Page 9 of Off the Record

“I’m ready,” Simone says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed.

“Finally saw the fringe?” I ask.

“What?” She tips her head to the side.

“Never mind.” I hop down from my stool, sending Tina a wave that I’m not sure she sees, and slide my phone into my pocket.

We walk outside, the cool October air biting my cheeks and nipping at my nose. Simone calls an Uber to take us back to her house, where my car is waiting. “Want to come in for a while?” she asks.

“I actually think I’ll go home and work.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“I got an idea, and I want to get the outline finished before it completely disappears.”

She’s a writer, too. She understands. “Fine. Get all your work done tonight, because Thursday we’re going out again.”

“You have another date lined up?”

“Second date,” she says, trying not to smile too widely. “You don’t get out enough, so you should come.”

“Simone Blake,” I say, dragging her name out and ignoring the comment on my personal life. I hadn’t dated anyone since Leo revealed himself to be the lowest form of human, but not because I couldn’t move on. I just haven’t met anyone yet. “You’re repeat-dating a cowboy hat.”

“Don’t tell my sisters,” she mutters, but her grin isn’t dimming. The Uber pulls up and we slide into the back seat together. “It’s still early days. I can probably convince him to ditch the hat if things progress, right?”

Starting a relationship with the intent to change the other person isn’t promising, but I hold my tongue. My brain is struggling to focus on anything while I have my boss’s texts waiting unanswered.

Simone eyes me. “You seem distracted.”

That’s an understatement. I flip my phone screen-down on my knee and settle into the seat. “Okay, tell me what he’s like.”

By the timeI reach my car, drive home, and hammer out a basic rough draft of my article on the Whiskey Sage Bar, highlighting the band Tina talked about, it’s nearly midnight. I feel emboldened by this turn of events—having a full outlineready to go. I’m not a total failure, which I feel is important for Hudson to know. I push my laptop onto the cushion beside me and open my message app to Hudson’s name, which I have since added to my contact list.

Paisley

I have an outline finished. A second idea percolating.

The ellipses bubble pops up immediately. I hold my breath, waiting for his response. This isn’t even a high stakes conversation, yet I can’t breathe regularly.

Hudson

Email it to me?

Paisley

My outline?

It’s not a true rough draft. He’ll never be able to make sense of it.

Hudson

You’re right. That’s weird. Just give me bullet point basics.

I check the time. Yep, still almost midnight.

Paisley

How about I send you a draft tomorrow?

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