Page 4 of Red Flag, Green Light

Rouge: Hey. What’s you’re address?

Sara: *your

Sara: 90 Sterling Rd, Bandera, WV XXXXX

Right. Next. Door.

Sara and Rouge have been working together for half a decade. In honor of that, I planned to send her a little gift. So I asked where she lived, assuming I’d have to explain myself. As it stands, Sara has always been private concerning personal information. All I knew until just last week was that she’s professional and experienced and thorough…

But also nuts.

Which, of course, were the qualifications I required when I sought to offload the final typo scan on someone else way back toward the beginning of Rouge’s career. I burned through several proofreaders before finding Sara and upgrading her fromproofreadertoplease find all the bad parts I stupidly missed and make the story five thousand times more marketable, thanks.

Sara’s chaos matches mine and my brother’s. Sheunderstands us. Her reader comments on our books reflect my internal thoughts more often than not. Her editor comments present angles I could never imagine. The girlie is unhinged, and dear, and seemingly unwilling to pair her editing career with her real name.

Which means I have stumbled upon unintentional ammo.

So.

Again.

Blackmail. Wrong.

Coercion. Bad.

And neither are great options where it concerns getting someone to genuinely fall in love with you. But, still. I do likehavingthe options available. Just in case.

As I drop the browser with our chat down into the taskbar, my attention flicks to the corner of my screen, where I have a virtual post-it note listing my very important goals for the year.Very importantin that they simply must be completed as soon as possible, lest I die of anguish and/or agony.

Problem.

Goal number one is:Marry Ceres.

And in the realm of good, healthy real-world relationships—which is what I’d like us to have and what she absolutely deserves—that seems to be skipping a few steps.

…

Thank goodness for exceptions to the rules.

Chapter One

Agoraphobia.

Ceres

Squinting at the picture Amelia’s linked me to, I do my very best to locate the appeal she rhapsodizes about. At length. Every single time we talk.

I cannot, for the life of me, find it.

As far as I can tell, I am looking at a full-grown man in cherub wings.

If the wings were large, and black, and paired with a threatening gleam in a set of blood-red eyes, then we could talk. But, they are not. They are itty bitty. And white. And paired with an average polo shirt. WhilstBiblically-accurate Cupidheadlines the post.

“Mellie…”

On video call, Amelia gasps and glares at me through the phone I have propped beside my monitor. “How can younotsee how absolutelyadorablehe is? This is the cutest picture he’s posted in the last twenty-four hours.”

“How many photos has he posted in the last twenty-four hours?” I ask.

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