Page 282 of Darling Venom
Preferably for Noah.
Ethan turned out to be an asshole, who still cries at the sight of me.
“It wasn’t supposed to be published until Monday.” I pluck the magazine from between her manicured fingers, shoving it into one of my drawers so I can message a picture to Marshall later. “I’m s—”
I stop.
I’m not sorry.
There is nothing to be sorry for. I made a kick-ass deal and forgot to send her the memo.
I’m learning to let go of my guilt. Of my need to apologize to the entire world.
It’s a process, but I’m definitely taking baby steps.
“No, you’re not sorry.” A smile spreads over Reagan’s face. “And you shouldn’t be. Tell me all about this deal. Over lunch.”
She claps.
Now is a good time to apologize.
“Can’t. Sorry.” But for the first time in years, the word doesn’t carry that added weight. Of someone afraid to let the other person down. “I’m meeting Tate for an early lunch. Dinner or a raincheck?”
In the background, the boys have woken from their nap, evidenced by their screams. I hear people outside trying to offer them food three-year-olds have no business eating.
It’s weird, but I kind of got used to writing with two screaming kids in my ear. If this secondhand experience with twins has taught me anything, it’s that motherhood is life’s boot camp.
I have renewed respect for mothers everywhere.
“Tate.” Reagan wiggles her brows. “Where’s he taking you?”
I can’t tell her.
Not because Tate told me not to. He didn’t. But because I’m pretty confident it’s a private matter.
I can’t explain it.
I just have a hunch.
“Not sure.” I stand, pick up a printed contract, and head to the filing cabinet. “We’re going to meet on Fifth and see what’s available and good.”
That’s a flat-out lie.
I don’t like lying, but it feels like a necessary evil at this point.
Reagan nods. Her smile says she knows something she isn’t telling me, but since I lied to her not even a second ago, I’m in no position to pry.
“Right. Of course. Well, I hope you enjoy it.”
“Sure, I will. Dinner, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s talk tomorrow. It’s not that urgent, anyway.”
Then she knocks my desk twice—the sliver of space not covered with papers, that is—and ushers out of my office.
I finish the email, take a picture of the article about the deal, and send it to Marshall.
Then, I grab my jacket, wrapping my neck in a cashmere scarf Leah and Jonah gifted me for Christmas. It’s an ugly, orange thing, but it means so much to me, I rarely leave it in the house.
