Page 59 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

Emily (12:20 PM):She is the top agent for selling romance!! I didn’t even have her on my list of agents to query because I was sure that would be reaching too high.

Jack (12:22 PM):No way. She’d be lucky to snag you. Can you have them edited by tomorrow morning to send to her?

Emily (12:26 PM):Actually…I don’t know. I’m not sure that the story is ready. And I just looked at her bio…it seems sort of intense. Maybe I should wait and work on this some more before I send it?

Jack (12:29 PM):My friend said she’s open to queries now, but that her window closes very quickly. If you think you want her as your agent, you gotta submit soon. The story is incredible, Emily. Bet on yourself.

Emily (12:35 PM):Okay. I’ll do it! I can definitely have them edited by tomorrow morning.

Chapter Eighteen

Emily

“Oh my gosh, this is such a horrible idea,” I say, crouched behind the little stone wall of Bart’s house. We parked down the road and walked what felt like eighteen miles to get here, which was rough on my body that has been doing nothing but sitting all day. The second after I read Jack’s text about sending my chapters to Colette, I edited the shit out of those first eight chapters. Tomorrow morning I’ll be sending my book through the ether to land in Colette Menton’s inbox, and it could change my life forever. Colette is worlds bigger than Barbara, and although I’m a little hesitant to sign with an agent with so many clients and whose bio saidshe prides herself in selling books of higher-than-average caliber,it feels good to inch a little closer to turning a dream I’ve kept stuffed away into something tangible. I can’t fully process it yet.

“Yeah, it’s a bad idea for sure.”

I whip my head in Jack’s direction. “You were supposed to make me feel better by saying we’re not doing anything wrong because we’re not actually going to steal anything.”

“No, we’d still go to jail if we get caught.”

“Maybe you’ll go to jail, but I will remind Sheriff Tony that I bought fifteen boxes of his daughter’s Girl Scout cookies this year and get off with a warning.”

“You’re not even going to attempt to get me out with you?”

I shrug. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m pretty,” he says with the sincerest expression. “And you’d miss my company.”

I squint. “Debatable.”

“Let’s test it.” Jack stands and dusts his hands off against his navy pants. It’s actually the most somber I’ve ever seen him dress. Between the pants, brown boots, and gray Henley, there’s not a pop of color on him. It makes me think I should have worn something sneakier too. Instead, I’m in a pair of high-waisted jeans and a red-and-white floral top with cute little pearl buttons lining the front. Very impractical for a heist. But very cute. I regret nothing.

When Jack takes a step, the main floodlights of the backyard flare to life. My heart pounds as he brazenly walks right up to the back door.

“Jack!” I whisper loudly, but he just waves for me to follow.

I scurry up behind him, checking over my shoulder like a SWAT team is going to suddenly pounce from the woods and arrest us. So far so good, though.

“How are we going to get in there? Oh—are you picking the lock?” I ask as he drops to his haunches.

“I’m sincerely flattered that you think I could pick a lock.” He reaches under the little frog gnome by the door and withdraws a shiny key.

I gasp in delighted shock. “How did you know that was under there, Sherlock?”

“My senses were tingling. Also last year when Bart was out of town he asked me to come put a package inside his house. Key is in the same place it was then.”

Jack inserts the key inside the lock and turns it. It opens easily and my stomach swoops with anticipation. A wave of cool air-conditioning billows out to welcome us. The grin Jack tosses me over his shoulder, however, is far more welcoming. I don’t know what to do about the fact that I seem to have a full-blown crush on Jack.

Or no. Not a crush. Something bigger and scarier. I think about him constantly. If anything funny happens, I want to email him or text him or run next door and demand he hear about it. If I can’t sleep, I find myself tiptoeing toward the front door, my greedy little feet set on scuttling across our lawns like a hermit crab until I end up in his bed.

I don’t like change. And I’m terrified of relationships. But I find myself contemplating both of those things with him. Which is why I must resist.You need more time,I chant to myself like a witch over a cauldron.Let the feelings cook before you act on them.There’s no rush. And if they’re still there in a month or two, maybe I can consider it. Safety is key here.

“After you, Emily Stalker,” says Jack, extending a hand for me to pass through before him.

“Quit calling me that. I am not a stalker, and someone might get the wrong idea.”

His fingertips brush mine as I walk by. “Says the woman currently breaking into a house in the dead of night.” Once we’re inside, he softly closes the door behind us, and we’re plunged into darkness.

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