Page 36 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

AUTUMN

ARUGULA AND ARGUMENTS

“ H ey,” I said with a bright smile as I weaved between tables at the small Italian bistro that my mom, Amber, and I had agreed on for lunch. “Sorry, I ran into traffic.”

Amber’s face was glued to her phone. “Where’s Clark Kent?”

“Who? Ryan?” I said as I slid into the booth across from the two of them. “He’s working back at home.”

Amber scoffed. “I thought the point of working from home was that you don’t actually have to work.”

My eyes twitched. “No, people who work from home work just as much as people who have to go somewhere to work.” I turned to my mom as I unfurled my cloth napkin and laid it over my lap. “How’s the salon?”

“Busy as ever.” She sipped her water. “But I can get you in if you want your roots done.”

I fingered the ends of my hair. I was in dire need of some fresh color. “I might change it up. Something different for the fall.”

“Fall colors always look good on you,” she said.

“Is that why you named me Autumn?”

“Your father named you Autumn. I picked your middle name.”

Amber rolled her eyes and pretended to gag. Thankfully, the server stopped by and broke the tension by taking our drink orders.

“How’s the job hunt going?” I asked my sister a minute later after the server had returned with white wine for her, tea for my mom, and water for me.

She slurped from the wine glass. “Um, I have a job.”

I perked up. “Really? Mom didn’t tell me you finally found something.”

“I’m an influencer. Duh ,” Amber sneered.

I had the slightest hunch that she was bluffing . . . or delusional. “Really? What’s your niche?”

Her lip curled in disdain. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “What kind of content do you make?”

Amber stalled as the server came back to take our orders, but he didn’t take nearly as long as she probably would have liked.

“So?” I asked. “What do you post about? Have you done any collaborations?”

Mom sighed. “Autumn, stop antagonizing your sister.”

“I’m not antagonizing her,” I said as I sipped my water. “I’m just trying to catch up. I haven’t seen you post anything online.”

“I’m just getting started,” Amber snipped.

“You should talk to Ryan,” I offered. “He does tons of brand deals. I mean, it’s mostly protein powder and gym-rat stuff, but he could probably give you some advice on how to find your audience.”

Autumn groaned like a petulant child. “I don’t need advice . It’s easy. Just take pictures and post them. Not everything has to be so complicated.”

I lifted my hands, ceding the floor. “Just make sure you set half of your money aside when you start getting paid. Taxes when you’re self-employed are egregious.” I knew that first-hand.

“Taxes are boring,” Amber pouted.

“She’s right, though,” Mom said. “Maybe you should make an appointment with my accountant. She’s great.”

“Ugh, I do not need an accountant and I do not have to pay taxes,” Amber huffed.

I cocked my head. “Have you ever paid taxes?”

Sure, she had never been great about holding down a job for long periods of time, but she had worked before.

Briefly, as a receptionist at my mom’s salon .

. . before she decided that answering phones “sucked.” Then, she decided she was going to be a florist, and got a job at a flower shop in Manhattan.

She hated being on her feet and really detested how much cleaning she had to do.

Then it was wedding planning. She scored a position as a venue assistant, but didn’t account for all the heavy lifting, long days, and having to be nice to people.

After a particularly long binge watch of Suits , she decided that she wanted to be a paralegal.

That dream lasted for all of two hours when she realized that meant she had to go to college.

Then, it was being a barista so she could own her own coffee shop someday.

Of course, she hated the early mornings and side work.

After I had reached a level of stability and freedom with my career as an author, Amber decided that she was going to write books too. She talked about it for six months—how she was going to write a book—but never put words on paper, no matter how much I offered advice or resources.

“ Autumn . . .” Mom warned.

I bit my tongue as our meals were brought to the table and doled out.

Amber immediately grabbed her fork and started stabbing her salad with vengeance. “Sorry for not being perfect and not paying taxes like you,” she hissed.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Amber, you have to pay taxes. It’s just part of life.”

Mom dropped her head into her hands as she stared at her chicken piccata. “Why can’t you girls ever get along? Everyone told me it would get better when you two were grown.”

“Apparently, only one of us is grown. She’s a thirty-five-year-old child,” I grumbled. What I would have given to be back at the house with Ryan letting him ? —

I pushed the thought of all the things I wanted Ryan to do to my body out of my mind.

That kiss had been like nothing I’d ever felt before. And it was just a kiss. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that man could do with access to a bed.

Amber slammed her fork down, grabbed her purse, and slid out of the booth.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked.

“I asked dad if he wanted to go to lunch and he said yes. So I’m going to hang out with him,” she snapped.

My jaw dropped, and Amber wore a look of victory. It’s like she knew exactly how to gut me without even thinking about it.

I had texted my dad every other day, asking if we could make plans to see each other while I was here. But all I got were excuses or silence.

“We’re eating lunch here,” Mom said. And, frankly, I was surprised. Usually she let Amber get away with anything and everything. “Your salad is right there.”

Without skipping a beat, Amber grabbed the plate and fork, and marched right out the front door.

Anger choked me, burning my throat like a macabre scarf. “And you’re just going to let her get away with that?”

The waitstaff began to stare.

Mom let out a cleansing breath. “Amber’s just going through a rough patch. It’s hard for her to see you have so much success. She’s just jealous of you.”

“Jealous? Of me? My own father won’t even talk to me and she’s off to lunch with him.”

Mom snapped her mouth shut. I stared at my flatbread and watched as balsamic glaze dripped off the arugula.

She sighed. “I’ll talk to Greg and see if he can make time.”

“He’s my dad. He shouldn’t have to make time. ”

“Not everyone can be as perfect as you,” she clipped. “Stop expecting everyone to be. Life is messy.”

“You think I’m perfect? When have I ever been perfect? I just try, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for this family.”

Her voice turned frosty. “I have done more for you than you could ever even understand. Amber has made sacrifices for you. The least you could do is give her some grace.”

“Mom, she is thirty-five and just found out that you have to pay taxes. I think the grace ship has sailed.”

Instead of responding, she picked up her fork and took a bite. We settled into an icy silence until she finally spoke up.

“How’s Lisa?”

That . . . was not what I expected her to say.

I had seen Lisa almost every other day, and made sure to text her on the days I couldn’t drive over.

“She’s hanging in there,” I said.

“That’s good.”

And then it was just silence again.

I left the restaurant after twenty more minutes of silent chewing and sporadic questions, since neither of us were willing to call the time of death on the lunch date after Amber stormed out.

After paying for my meal, Amber’s meal, and Amber’s plate, I slipped into my car, locked the door, and closed my eyes.

What was I still doing in Kansas?

I should have been on the road by now. I should have been writing a book set somewhere other than a fucking cornfield.

But something was keeping me here, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was the man in my bed.

I opened my phone and scrolled through the names until I landed on my dad’s. It couldn’t hurt to try again, even though the last two texts had gone unanswered.

Me

I think I’m going to stay in town for a few more weeks while I write this book. You should come over to the house. Or I can come to you. Or we can meet up for coffee or lunch or something. My treat.

I waited and waited for a response. I told myself he probably wasn’t looking at his phone because he was having lunch with Amber.

After an hour of sitting in the car with the windows down, I told myself it was because it was a weekday and he was back at work after his lunch break.

After two hours, I told myself that maybe his phone had died or he was in an important meeting and couldn’t check his messages.

When I pulled back into the driveway at Bev’s house, the silence finally hit me.