“So, what do you say?” Brady asks. His expression is so sweet—so hopeful. I don’t want to hurt him.

“I . . .” I let out a breath. “I’m kind of in a weird place right now.”

He purses his lips, tilting his head to the side. “Okay, then let’s go out to eat and we can talk about it.”

“Right,” I say, blinking my eyes. Well, the boy does have some gumption after all. I figured he’d just walk away and not even try. But he’s not. He’s standing in front of me—a real, tangible man who’s available and wants to be with me. Or at least go on some dates with me. What’s wrong with me? I should say yes. I know Brady, I’ve been out with him before. Sure, he’s a little . . . um . . . well, unexciting. But he’s nice, and he’s thoughtful. And I should want that, shouldn’t I? Why can’t my brain just switch off all the Henry feelings?

I know why. It’s because he’s here, every freaking day, flaunting his amazing Henry-ness in my face. Here, but out of reach. Like right now, for example. He’s just ten feet away talking intently to one of the producers. He doesn’t even look over my way. He’s so easily been able to push me aside.

And here stands Brady. Right in front of me.

“You know what?” I stand a little taller. “Let’s do this. Let’s go out.”

“Really?” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Great. Fantastic.”

“Great,” I echo.

Brady pulls me into a hug, and it feels . . . nice. Yes, it’s nice to be hugged by Brady. Sure, there are no tingles down my spine or any quaking of my ovaries. But there’s a certain . . . niceness to this.

I should come up with better words than “nice.”

I do need to tell him that I’m not ready for anything serious. That this is just fun and friendly for now. Like it used to be. Before a certain British man entered my life.

I pull out of the hug. “Brady, I—”

“Quinn,” Jerry says, stopping me.

“Yeah?” I give Brady an apologetic look.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he says, a piece of his comb-over moving in tandem with his words. “You’re a rap.”

I give him a side-eyed glare. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re. A. Rap,” Jerry says, drawing out the words.

“I’m a . . . who?”

Jerry muffles some words under his breath, most of them cusswords. He pushes me aside, pulls up YouTube, types a few words, and then stands back and folds his arms.

I’m having déjà vu, the kind that makes my stomach churn and my armpits start to sweat.

The screen is black at first, and then some funky-sounding beats start coming from my speakers, which are hard to hear over the din of the newsroom.

And then the dreaded clip comes into view. Me, in a costume shop. Children surrounding me. I could tell you second by second what happens, I’ve watched it so many times. But when it gets to the part where the intern—Jace, I think his name was—jumps out to scare me, instead of dropping the f-bomb, I’m now saying it on repeat, matching the hard baseline of the music.

“I’m a rap,” I say, my voice devoid of any feeling.

“Yep,” says Jerry.

“I can’t believe this.”

Only I can believe this. It all just feels fitting. Like my life is just one big comedy of errors.

What in the holy mother of . . . all things holy. Gosh, I could use some cusswords right now.

Breathe, Quinn. Breathe.

I look down at the bottom left side of the screen. Over five thousand views so far.

A noise that started as a growl in the bottom of my throat works its way up to my tonsils and then out through my mouth as what can only be described as a semi-tortured scream. Well, that was the sound I think I was going for, but it’s more like an awful birdcall. A crow with laryngitis.

Jerry rears his head backward and takes a step away from me as if I might actually explode. Or lose my mind and burn this place to the ground.

News flash: I might.

Why? Why? Haven’t I been tortured enough?

“What the crap, Jerry?” I say, as if this is his fault.

“Don’t shoot me; I’m just the messenger,” Jerry says, holding his hands up, palms toward me.

I do kind of want to shoot Jerry. I mean, this isn’t his fault, and I know that. I want it to be, so badly. I need someone to blame. Someone to punch. And Jerry just has a really punchable face.

Brady grabs my hand, holding it in his. The gesture does calm me a little. It also keeps me from decking Jerry, since Brady’s got a hold of my right hand, which packs my strongest punch.

“Can you try to get it taken down?” I ask Jerry, my voice a borderline whine.

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