It takes me two days to rest and get better. Two whole days of being weak, of climbing on the walls, of sleeping fourteen hours a night. It’s a pause in work that neither Karli nor I can afford, not when we’re working against the clock.
She only laughs on the phone when I point this out, on my second day of sick leave. “Skye, you’re sick. Take the time for yourself.”
“But—”
“No buts!” Her voice softens. “Look, I know what this place means to you. It’s the same for me. But we’re not going to run ourselves so ragged that we get sick in trying to keep it afloat. Eleanor wouldn’t have wanted that.”
I slump on the couch at her admonition. Eleanor, who had been Karli’s grandmother, but had never wanted to be called anything but her name. It’ll age me, honey, I’d heard her say more than once.
Eleanor, who had always cheered on my dream of being a writer, even when my own family didn’t understand it. I missed her so much it ached, sometimes.
“You’re right.”
“Besides, we’re still on a high from the book reading. Thirty-four individual purchases in one evening. Can you believe it?”
“Hardly.” I stretch my legs out on the couch. “Did you get a call back from Chloe?”
“Yes, she agreed to be our new accountant! I’ve sent her all the reports on our finances today. So far it’s looking fairly good, I think. We’re not profitable yet, not… not in the way Porter Development wants. But we’re getting there.”
Something in me squeezes painfully tight at the words Porter Development. It’s confusion, and anger, and something else I can’t quite name. “Awesome,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I already feel a lot better. I’m creating an Instagram profile now, for Between the Pages.”
“Skye! You should be resting!”
I smile at her concern. “I will be. Soon. I promise.”
Karli is a good friend. I lie back on the couch, my head spinning faintly, and stare at the cracked plaster that runs through my ceiling. She’s been with me through thick and thin. A sister, even if she isn’t one by blood.
The contrast with my sister Isla is too clear. When she’d called yesterday and asked me to babysit Timmy, and I told her I was sick, she harrumphed and told me to get better soon. We all need you, she had told me sweetly, the subtext all too clear.
Karli isn’t like that. Nor, it seems, is Cole.
The CEO and owner of Porter Development had been here, earlier this week, putting cold compresses on my feverish forehead all night. Cancel my meetings, he’d said on the phone. He’d seen me at my weakest. And, my vain heart is quick to point out, at my decidedly most unattractive. I’m not sure what to make of that.
One thing is clear, at least. He might be trying to tear down the bookstore, but I can no longer conveniently pretend that he’s a bad person to boot. I stare up at the ceiling and let the realization flood through me.
It doesn’t change much, in the end. We’re still at odds, firmly in opposite camps on an issue, and we haven’t spoken since he left my apartment a few days ago. Don’t overthink it, I tell myself, and open our text conversation. The last thing I sent was a plain thank-you after he gave me the doctor’s details.
Skye Holland: Here’s Between the Pages’ new Instagram page, in case you want to follow our rise to the top more closely.
Silly.
I regret it almost immediately after I send it, despite the rush of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I want him, and I want him to not be who he is—the developer trying to destroy my job and my friend’s store—and I can’t reconcile those two things.
An hour passes without a response. I take a shower. Open the manuscript I’m trying, and failing, to write.
When I get a text, it’s from Mom, who wonders if I’ll come by for dinner on Saturday and to please bring Isla and Timmy along. I want to sigh. Rare are the times she wants to have dinner just to hang out, but I type an obliging of course and forward the details to Isla.
My phone finally buzzes with the response I want.
Cole Porter: Glad to see you’ve finally hired a PR consultant. Those twenty-seven followers will really help you.
I roll my eyes at the response.
Skye Holland: You forgot your thermometer at mine. I was going to return it, but now I think I’ll keep it.
Cole Porter: Oh no. That was my favorite one.
Skye Holland: Really? It’s not even gold-plated.
Cole Porter: The horror. Do you feel better?
I blink at my screen for a few seconds. Before I can type a response, another message from him pops up.
Cole Porter: I’d hate for my main opponent to be benched. Makes winning less special.
Skye Holland: Restored to perfect health, thank you. Maybe I was just allergic to you?
Cole Porter: We both know that’s not true.
Yes, I think. We both do.
Something uneasy rolls through me. It’s not guilt, exactly, but it’s close. He’d gone out of his way at the book reading, showing up initially to check on our progress, but staying and helping.
Three things I remember clearly.
1) The way his body felt against mine.
2) The reason I went to the hotel bar in the first place, all those weeks ago. It had been to live. To push boundaries. To be reckless.
3) The kiss we shared in the bookstore a week ago.
