When he’s out of my line of sight, I deflate. I slump against the counter, and my hand knocks against my coffee mug, almost tipping it over. I right it quickly, but my Ryan-induced lack of control over basic movements is starting to get annoying.

I sip my coffee and try to calm my racing thoughts while I listen to Ryan’s muffled voice through the door. I can’t make out any of the words, but the deep tones resonate through the wood. It soothes me.

He stayed. He brought me coffee. He’s here.

Even though I majorly fucked him up five years ago. Even though I can barely keep it together now.

I’m falling for him again. As much as I would like to shove that inconvenient fact into a box and pretend it doesn’t exist, I can’t. The little touches, the warmth of his presence, the thoughtfulness. His ability to see me at my worst and still only think the best.

I don’t want him to leave.

And if we’re going to try to keep this professional, I am royally screwed.

Chapter 19

Ryan

The minute I see Anastasios Martis’s name light up my phone before I’ve even left for work, I know this is not going to be good. I’m glad I excused myself from Scarlett’s kitchen, and not only because looking at her standing there—vulnerability written in the curve of her shoulders and the blue of her eyes—was going to break me into a million pieces in about two-point-five seconds. There’s only one reason why the publisher and namesake of the press would be calling me.

Sure enough, the first thing he says when I answer the phone is, “I have been thinking about this, and I’d really like to meet Scarlett Frye.”

I move my glasses out of the way so I can massage the bridge of my nose. It doesn’t ease any of the tension, but it was worth a shot.

“Well, sir, I’m sure she’d love to meet you, too,” I start as diplomatically as I can, “but she’s under some pressure with her next deadline. I think it might be best to let her work uninterrupted—”

“That’s actually why I want to meet with her,” he interrupts. “I trust you can be discreet about what I’m going to tell you?”

“Of course, sir,” I say because I know what’s good for me.

“I’ll be honest; I was hesitant to sign her on given her history with JMP. But with you vouching for her current manuscript, I felt like it was less of a risk. Your word goes a long way, Whitlock. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, sir.” I rub my hand over the itchy stubble on my jaw that has grown since last night.