Page 23 of Player For Hire

“Sounds good to me.” I fished out my keys. “Give me ten.”

“She’s not your usual type, Colder.”

I shoved my key into my doorknob. “No. Not sure it’s a bad thing.”

“I sense you might be in trouble.” Eli stepped onto the elevator, smirking as it closed.

I had a feeling he was right.

CHAPTER 8

NAOMI

Iona had disappeared while I’d been out with Colder. It wasn’t exactly surprising since I’d somehow been gone for over two hours. Her job didn’t have a typical schedule.

I paced the kitchen with a glass of wine.

It was far too early for wine. I wasn’t sure it was five o’clock anywhere, but I’d needed the golden liquid courage.

I took another gulp and stopped in front of the kitchen table where my laptop sat open.

I probably didn’t even have the file anymore.

It had been over four years since I’d touched it.

It probably sucked.

It was probably corrupted.

I finished the glass and set it down next to my laptop. If it wasn’t there, it was a sign that I should just let this go.

Colder and Iona were both encouraging bad behavior.

Irresponsible behavior.

I leaned down and clicked on my long-ago online storage site. I’d adapted to using the Apple cloud for everything, so I hadn’t logged in…for four years. I tapped my finger on the track pad on my laptop and moved the arrow to the profile icon.

I probably didn’t even remember the password.

But as if it were some muscle memory fugue state, my fingers flew over the keys on the login screen and there it was.

A single folder.

The only manuscript I’d kept from so many false starts and frustrated stops in my creative writing.

I straightened up and brought my glass back to the kitchen island to the half empty bottle. Now a quarter full after this glass. I took another long drink then took the two steps back to the table and sat down.

“It probably sucks. I was a different person then.” I set the glass beside my computer and rolled my neck. “Just get it over with. You’ll see how stupid it is to even contemplate this.”

I clicked it open, and the Word document loaded.

The familiar font I used for writing filled the screen. Nostalgia and a startling wash of emotion hit me like a punch. This was the Naomi before Trent, before Webster Publishing, before responsibilities had swamped me.

The one who wrote late into the night like her life depended on it. The Naomi who couldn’t wait to put her headphones on and lose herself in the epic battles over love and creation.

I started reading.

The wine glass sat undisturbed as daylight slowly faded. I was so engrossed in the story that I didn’t even realize the room had gone dark until Iona gave a startled gasp.