I see him shrug out of the corner of my eye. Highland is busier now, and we start and stop a few times at a light. He continues speaking once we get moving again.
“I need this to be good at my job. Being aligned with myself, with the higher order of the universe, because our mind directs everything. Our thinking directs how we feel about things, and those feelings direct the actions we inevitably take. Those actions form habits, and from those habits are basically everything else that happens to us.” He’s quiet for a few minutes. “Meeting you really tested my resolve. I wanted to default back to my old ways, and maybe in some cases I did, like when I was a jerk to you. I don’t have an excuse for that, and I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for apologizing. I wasn’t a saint, either.”
He shrugs. “After my divorce, after India… I was in a bad place. I made some bad business decisions. I rectified them on the business side, and now I have precautions in place so nothing like that ever happens again. But my mind was still a mess, and that’s when I found this studio. I went every morning for nearly two years. My life turned around almost instantly when I changed my mindset. I stopped eating meat—only fish. I started eating cleaner, working out, reading more. I’m not as strict as I was, but it made a world of difference. What’s the point in living if you don’t protect the very thing guiding you?” he asks, pointing to my head.
I look out the window, pondering his words. How often had I glided through life? How many times had I sat down after a long day, numbing myself with alcohol and junk food? Of course, there was nothing wrong with either of those things, but when I applied Anderson’s logic—how the mind controlled everything, down to your habits—I realize that I had unintentionally skipped a few steps.
I still had some healing to do with regards to my parents, and perhaps my way of neglecting that growth was to drink. Luca threw himself into work, and I rejected love, rejected emotion. I rejected the idea of friendship with my roommate for four years.
I pull my lower lip between my teeth as we make our way back to Anderson’s house.
“You’re quiet,” he observes, resting his warm hand on my thigh.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.” I turn to smile at him.
We talk nonstop the rest of the morning. He makes us a wholesome breakfast, and my mind feels clearer than it has in months. Around nine, he drives me home so that I can change for work, and by the time I step into the office a little past ten, I feel like a new person. As I’m about to open my email on my desktop, my phone pings with a text. I glance at the name—Samantha.
Opening it, the wordsAmourandbullypop out at me, and I lean back, reading the block of text.
So. Amour is done. Finished. They fired everyone today. You were lucky getting out early. I need your help, though. The author of that bully romance—remember the one?—said because no contracts were signed yet, that she still wants to sign with me. It got me thinking. Would you want to start a boutique literary agency with me? Ha, I feel like I’m proposing! We could be our own bosses, represent the authors we want to… I can teach you the ropes, and I know it’s something you’ve always wanted to do. The best part is, we will already have established relationships with all the reputable publishing houses. Let me know. I’m touring office spaces this week and I really want you by my side.
I look down at my phone for longer than it takes to read the text. It doesn’t surprise me that Amour shut down—but I do worry about all the books in process. When I left, we had nearly fifty in the pipeline. I suppose Silas and Sons—the parent company—will acquire them. But thatdoesmean any books waiting on representation contracts are shit out of luck. If we can convince them to take a chance on us… this could be a huge opportunity for me. And to have my own company, tofinallybe a literary agent? Talk about life goals.
I twirl from side to side in my chair, thinking it over. On the other hand, Ijuststarted at Gather. I can’t possibly leave now, barely three weeks into the job. I’m finally starting to get used to it. And there’s no way I can betray Luca. As much as I’d love to work with Samantha, and as much as finding a cool office space and starting our own agency would be…
I sigh. It would bereallycool. But I can’t.
So, I text Samantha back, and the entire time, my fingers keep tripping up on the words, my thumbs fumbling as my mind screams at me. It’s telling me that Luca will understand—of course he’ll understand. Biting my lip, I erase my response, and instead, tell her I’ll think about it for a day or two. No rash decisions should be made on a whim. I’ll have to weigh the pros and cons of each.
I slide my phone away and get to work.
38
Anderson
I don’t tellNatalia that I’ll be late to work. I figure she’ll either notice that I’m gone, or she won’t. As I take the elevator to the sixth floor, a receptionist greets me by name and directs me to Kelvin’s office. I nod and thank her, straightening my suit and tie. A lump forms in my throat, growing thicker with every step. I fucking hate this shit. This is why relationships can be complicated. You’re no longer looking out for yourself—you have two people to consider now. When I made this meeting almost a week ago, I was only looking out for myself, for my interests. I never expected to drag Natalia through the mud, as well.
Kelvin opens his door, and I walk inside.
“Anderson, so nice to see you again. I’m glad we could meet in private.”
I nod and shake his hand. “Me, too.” He closes the door, and I take a seat across from his desk. “I have to reiterate that this stays between you and me,” I add, propping one leg up on my knee. I clasp my hands together.
“Of course.” His expression shutters for a second—like he wasn’t expecting that.
What am I doing here?
I swallow. Here goes nothing.
“I think it’s time we talk about selling Gather.”
39
Natalia
The next week flies by.My days are spent at the office, pretending Anderson and I aren’t having raunchy, sordid sex every single night at his house. We attend several meetings together, and though he doesn’t try to feel me up again, his eyes glance over at me every few minutes—observing me. The way he looks at me sometimes sends a strange, frenetic energy through me. That same energy is what causes me to show up at his house every night, frenzied and desperate. I wonder if we’ll get sick of each other, but the hunger continues to grow. The gnawing, aching need doesn’t go away.
