Page 1 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

FOX

“See you when you get back, Fox!”

“Be safe out there, Fox.”

“Come back to us, Fox.”

Sure, one could assume by my honor-guard-esque sendoff that I’m leaving for an around-the-world expedition.

Or war.

Or missionary work somewhere far worse off than those of us in New York City.

“Be safe, Fox!”

“We’re gonna miss you, Fox.”

Have I donated my organs?

No.

Cured world hunger?

Not even close.

Invented insulin and sold the patent for a mere dollar?

Nope.

Although most of my coworkers press their backs to the walls of my Manhattan office and wave their goodbyes, Brenna breaks formation, stumbling forward and wrapping me in a hug that smells of peaches and coffee.

She’s twice my age and barely more than half my height. She’s also the first face anyone sees on their way into Gable, Gains, and Hemingway—a Fortune 50 Marketing Firm set prestigiously amongst some of the tallest buildings in New York—so I suppose it’s a good thing her face is particularly kind.

Pulling back with glittering eyes, she holds on and rubs my arms with her buttery-smooth palms. “It’s just six weeks, right? You’re only going for six weeks?”

“Six weeks.” I tug her in and squeeze until her warm breath bursts against my neck, then backing away, I show her my smile and take comfort in the fact I’m adequately fucked up— child of trauma and all that —which means my eyes remain blissfully dry.

“I promise. And I’ll be available by email the whole time I’m gone. ”

“Bye, Fox!”

“I’m gonna miss you, Fox.”

“Come back soon, Fox.”

I quicken my steps, my four-inch heels click-click-clicking against the ornate tile flooring on the fifty-first floor of a business that turns over two hundred million dollars a year.

Easily. Clearing the crowd and bursting through my office door, I swing back and close it again, only to hear the throaty, happy chuckle of a man I would recognize anywhere. Anytime. Any world.

Booker Hemingway is my boss’s boss’s boss— or something like that —but his office is a mere few feet from mine, and our friendship is something every worker bee aspires for.

“Is there a reason you’re trespassing in my office, Booker?” Turning with a sigh, I lean against the door and study the man perched on the edge of my desk. He wears an expensive suit, not the kind one can buy off the rack, and a watch I wouldn’t wear alone at night in a not-so-good neighborhood.

He’s barely a few years older than my twenty-eight, which makes his rise to one-third owner of a highly regarded marketing firm a hell of a lot more impressive than Gable and Gains— who are closing in on sixty and seventy, respectively.

Booker’s piercing brown eyes flicker with humor, and his short brown hair creates nothing more than a shadow against his scalp.

The dude is handsome. There’s no denying it.

But he transforms to obnoxious easily, snatching up my desk football—I keep it for stress relief—and tosses it from one hand to the other.

In Booker’s case, obnoxious rarely translates to annoying.

“You’d be hard-pressed to find a judge who agrees this is trespassing, considering my name on the side of the building.

But yeah. There’s a reason.” He tosses the ball, catching it on its downward arc.

“I needed to say goodbye before you left, but I’m not the type who’ll line up in the hall like the rest of them. ”

“Because you consider yourself above them?” I push away from the door and catch my ball while it’s in the air, squishing the soft foam in my palm and striding around my desk to set it in my top drawer.

That ball was a gift from my best-little-buddy, Franklin Page. And Booker Hemingway has already been warned not to touch what’s not his.

Warned by Franky, that is. Not me.

“Six weeks is a long time.” Unruffled, he flops into my visitor chair, lazy and languid, which is everything he’s not allowed to be if anyone on the other side of my office door just happened to look in.

At thirty-one, he must prove himself in ways Gable and Gains never have to. Worse, because he’s neither middle-aged, nor white, he has to work harder than his business partners and always appear thrilled while doing it.

“Remind me again where you’re going?” He drops his legs open and rolls his head back. Not so thrilled. “For six whole weeks.”

“Plainview.” Ugh. Just saying the name out loud makes me pout. “Population: thirty-two… or so. They have one street running through town, one grocery store, four churches, and an uncountable number of old folks just begging for a scrap of gossip.”

“And the chicken poo,” he teases. I may have mentioned the plethora of poo in the past . “You’re scheduled for six weeks off, but I bet you’ll be back in one.”

“Can’t.” I grab my purse and set it on my desk, then I open the thick leather and toss my things in.