He’d admitted that he wanted to sleep with me again. That he wanted a repeat of the night at the hotel, when we’d spent the entire night doing… well. My cheeks flush at the memory. It had been more animalistic and honest and open than any sex I’d had with previous boyfriends. No limits, full communication, and Cole’s sly smile put to good use.
Maybe it’s time to be reckless again. I glance over at where my laptop sits, innocent-looking, on my coffee table. When I’d told my sister I’d started writing a novel, months ago, she’d chuckled. What do you have to write about, Skye? she’d asked, before seeing the look on my face. Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.
But she had.
And the worst part is, she was right. I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived my whole life—including my college years—in the same city. My group of friends are scattered, my job limited to stacking books. A major in English Literature and a minor in Creative Writing isn’t necessary for that.
It’s not a comfortable thought. I turn over on the couch, seeking another of the blissful naps I’ve been taking all day, but this time it takes a long time for sleep to claim me.
I feel a lot better the next day. So much better, in fact, that I’m back at the bookstore fifteen minutes before my shift starts. Karli laughs at me.
“So eager, huh?”
I shoot her a blinding smile and get right to work. Customers filter in and out, and I give them all my new, invigorated smile. Four weeks are gone, and we have four weeks left before the deadline is up.
A quick glance around the bookstore reveals all the changes that have happened. The plants, the bookheart window embedded in the wall. The sale signs. It’s true that we’re going through parts of our inventory quicker than before.
Karli leaves two hours before closing, and I’m left with my thoughts, the radio, and the book I’m currently stacking.
It’s a classic. We sell a ton of these every start of the new school year. The author is male, famous for his cross attitude and sparse writing. He smoked cigars and whiskey. He fought in several wars and travelled across Europe, from city to city, for years. He made mistakes and friends and foes and lived to tell the tale.
It’s an author who lived.
I look down at the picture of him on the jacket of the book, the thick mustache and beard. Maybe it’s time to be reckless, too. After all, the authors I admire don’t live tame lives.
Maybe it’s time to stop making excuses for not writing that book. To give in to the bad ideas and the good ones alike. To give in to someone who might be a bad choice, but who will inevitably make for a memorable experience. Live a little, Skye. Don’t be so scared.
My bravery trip lasts all through the end of my shift, even as I close up the bookstore with more hope than I’ve had in weeks. It sends my fingers flying across the screen to send Cole a text.
Skye Holland: Let me drop off the thermometer before you file a police report against me.
Not brave enough to wait for a response, I drive home and jump into the shower. Forty minutes later my hair is clean and dry, and I’m putting on mascara in the mirror. He might have seen me feverish and sweaty, but I want to remind him of what I can look like when I make an effort.
Slipping into the same tight-fitting dress I’d worn to the hotel and some matching lingerie—the only matching pair of bra and panties I own—I grab my phone. He’s responded.
Cole Porter: I’m in the Amena Building. Top floor.
That’s the only thing he writes, no instructions, no proper address. It’s so like him that I smile down at the phone. Perhaps I should tell him I’m coming over right away, but he might object. I might lose my nerve. Riding my new bravery high, I decide not to.
Thirty minutes later I’m parked outside of the Amena. It’s a giant high-rise in central Seattle, a beautifully sleek building. It’s the kind of modern look-but-don’t-touch architecture that I’ve always wondered who would choose to live in. Cole Porter, apparently.
My mother would call it soulless, and not figuratively, either.
I smooth a hand over my dress. Reckless, Skye. The great writers of old travelled the world on pennies for experiences. In comparison, I’m trying to seduce a man who’s already shown his willingness. It’s not remotely comparable.
I walk into the lobby of the Amena like I belong there. My kitten heels echo painfully loud across the stone floor.
A doorman stops me. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I’m here to see a friend,” I reply. “Cole Porter. He’s expecting me.”
I hope.
The man looks me over once before directing me to a receptionist, seated behind a copper-plated desk.
“For the top floor,” he tells her.
She gives me a professional, practiced smile. “Good evening, miss. What’s your name?”
“Skye Holland,” I say, feeling lesser by the minute.
“Thank you.”
As I watch, she makes a call, and then I’m forced to stand there while she informs the person on the other line—Cole, perhaps?—that he has a visitor.
My attempt at recklessness is now a four-person show. I should have figured that rich people come with a retinue. Tugging on the already modest hem of my dress, I give her a smile as my fate is decided.
She finally hangs up. “Welcome to the Amena. Gordon will escort you upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
He leads me to an elevator at the back of the lobby, only accessible by keycard. Inside, there’s only one button, and it’s for the top floor.
Wow.
Cole has his own private elevator.
And he willingly spent the night next to me in my little apartment to make sure I was okay.
The ride feels eternity-long, ascending toward the heavens, my heart beating frantically in my chest.
