Page 2 of A Very Titan Christmas (Titan #14)
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Rachel Porter wrapped her hands around her pumpkin spice latte and stared at the man she’d spent the last six weeks getting to know. If it had been thirty seconds ago, she might have even said she’d been falling for him. Sorta. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“It’s not you. It’s me,” her boyfriend—er, ex-boyfriend—explained.
No wonder he hadn’t ordered anything at the counter. “You mean to tell me that you needed to meet me in the middle of the day, nowhere near my office, because you’re dumping me.”
He frowned and shrugged. “It’s not like you have to be in your office. I have to be in my office and don’t have much time. Look, Rachel. Our location isn’t the point.”
Actually, it kind of was. He was inconsiderate. He’d always been inconsiderate, yet she’d put up with his lesser qualities because she thought they were building something. Again, sorta. The dating pool wasn’t what it used to be as she crept through her mid-thirties. “You’re an ass.”
“I just didn’t see this going anywhere—”
She set her latte on the little table between them and rubbed her forehead.
She wasn’t even lonely and looking for a man.
Rachel dated because that was the expectation.
Everyone she knew was married and settled down.
Her nosy mother wouldn’t let her forget it either.
Truth be told, where she lived and worked was more than enough to leave her fulfilled.
Exhaustion curled its heavy hands into her shoulders and pulled at her patience. This guy was a good-looking schmuck, and she’d been trying to convince herself that she was more than halfway interested. “Enough already.”
He had the gall to look surprised, as though he was expecting her to beg him to change his mind. “I never wanted to hurt you, Rachel.”
“I’m not hurt. I promise you.” She was thirty-six and tired of dating.
Her mental inventory of current emotions was devoid of hurt and anger.
Hell, if she had to nail down an emotion, it would be irritation.
She’d traipsed across town for a breakup coffee with a guy whose middle name she couldn’t recall.
She couldn’t remember if he preferred dogs or cats or what they did for fun.
He was a box filler: someone to tell her mother about so that the over-the-top Eloise Porter didn’t take it upon herself to text, call, and email questions about Rachel’s social life daily.
With her pumpkin spice latte in hand, Rachel abandoned her ex-boyfriend at the coffee shop.
With every step farther away from him, her mood brightened.
She checked the time and opted to take an Uber to the office.
She didn’t need any more stress before asking for what essentially amounted to an overdue promotion.
Traffic was light in the City of Brotherly Love. Everyone in Philadelphia abandoned the city during the last week of November, except, it seemed, Rachel and her editor.
The Uber zipped across town. Her phone buzzed. For a moment, she worried her ex wanted to continue dragging out the breakup through text, but Rachel sighed at the notification. Eloise. Perhaps Rachel had accidentally conjured up her mother after thinking about her newly changed relationship status.
Mom: Let me know if you changed your mind about Thanksgiving.
Rachel: Nope. Friendsgiving is still on. Thanks for checking.
Mom: Does that include a holiday with a special friend?
The word special bounced across her screen, multiplying into a dozen separate words, all bouncing.
Rachel wished she could have a quick word with whoever had taught her mom how to animate her text messages.
If Eloise didn’t add emphasis with bouncing words, then her mother would have hers explode or shake.
Anything to make sure Rachel understood the importance of whatever her mother had texted.
Rachel: No one special, Mom.
Mom: No one special is joining you for Friendsgiving, or no one special in general?
Mom: What about that nice young man you’re seeing?
Mom: Rachel???
Three little dots danced on the screen, showing her mother wasn’t finished with her interrogation. A headache pulsed at Rachel’s temples.
Rachel: About to go into a big meeting. Gotta go.
The Uber driver pulled over in front of the office building. Her heartbeat picked up. She was about to make a big request to her editor. Rachel had been with The American Stay magazine for years. It was time. She could do this.
She shoved the phone into her oversized bag and ignored her nerves.
The building loomed over her, high and mighty and important, reminding her that it had been here for years and would stay long after she moved on.
She pulled out her employee badge and proceeded through security, greeting the woman in charge of the metal detector with a quick hello.
Rachel dropped her bag onto the conveyor belt and heard her phone buzz as it disappeared into the x-ray.
It was going to be one of those days. She loved her mother.
