BooksBarbecue
Back First Comes Love Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. First
  2. Love Connection
  3. Zero
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. One Month Later
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Six Months Later
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-one
  27. Twenty-two
  28. Twenty-three
  29. Twenty-four
  30. Six Months Later
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. I Have Never
  41. One
  42. Two
  43. Three
  44. Four
  45. Five
  46. Six
  47. Seven
  48. Eight
  49. Nine
  50. Ten
  51. Eleven
  52. Twelve
  53. Thirteen
  54. Fourteen
  55. Fifteen
  56. Sixteen
  57. Seventeen
  58. Eighteen
  59. Nineteen
  60. Twenty
  61. Twenty-one
  62. Twenty-two
  63. A Christmas Date
  64. One
  65. Two
  66. Three
  67. Four
  68. Five
  69. Six
  70. Seven
  71. Eight
  72. Nine
  73. Ten
  74. Eleven
  75. Twelve
  76. Thirteen
  77. Fourteen
  78. Fifteen
  79. Sixteen
  80. Seventeen
  81. Eighteen
  82. Nineteen
  83. Twenty
  84. Twenty-one
  85. Twenty-two
  86. Note from the Author
  87. Sneak Peek – To the Stars and Back
  88. Two
  89. Three
  90. Four
  91. Also by Camilla Isley
  92. About the Author

“Not today, honey.”

Chevron’s tail slows down.

I open the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

She drops to the floor, tail static, eyes wide. My heart breaks a little as I lock the apartment, leaving her all alone.

What will I do if I accept the new job? I’m sure Évoque doesn’t have a bring-your-pet-to-the-office policy. Imagine Chevron running loose in the fashion closet. That would be something. With a better paycheck, you’ll be able to afford the best dog-sitter in the city. Yeah, Northwestern must know they have to offer me a salary bump for me to even consider going back.

Foldable flats on, I reach Canal Street Station. As I push my way through the ticket barrier, the aboveground spring breeze turns into stale, deep-fried air. Okay, maybe Manhattan’s air isn’t exactly wholesome. But the underground air is ten times worse. Warm and clingy.

Someone stomps on my foot—not fun when my only protection is foldable flats.

“Hey,” I call after the brute.

But the suit ignores me and hurries toward his track. You sorry excuse for a commuter. I forgot how rude, pushy, and inconsiderate of other people’s existence subway-takers can be. So much better to walk to work. Easy to say in summer. Wait until it rains, snows, and blizzards, then see how fun it is to walk on a bridge exposed to the elements.

I squish myself onto the first uptown train and, oh, the stench. Exposed to the elements sounds more promising than squeezed to within an inch of my life by smelly strangers. I’m walled in by three people. If there’s one place where being short is a clear disadvantage, it’s inside a subway car. Behind me stands an overweight gentleman whose bulging belly is warmly pressed against my back. On my left, a tall girl—I hate genetics right now—has a bony elbow dangerously close to my jaw. And I can count the pills on the tie of the guy standing directly in front of me, who, besides having a dreadful fashion sense, is also drinking coffee from a paper cup.

I watch in horror as Mr. Old Tie removes the plastic lid. Is he crazy? The last thing I need is a hot-coffee shower. I try to edge back. But bulgy-guy’s belly stops me. I search left and right for an escape route. Nothing. My head is level with my fellow riders’ shoulders at best; I can’t see anything. I can’t breathe. Please, New York fairies, let this ride be a short one.