It finally slides to a stop and the doors open to reveal Cole, pacing in a hallway like a caged animal.
He stops when he sees me. “Skye.”
“Hey.” I step out of the elevator and give him a half-smile. “Your own elevator? Very impressive, Porter.”
He ignores me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. The pills you gave me did the trick. So this is your place, huh?”
I step past him and around the corner. Gray walls, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sparse furniture is severe and beautiful in a way that’s clearly meant to be admired, not used.
“Yes.” A strong hand wraps around my wrist and I’m stopped from going further. “You came awfully fast.”
“I realized something.” My breath catches as his gaze travels down to my lips, my neck, down my body. The tight black dress and the kitten heels. My hair, blow-dried and long down my back.
His eyes blaze when they return to mine. “Ah, Skye, you kill me.”
I inch closer and put my hand on his shoulder, slowly running it down the hard planes of his chest. “Don’t you want to know what it is I’ve realized?”
He closes his eyes. “I think I can guess.”
“Let me give you a clue. The thermometer was a pretext.”
“I’m gathering that, yes.” His hands reach out and grip my hips, fingers digging deliciously into my skin. “Have I finally convinced you to be reckless?”
“Yes.” I rise on my tiptoes and press a kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw. “But this is a separate thing. It can’t interfere with the business deal.”
“Entirely separate,” he agrees.
Boom. Something sounds eerily like pots slamming together. Cole takes a step back, his hands releasing me. “Fuck. Give me one minute. Let me handle something.”
“You have a guest?”
“One minute. Don’t leave, Skye.” He disappears down the hallway with brisk strides, and I’m left in the larger-than-life corridor.
I inch further down and peek into his place. That’s when I see the two glasses of wine on the coffee table. One has a faint, but distinct, lipstick mark.
Voices reach me. One is dark and deep and delicious, even at this distance. The other is unmistakably feminine.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I tiptoe back into the elevator to avoid the sound of my heels against the stone floor. Everything inside me feels hot with embarrassment.
The elevator requires no keycard to reach the bottom floor. It barrels down, and my self-esteem with it, even though I know I have no reason to feel upset. Did I think he’d been celibate the entire time since he’d met me? No, because I hadn’t thought about it at all. Hadn’t even crossed my mind.
I give the doorman and receptionist a little wave on the way out and ignore the surprise in their eyes.
“Good evening, miss,” Gordon says, his voice growing in strength as I hurry past. “Would you like us to call you a cab?”
“No thank you!” I half run out of the stupidly fancy building.
My smile falters the second I’m back out in the warm evening air. Once I reach my car, I take a few deep breaths in the driver’s seat. It’s okay, I tell myself. I was reckless. I learned a lesson. And I’m never going down that particular path again.
I drive home on autopilot, my mind running over the interaction over and over again. The idea that he would get rid of one female guest to make room for me… would we pass one another in the hallway?
Hi, and bye?
Unease rolls around in my stomach. There’s a reason I haven’t had a proper boyfriend since college. I don’t do this. I’m not good at it.
Especially not when the dating game involves casual sex and hook-ups.
My phone rings, vibrating inside my bag, but I ignore it and focus on the road.
“You tried, Skye,” I tell myself out loud. “Maybe being reckless just isn’t for you.”
My phone rings again.
I ignore it again.
When I’ve parked and closed my apartment door behind me—back to my familiar, homely chaos, away from brutalist glass and severe furniture—my phone rings a third time. This time I look at the screen.
Cole Porter.
I press decline.
A message appears nearly immediately after.
Cole Porter: Answer your damn phone, Skye.
I don’t. Another text appears.
Cole Porter: Didn’t think you’d chicken out like that.
Oh, hell no.
With my hands nearly shaking from anger, I find his contact information and press dial. He answers on the first ring.
“Chicken out?”
He scoffs. “Knew that would get to you.”
“Glad I’m so predictable,” I say, “but I didn’t chicken out. You were clearly busy, and I didn’t want to be rude and force your guest to leave.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I did have a guest.”
It’s something I knew already, but it still hurts, irrational as it is. “See?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.”
“And while I very much appreciated you showing up unannounced, it did present somewhat of a dilemma.”
“Of course.” My heart sinks, both with embarrassment and relief. Way to be reckless, Skye. “I’m so sorry.”
“An apology? From Skye Holland?”
“I’m capable of it. God, Cole…”
He continues as if I didn’t speak. “Now, you never gave me back the thermometer. I thought that was why you showed up.”
I sink down onto my couch. “It was just a pretext.”
“Yeah, well, I’m here on the same one.” There’s a knock on my front door. “Let me in, Holland. I want my thermometer back.”
