And if there’s one thing that breaks all the rules, not only of my job, but also of my own self-prescribed romantic exile, it’s that.

The #1 rule of your job: It’s a job. Always make sure you’re keeping yourself from getting too personally invested in a client or a match. When dealing with love, emotions can run high. Keep yours in check.

So, no. This cannot happen.

This cannot happen.

GreatSc0t: Whoops. Running late for a client. Let’s discuss at a later time . . . hopefully in person. ;-)

And then I log off. I need to remember to tell Jude this convo happened.

More importantly, I need to remember to back the fuck off.

The best way to do that? Make sure Bree and Jude get together. No more weird, sabotaging pseudo-advice. No more off-the-cuff chat sessions.

From now on, I’m following my own Freelancer’s Handbook to a T and making sure this goes to its natural conclusion of happily ever after. For them.

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16

ZOEY

The reason Clifford liked my poem was because I copied his e-mails into a word cloud app to uncover his most-used phrases, then fiddled around for a few hours until the sentiments rhymed. (He was definitely the kind of person who believed poems must rhyme.)

I’d fed his own words back to him. You—Only Better was the original name of his company, after all. Of course, instead of writing ethically gray-area poetry, regardless of the paycheck, what I should have been doing was opening Final Draft and starting page four of my screenplay. And what I should be doing now, instead of reliving my win, is hauling ass to Café Crudité.

The problem is, it’s already twenty-five past six. Miles will have snagged the good table by now, and rage suppression doesn’t leave much room for creativity. He commandeers it more often than not on Wednesdays; not sure what the outlying factors are. I need a new chart that analyzes his frame of mind and not just the nuts and bolts of arrivals and departures.

I need a life.

I decide to stay home today and deny him any caffeinated schadenfreude. Caffeinfreude. It gives me a kick imagining the moment he realizes he could’ve slept in. In that sense, I’ve won the day.

An alert arrives on my phone: $150 (the poem payoff) has arrived in my PayPal account. Godspeed, Clifford, may it bring you a match. And may she have some type of language barrier situation going on so she can tolerate you.

Final Draft dares me to open it. Simultaneously, my apartment requires dusting. Funny how that happens.