Um...not really, but okay.
“It seems like ages ago. There’s a difference?”
She shrugs. “There doesn’t have to be. Rom-com can go the women’s fiction route instead of conventional romance.”
“Uh—again, there’s a difference?”
“Women’s fiction focuses on the journey, the ups and downs, and the heroine’s growth is central to the story. The man can grow, or he can be replaced. If I went the romance route with that book, I’d be looking for a friend to write a story about. But I went the women’s fiction route and straddled the line so well no one will ever know.” Her voice goes up into a singsong pitch on the last few words.
“So what does that mean for the sequel?”
She looks at me without breaking eye contact. “It means life keeps happening after the happily ever after. The characters have to continue working on themselves and their relationships. Life is chock-full of new struggles.”
“I’ll take the bait. What’s your sequel about?”
She smiles and holds her hands out like she’s framing something.
“I’m calling it Hog Fights Under City Lights. Our lady got her life back and returns to the big city after a fight. The ex-Marine farmer man follows her and tries to win her back, but she’s not going to make it easy. He isn’t a city slicker. They’re too different.”
“How does he win her back?” I ask.
“Well, all the fighting leads to really good makeup sex, and then Sir Oinkswell—”
“Stop. Words I could have gone my whole life without hearing from my mother,” I grumble.
“You mean Sir Oinkswell?” She winks at me. “Our hero has to make some grand, heartwarming gesture, of course. Oh, and groveling. It ain’t a real knock-down love fight without plenty of that.”
“Grand gesture?”
“Hearts and flowers and tears. A life or death risk. I’m still working it out, but they’re going to have to learn to compromise. If only I knew what a certain assistant and her boss were squabbling over, I could probably help them compromise too. I just hope good makeup sex is part of the bargain—”
“Mom! You’re terrible, and I’m pretty sure that’s no longer an option,” I hiss, surprising myself. Like I ever wanted to let my romance writer mom in on my sex life.
“Aha—busted! Now do you want to tell me what happened?”
“No. I just came for cinnamon coffee.” My whole face warms.
“How much did it cost you to get here for coffee?” She laughs. “You should’ve just bought a cup of coffee. Don’t worry, baby, you guys will work it out.”
I sigh.
It’s not worth saying I don’t want to work anything out. Mom believes everybody deserves a happy ending, even in real life, and there’ll be no convincing her otherwise.
When I leave my parents’ house, I still have zero messages, no missed calls, and no response to my email. Magnus has already built up three hundred unopened emails.
I know because I check. He’s going to be buried alive.
When I get back to my apartment, I’m greeted with the scent of pepperoni, melted cheese, and...chocolate?
“Chocolate pizza?” I ask, turning my nose up into the air for a better whiff.
“I ordered pizza and made cookies. Netflix?” Paige asks from her perch on the couch.
“Sounds good to me. What are we watching?”
“No idea. You pick,” she says, sliding the remote over.
Great. Now I’m on the heartbreak outreach pizza party program.
“Okay. Just let me grab some food first.”
I make a plate and sit down on the floor. I’ve had enough self-pity for one day. But there’s also this sense that without HeronComm and the despicable Mr. Heron, my whole life grinds to a halt. I’m frozen in time with nowhere to turn but pizza and bad TV.
She grins and pats my shoulder. “Congrats. You just survived day one without the asshat.”
“The asshat is dead to me,” I lie, forcing a triumphant smile.
“It gets easier,” she whispers.
God, how I wish she were right.
All night long, I fight the urge to pack up my stuff, jump in my new car, and ride off into the moonlight where I’ll never have to think about Magnus again.
24
Smart Stick (Magnus)
I’m stuck in office hell, trying to claw through four thousand emails, when my desk phone rings. Gavin Stuart and Associates flashes across the caller ID.
I groan. This guy never has good news.
“Heron,” I snap.
“I’ve got an update on the situation for you. They’re still in Saint Thomas. As far as my PI can tell, the kid is being cared for,” Gavin tells me.
I shove the tip of my pencil against my desk so hard the end breaks off.
“Considering what I pay you and your investigators, I still don’t understand how you failed to stop the jet before it left the fucking country,” I snarl, pain crawling up my throat.
Rage is my permanent state of being since that night.
I still can’t fathom what lies the bastard told Jordan to get him on a plane when Marissa would’ve woken up again soon.
“Mr. Heron, we’ve been through this,” Gavin stammers. “There was no stopping the plane. You’re not even a legal guardian, but I’m reviewing all options to force him back.”
“Options. Right. Something I don’t need to pay an attorney fourteen hundred dollars an hour for. I want action,” I growl.
If there’s one thing I despise, it’s feeling rudderless.
“I understand your frustration, sir. The good news is, the Virgin Islands are likely to extradite him easily under territorial law. If he were on the British side, we’d be looking at a harder situation. Our best case is for the kid’s mom to get involved ASAP. If she’s the complainant, she can bring them back rather quickly,” he says.
“I told you, she’s barely out of a coma. She drifts in and out of consciousness. As soon as she’s in a position to help, she will. God only knows when that will be. The next time I talk to you, you’d better have a solution for me, Stuart, or I’ll be finding a new law firm.”
I leave it there because this bullshit isn’t his fault.
I’m the dumbass who let Jordan leave with Baxter Heron. I should’ve kept them at the hospital, even if it meant beating that jackass to a pulp and letting Sabrina take the kid home.
Fuck.
Brina. I’m not even ready to think of her name.
“With all due respect, Mr. Heron, most attorneys wouldn’t put up with you as a client,” he fires back. “I’ll call when there’s more information.”
Then the prick hangs up on me before I can do what I was planning—slamming the receiver down in dramatic fashion.
No fun today, apparently.
I scroll through my emails, looking for the coordinates the investigator sent, so I can plug them into maps and see where my little brother is. Sabrina quit sorting my email the night I sent her home from the hospital.
My inbox is swamped, and I can’t find a goddamned thing, even with search.