Phone. Laptop. Keys. My lucky pen with chew marks on the lid, though, truly, it’s no different from the thirty other pens from the multi-box I took it from.

“My best friend is having her baby, and her son needs me. This is a massive change, and change, for him, is upsetting.”

“He’s nine years old! Surely, he’s old enough to understand that things are gonna be different now. He’ll be fine.”

“He’s ten, actually. He’s more intelligent than anyone I’ve ever met and a genuinely sweet boy who would never begrudge his mom’s happiness or the little sister on the way.

But he’s also autistic, thrives on routine and familiarity, and though Alana will do her best to cater to both of her children, having a baby is a major medical episode.

” I open my top drawer and grab my notebook— just in case —and a packet of gum.

“I’ve been in Franky’s life since the day he was born, and their move to Plainview is still kinda fresh.

Alana just bought a bookstore, and Tommy—her baby daddy—is busy with his own business.

Everyone is already juggling, so I see no reason not to help my friends.

” I drop everything into my purse and bring my eyes back to Booker’s. “That’s what kind people do.”

He snorts, perfect white teeth flashing behind a smile most others would gleefully pay for. “You’re trying to hurt my feelings, huh? Because you’re excited to see your friend, but you’re also gonna miss us.”

“I’ll miss Brenna.” Lie. I’ll miss them all.

But saying so to confident men is how larger egos are created.

“I’ll be back in six weeks, plus you’re heading to Rome while I’m gone, so you’ll hardly even notice my absence.

Once I’m back, life will go on as it always has, and this will be just a memory.

I’ll be available via email.” I repeat the words I’ve spoken a thousand times already today, flattening my voice into an unfeeling monotone.

“You can call if you need something, and I’ll send updates anyway.

Other than that,” I close my drawer with a satisfying snick, “I’m entitled to my time off, and complaining about it achieves nothing except to prove you’re a big baby. ”

“Big baby.” Grunting like a jolly old man, he leans forward and sets his elbows on his knees, dangling his hands between his legs. “You speak to your superiors with such disrespect, Ms. Tatum. It’s hardly acceptable in the workplace.”

“Yeah, but we were friends before you got stupid-rich, so it hardly counts.” I quickly scan my computer screen and the emails that sit unread; countless, and all with similar subject lines: goodbye.

I dismiss them and jump across to the dozen web tabs I’ve left open; newspaper articles about a certain fight sensation, coaching success, and prodigy maker—since it’s smart business to research your rival—then I switch the screen off and straighten my back.

And finally, I release a deep breath and empty my lungs.

“I’m leaving now. Don’t try to stop me.”

“You think awfully highly of yourself.” He pushes off my chair and tidies his suit jacket.

Because once we leave this office, he must be Mr. Hemingway again.

The heat of his following eyes lingers on my back as I stroll to the closet built into my office wall and tug the door open.

While he straightens his tie and clears his throat, I drag a ridiculously heavy suitcase out and miss running over my toes by a hair, then I grab my carry-on case and a pair of Nike high-tops to change into once I get to the airport.

“Would you like me to call up a car? Since you seem to think you’re king shit around here.”

“I don’t think I’m king shit.” I set my purse on top of my suitcase, draping the straps over the handle to keep it from tumbling right off. “I’m told how amazing I am every single day. It’s hardly conjecture at this point. Also,” I peek over my shoulder, “no need to call a car.”

“You’d rather catch a cab?”

“No. No need to call. Michael’s already downstairs waiting for me.”

He laughs. “Of course he is.”

“Walk me down?” My heart thuds with emotion, taking what is supposed to be an exciting adventure and adding a sheen of dread because of the work-family I know I’ll miss while I’m gone.

Plainview is not just not-Manhattan , which is a massive con in the pros and cons list anyway, but it’s a small town in the middle of Hell, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, not a single restaurant operational past ten at night— for those late-night adventures I enjoy going on when the apartment is too lonely —and no one within its town limits for me to spend my time with— besides Alana and Franky.

Well, them and the Watkins twins.

Tommy will be Alana’s husband soon, and Chris is… strange, in the ‘ don’t look at me ’ and ‘ don’t sit in my seat ’ kind of way.

In the silence, Booker takes my large suitcase and rolls it across my office, spires of glittering light flaring from the sparkling exterior as he passes in front of my window. He opens the door, only to reveal more faces. More goodbyes. More teary smiles and emotional eyes.