Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“She was having a bad day,” I say, amazed I don’t trip over my own words.
“Bad day? Really?” Nevermore prompts.
Because it was her wedding anniversary. I don’t know. Leave me the hell alone.
“She doesn’t always enjoy her retirement, I’m afraid,” I say. “Especially since my father passed away a few years ago.”
There. Hard truth. Now she can buzz off and go torment some other grief-stricken madman on the verge of revealing too much.
“Oh—well, I’m sorry.” Her voice is sympathetic and oddly sweet, lacking her usual caustic bite.
“You should get some rest, and I should finish my scotch. We’ll talk Monday. Sweet dreams, Nevermore.”
Probably not the best goodbye for an employee. Too late.
“You too—sweet dreams.”
Bullshit. I don’t want her and sweet existing in the same universe.
That’s how we got here, sniping at each other, and somehow trading secrets better kept inside the dark chambers of our hearts.
“Good night,” I mutter.
When I look down, my screen is blinking.
She’s gone like the strange little fever dream she is, fading back into the bottomless night.
7
Ungainly Fowl (Dakota)
I wake up in a tangled fit of sheets with a curse on my lips.
All from the kind of insane dream you instantly remember—and regret.
I wore my wedding dress.
Dad walked me down the aisle.
I was walking to meet Jay—what should’ve happened in real life on that awful day—but when my dad put my hand in the groom’s, he wasn’t that backstabbing mouse of a man anymore.
The stranger groom wore an impeccably tailored Haughty But Nice tuxedo.
He was taller and broader and more imposing than Jay, and his eyes sparkled like fine polished mahogany. When he smiled at me, oh God.
I went from bride to butterflies to butter.
A giddy emotional noodle who couldn’t decide if she wanted to break down crying in confusion, or in happy ugly tears for a man who pushes every button.
The second it hit me who I was about to marry, I burst into a raven and flew away.
Okay, so dreams are hardly ever realistic, even when they’re annoyingly real in other ways.
The raven probably came from my shoulder tattoo. Since I couldn’t live down the constant jokes about being an English major named Poe, one day, I decided to just rock it.
I always loved “The Raven,” anyway.
The godly tux and Lincoln effing Burns obviously came from the stress I have to deal with at work. Oh, plus the glaring fact that Lincoln was the last person I talked to before I went to bed.
I don’t have a crush on my boss.
I don’t.
I’m not even stupid enough to think love is real.
Still, it’s the kind of dream you have to process.
So, I sit at my tiny table with my notebook, working through the chaos that’s my brain the only way I know how. I dive into words, pounding out meter and rhyme and feelings like juggling knives.
When a sharp sound goes off behind me, I almost go tumbling out of my chair.
“You should really start locking your door. Some crazy could walk in.” Eliza strolls inside, holding a steaming hot mug with both hands.
My heart leaps at the sound of her voice and I slam my notebook shut.
“Yikes. Thanks for the reminder. Can’t believe I forgot to lock up last night.”
Was I that distracted from talking to him?
I don’t want to know. I also don’t need anyone else thinking I’ve fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I’m writing angsty poetry inspired by my cinnamon roll snorting boss.
“You okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.” She sits down beside me and slides the mug over. “Try it. I’m calling it Raven Blend just for you.”
“What? Now you’re cracking Poe jokes too?”
“Nope. I named it after your bitchin’ tattoo.”
I burst out laughing.
God. Eliza’s humor reminds me that my encounters with the bosshole have made me overly defensive.
“Sorry. I think I just woke up a little tightly wound today. Probably the new job or something.” I pick up the drink and take a long, pleasing sip. “Oooh. Wow, Eliza—wow.”
“Perks you up before the caffeine hits, doesn’t it? It’s two parts cinnamon and one vanilla.”
“It’s wonderful,” I say, praying I’m not developing a cinnamon aversion.
“What’s wrong?”
I take another drink. It’s good, but not mind-blowing the second time around, and I don’t think it’s the coffee itself.
“Oh, nothing. Nothing with this drink, that’s for sure.”
“But you’re feeling restless? It’s that dillweed you work for again, isn’t it?”
I sigh. “No.”
“The job? I was afraid writing about holy matrimony all day might be hard. But if anyone can do it, it’s you.”
“Sorta. Technically, I guess it’s psycho-boss. The guy tries not to be a twenty-four-seven asshat, and when he tries to be nice...somehow, he’s just worse. Or it’s just me. After last year, I’m overly sensitive with weddings. I’m also not great at the whole forgiveness thing, especially when it involves dumb remarks from a dangerously handsome, powerful billionaire with my future in his hands. Not forgiving might be safer.”