Page 169 of Darling Venom
“Hmm…” I heard her chair creak. “I like physical copies. They let me feel the power of a highlighter in my hand. So, how about you send the manuscript to my office? The location and suite number are on the business card I gave you. Address it to me, and I’ll read it as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
Something like hope bubbled inside me.
I hung up after she did.
A big, goofy smile consumed my face.
I slid a newly printed copy of Darling Venom into a padded Manila envelope, taking extra care to keep the edges nice and crisp. I’d left Kellan’s name off the manuscript, needing to make sure she liked it for its merit and not the commercial aspect of a hit novel from Terry Marchetti’s son.
When the courier picked it up, the weight anchoring my body lifted.
I felt light.
Lighter than I had in over four years.
Reagan wore the proud smile of a new mother.
But it wasn’t directed at her twins.
She’d given birth to two beautiful, healthy boys three days ago. Noah and Ethan Rothschild. I had one in my arms while she held the other to her chest, breastfeeding him.
“Helen visited yesterday.”
“She did?” I tried to appear casual. “What did she say?”
“She said you couriered a manuscript to her office.”
“Did she read it?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh.” I deflated. “I’m sure she’s busy.”
“She wanted to know if it was okay that she got it from you. I told her of course it was, considering my agency gets a nice cut of whatever you sell.” She winked at me. “I also let her know I gave everyone in the office free rein to make their own decisions until I return.”
“How generous of you,” I teased, swapping Noah for Ethan so she could feed him next.
“Didn’t think you’d go and find your first big manuscript in that time,” she joked back.
We chattered for another hour, talking about everything from the babies, to the painful labor, to life in the office without her.
When the evening ended, I returned home in a good mood, which vanished the moment I found Leah on the couch, knitting again. Sweaters this time. So small, they’d fit a monkey.
She said nothing when I entered the apartment, strode to the kitchen, and made myself a bowl of instant noodles; I said nothing when she finished her sweater/monkey outfit and added it to a pile of similarly atrocious knit goods, standing to stretch.
She passed me on her way to grab water. I downed my glass. Her leg accidentally clipped mine.
Both of us pretended it never happened.
She sighed.
I sighed, too.
And then she shoved her needles in the drawer beside her, gathered her knitted knickknacks, and entered her room, shutting the door behind her.
I exhaled as soon as she left, able to breathe again.
