Page 200 of Darling Venom
Plus, after she’d installed it, Abigail pointed out that she could just text or call when she needed us. Rich as she was, Reagan didn’t want the money to go to waste, which meant she used the system. Often.
I let myself inside her office without knocking. (The babies cried each time any of us did. They also cried at the sound of paper shredding, sighs, coughs, sneezes, and general signs of life.)
“Everything okay?” I peered at Ethan over the edge of the self-rocking bassinet.
He was my favorite twin. He cried a little less than Noah, who needed an ark to weather all his tears.
“Just tired.” She lifted Noah to her chest, adjusted a towel over her shoulder, and began to burp him. “I had to change my shirt twice yesterday, so this time, I brought an entire suitcase. Four changes, and I haven’t run out of blouses. Silver linings and all.”
“Tate mentioned you shouldn’t be working so soon.”
Her brows shot up. “Tate?”
“Dr. Marchetti,” I corrected, but it was too late. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you…” I fidgeted, hand drifting to my leg.
Did I have to tell her?
Would the world end if I didn’t?
Reagan’s eyes narrowed on my hand.
“Spit it out, Charlotte. Noah has a sixth sense for anxiety, and I can’t deal with another minute of crying,” she joked, but on cue, he vomited on the burping towel.
I forced my arm behind my back, circling the wrist with the opposite hand. The position reminded me of the one I assumed whenever Mom would scold Leah over her grades. Like I was guilty by association and needed to make myself as small as possible before she realized it.
“The manuscript isn’t from the unaddressed slush pile,” I admitted.
“It isn’t?” She straightened in a flash, rocking Noah in the process. “Hmm… You wouldn’t poach it from another agent. Is it yours? Now that I think about it, I never asked about the author. Pregnancy brain. Then, the new-mom brain kicked in.” Reagan lifted the baby as proof, a few inches shy of holding him out Simba-style.
“It’s not mine. I mean, it is. It was given to me. But I didn’t write it.”
She raised her brow again, as if to say, Well? Who did?
“Kellan Marchetti.”
There was a pause, followed by a few blinks. “Dr. Marchetti’s brother?”
“Yes.”
“And Terry Marchetti’s son.” She did the math, rubbing at her chin. “Okay. Wow.”
“Yup.”
“Helen called. She sounded like a woman obsessed. I’ve never heard her so happy. Now I know why. I bet she’s seeing dollar signs right now.”
“I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”
“Is the book actually good, or is she blinded by the marketability?” She winced. “Sorry. Have to ask.”
“It’s good,” I promised. “Better than good. It’s great. The Imperfections on steroids. The writing is more mature, the storyline more original, everything about it crafted to detonate a grenade on the emotions of its readers. I didn’t even tell Helen who t
he author was when I handed it to her. I left that part blank.”
“You sound protective of it.”
“I am.”
There was a good dose of shame in this admission.
