Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
ThunderStruck: I’m not at liberty to say.
ElizaBeth: Oh my God. Now I’m scared.
ThunderStruck: Have you ever left a one-star review on Amazon for a pair of toenail clippers because you didn’t feel like they cut smooth enough?
ElizaBeth: Oh, sweet Jesus. I do not want to know who this is about.
ThunderStruck: Dean Marks from Accounting.
ElizaBeth: I said I didn’t want to know!
ThunderStruck: And I said I wanted to know who you are. Maybe if you tell me now, I won’t have to tell you about Donny Lewis in Public Relations.
ElizaBeth: What if I am Donny Lewis?
ThunderStruck: Then you’re a bit of a closet freak with a balloon fetish.
ElizaBeth: BALLOON FETISH? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
ThunderStruck: Haha, I guess we can cross Donny off the list.
ElizaBeth: You’re cruel.
ThunderStruck: So are you.
ElizaBeth: Does it help if I confirm that I’m a woman?
ThunderStruck: It definitely helps me feel a little better about spending my late nights talking to you, at least.
ElizaBeth: Late nightS? As in, you’re planning on more?
ThunderStruck: I guess I’ll have to if you really won’t tell me who you are.
My stomach dances. The excited crush-holder inside me wants to keep this conversation going forever, but the emboldened woman behind the keyboard knows better. Anticipation makes the heart grow fonder, and if I want Beau fond of me, I need to drag this out as long as possible.
ElizaBeth: Goodnight, Beau. Thanks for the nightmares.
ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Woman.
Despite my better judgment, I sent him one final message.
ElizaBeth: Goodnight but not goodbye?
ThunderStruck: There’ll be more Midnight chats. I’ll make sure of it.
His words probably shouldn’t make me feel so damn happy, but they do. Sigh.
Two nights ago, Beau messaged me on Midnight, and I haven’t stopped thinking about what our babies will look like since.
For the last forty-eight hours, I’ve checked the chat every hour on the hour, hoping for another message from him, and so far, nada.
There’ll be more Midnight chats. I’ll make sure of it, I mock in my head, chastising the pathetic girl who clung to those words like gospel.
“Earth to Juniper,” Denise, Mr. Banks’s assistant, says teasingly, her bright blond head shining in the fluorescent light coming from above my cubicle. I shove back from my computer, where I’ve been pretending to look at emails for the last hour and a half, and smile.
“Sorry, Denise. I’m a little zoned out today.”
She waves her hand. “Forget it. We’re all in the clouds today. It’s Thursday, which is almost Friday, and all the horses can smell the weekend barn.”
I laugh. “What did you need?”
“Neil is going to need twenty copies of these packets for his three o’clock meeting with the Public Relations team. I have to run over to the lawyer’s office and pick up lunch on the way back, so would you mind?”
I blink myself out of my Beau-induced stupor and take the packet from her outstretched hand. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Sure thing.”
“Thanks, honey,” she says and offers a little tap to the top of the cubicle wall before heading back toward her desk.
As she retreats, I stand, smoothing the wrinkles from my black pencil skirt as I do, and force my legs to un-numb. I’ve been sitting here daydreaming so long, I can almost feel myself morphing into Avery.
As I’m on my way to the copy room, my phone vibrates with a message, and my traitorous little bitch of a heart puts her whole savings account into its stock.
The thrill and rush I get from the possibility of chatting more with Beau should send me running straight to a therapist, but all it’s done is make me want more. Every message, every Asana ping, every Teams meeting chime, every email—I’m a woman deranged.
I want all I can get, even if it’s crumbs. After you’ve crushed on a man for most of your life, you find yourself happy with whatever hangs out at the bottom of a ten-year-old toaster.
But it’s not Beau. It’s a text from Avery.
Avery: Want to get sushi for lunch?
Me: I already ate lunch.
Avery: You bitch! You didn’t even offer to bring me anything back!
Me: I ate at my desk.
Avery: Ate at your desk? What the hell did you eat? A stapler?
Me: I told you this morning I was going to pack a lunch.
Avery: I thought you were joking, Juni!
Me: Why would I joke about something like that?
Avery: Because it makes you sound like you live in, like, a third-world country.
Me: Do you even know what a third-world country is?
Avery: Of course I do. Remember when my dad made us go to the ranch in Montana?
Me: Avery, Montana isn’t a country. It’s a state in OUR country.
When she doesn’t answer, fear that I just made her brain explode urges me to send another text.
Me: You okay?
Avery: Yeah. I just get bored when you start talking about geometry.
Me: Geography, sweetie. GEOGRAPHY.