Eloise was sweet and funny, but also a blizzard-level force to be reckoned with.
Eloise never took no for an answer. It could be draining.
The text messages stopped, and the phone rang. She boarded the elevator and answered, “Mom, I can’t talk now.”
“You didn’t answer my texts,” Eloise said. “It’s not too late to come home for Thanksgiving. I’ll even make sure you have your favorite cabin.”
That was the thing about her parents owning a small family resort. They were always up for visitors, and semi offended when Rachel visited other places. Seeing as her job involved traveling around the country, they often had this aggravating conversation.
“I already have plans, Mom.”
“When are you coming home for Christmas?” Eloise drawled out as though raised in the deep south. Her pseudo-southern accent only appeared whenever she thought it necessary to cajole Rachel. “I have such big plans for how we can spend the holidays at home.”
If all went smoothly with her editor, Rachel wouldn’t make it home, and she’d have a winter wonderland of work to take her through the new year.
“I’ll have to check my schedule, but I don’t think I can come home any earlier than Christmas Eve or maybe even New Year’s.
” Or maybe not at all. But Rachel wouldn’t start that fight before meeting with her editor.
“I’ll ask you again in a couple of days. See if you can come home earlier.” Eloise hummed. “What happened to the man you were seeing?”
“It fizzled out.” The elevator dinged as they arrived on her floor. “I have to go—”
“Dating anyone else?”
The doors opened. Her floor was empty of the usual hustle and bustle. “No.”
“That’s a shame. There’s someone I’d like you to meet—”
“I don’t have a pressing need to date someone. Okay? If it happens, it happens.” Rachel walked into the reception area. The front desk was empty. A little sign announced deliveries in need of signatures and noted that visitors without appointments should call the office. “I have to go.”
“You won’t find a husband with that attitude.”
“Good thing I’m not husband hunting.” Rachel threaded through the quiet hallways. “Gotta go. Love you.”
Rachel passed the empty bullpen of cubicles until she collapsed onto the tiny couch outside of her editor’s office.
Holiday music was played from hidden speakers.
She tried to relax. She didn’t need a husband.
Writing for The American Stay filled her with a sense of purpose.
With every assignment, she gained clout and responsibility.
No, she didn’t need a husband. She needed to take her career to the next level.
A glass wall separated her editor’s office from the posh waiting area. Rachel watched her editor disconnect a phone call. Her heartbeat picked up.
Kimberly Nashe, The American Stay’s editor at large, beckoned Rachel through the glass office door with such enthusiasm that she almost stepped back. “I’m so excited to hear about—”
Rachel’s phone buzzed and jackhammered against the metal water bottle in her purse.
“Oh, sorry.” It buzzed and buzzed again.
Why hadn’t she silenced the damn thing? “Sorry, sorry.” She couldn’t immediately find her phone at the bottom of her purse.
How much crap did she have in this thing?
She dug through the bag and swiped the settings to silent.
“My mom takes ignored texts and voicemails as a personal attack. She won’t be ignored. ”
“Doesn’t bother me.” Kimberly waved the interruption away as if she weren’t swamped and had only penciled in five minutes for Rachel’s pitch. “I have a mom who hates to be sent to voicemail, also.”
Kimberly had no idea what level of persistence Eloise Porter could muster. Rachel tucked her bag under her chair and hoped for the best. “Thanks for squeezing me in.”
“It’s nice to have the company for a few minutes. Almost all of my meetings are calls or on Zoom.” She shut the glass door and gestured to the seat before her sleek desk. “Tell me about your big idea.”
Butterflies rioted in her stomach as if they’d mainlined twice as many lattes as Rachel had. “I know it’s short notice and different from what I’ve been working on, but—”
Kimberly raised her hand to stop her. “A word to the wise: That’s not how to start your pitch.”
Rachel wiped the palms of her hands over her skirt and struggled to remember the lines she had rehearsed.
Something about not being ungrateful for the bylines she’d earned at one of the top travel magazines and wanting to take her career to the next level.
A cover story for The American Stay would do that. “I’d like to do a holiday article.”
“Yes! You’ve read my mind. I have just the idea for you.” Kimberly raised her hands as if to display her words on an imaginary billboard. “Top ten quirkiest cities in New England to find the perfect Christmas stockings.”