Page 106 of The Perfect Rom-Com

And it’s been going great.

Until I get the email from Jack.

“Unbelievable,” I hiss, staring at the email.

“Teacher?”

Lakshmi is frowning at me, concern etched across her face. Pencils are drooping in students’ hands all around.

“Yes . . . ,” I say distractedly, but one hand has found its way to my hip, and I’ve started breathing like an angry hippo about to charge. “All fine.”

“You don’t . . . ,” Lakshmi says hesitantly, “look fine.”

“Not the definition of fine.” Fen points at his dictionary, then up at me. “More like—”

“Keep writing.”

The sound of thirty-five pieces of lead scribbling on papers fills the room again. And it’s like this—this deathly but for the scribbling silence—for another five minutes until . . .

“Murderous expression,” Socorro announces loudly.

All eyes turn to him. He props up his dictionary for all to see. There’s a zoomed-in picture of a bald male on the page, with a beet-red face and flared nostrils. I think he might be holding a hatchet.

“Teacher, you look like murderous expression,” Socorro says with the satisfaction of a job well done.

“Keep. Writing,” I say again, this time with a definitive snap. Pencils pick up. Heads drop to their papers.

I swivel around to face the blackboard, back to the students, and read the email again while picking up the eraser and beginning to erase the board.

The nerve.

The absolute nerve.

Jack is threatening to . . . to sue me?

Me.

My ex-boyfriend of a whole seven days is now prepared to sue.

Well, Gloria’s had her share of fascinating dinner party stories to share from sore ex-lovers, and now, apparently, it’s my turn to pull my weight. Entertain the masses with a tale of unbelievable revenge over cheese sausages on toothpicks.

When I turned in the email with the Meet Me Under the Bridge manuscript last week, I was courteous. In fact, I assumed (apparently wrongly) that this would be a dream come true for Brooks Publishing.

A joy. A relief. I was polite. I was professional. I pretended none of the pain he and they had caused me existed.

And with my email I would have proof, in writing, that I was a responsible person. A tactical, logical, reasonable adult. Somebody other publishers would love to have as a writer on their team.

The email had gone like this:

Dear Jack,

In accordance with my contractual duties, I am attaching my next manuscript.

You will note that the title has changed. This is true, and I assume that given there are, according to Amelia’s wishes, no references to children or any other discrepancies she wishes to acknowledge, this will not be a problem. Give it a read and I think you will find that I have saved my final, favorite work for last.

I sincerely hope that with Meet Me Under the Bridge, Amelia and the team will receive their greatest wish in securing her as the rom-com writer of her time. After this manuscript, consider my contract completed.

Best regards,