Chronicles of a Serial Dater - Book 2: A New Adult Romantic Comedy (6 page)

Holding a deep breath, I turned the corner and confronted the pair of eyes that’d haunted my dreams for the last two weeks. “Mr. English,” I said, attempting to sound pleasantly surprised. He squared his shoulders and gave my frame a quick sweep, jaw clenching.

Lisa stepped forward, almost between us like we were about to fight. “Talia, wonderful. Let’s grab a seat in my office. Mr. English would like to…”

“Self-absorbed and lacks sympathy?” he snapped.

I wanted to melt into the ground as I heard my own words ripped from the margins and thrown back in my face. Despite turning a hundred shades of red, I remained defiant. “I stand by my comments.”

His eyebrow arched as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. I forced myself not to stare at the way his dress shirt hugged his shoulders. “I would respect your comments more if I felt you’d actually read the book.”

I don’t know what got into me. I’d never had my work challenged before and in such an arrogant way. But it was the shit whipped cream on the shit pie slice of a day. My tolerance was running on fumes.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to make those comments if you knew how to write a book. I’d be happy to explain them to you, if you’d like.”

“Miss McGinley!” Lisa snapped. “I apologize, Mr. English. I obviously don’t condone this sort of behavior. I…”

He carried on, his eyes not leaving mine for an instant. “Let’s do that. Tonight. I’d like to hear it from your own mouth what you really thought of my book.”

Lisa took her body language a step further and literally placed herself between us. “Better yet, I’ll reassign another editor to your project and we can start all over.”

Clint reluctantly pulled his gaze from me. “No. It’s Miss McGinley or I take my project elsewhere.”

“Okay, I’m sure we can work something out. If we head to my office to check the schedule, we can find a time for all of us to sit down and…”

“I’m flying out early tomorrow morning, so it’ll have to be over dinner tonight.”

“That won’t be a problem, will it?” Lisa asked over her shoulder with fire in her eyes.

“Of course not,” I replied tightly.

Clint nodded once and stepped around Lisa, his stride pausing only when he was at my side. “I’ll send you the details.”

I double checked the address in my email, making sure this was the restaurant he’d arranged for us to meet. The Mexican place looked great but was definitely a hole in the wall. With his designer clothes and growing fame, I couldn't believe he chose this place for dinner. I was pressed against the side of a building across the street trying to collect enough courage to walk in there. Lisa was close to firing me, I could feel it. If I wanted to save my job, I was going to have to go in there and kiss some major ass.

Clint casually strolled down the street, a hand tucked in one pocket.
There are definitely a few other things I’d like to kiss while I’m at it,
I thought, empowered by my secret hidden spot. I’d never seen a man so completely confident and comfortable in his own skin. The way he carried himself made me think he could handle any situation that was thrown at him. But his actions coupled with his manuscript told me he was nothing but an arrogant, cocky celebrity wannabe.

And if you want to continue working for Lisa Greene, you better get used to dealing with that type. Pucker up, Talia. Let’s do this.

I counted off a few extra minutes after he disappeared into the restaurant, steeling myself for the meeting ahead. My heart thumped wildly against my ribs as I walked across the road, feeling like I was about to meet my destiny. This dinner would determine the next step in my life and I couldn’t cope with the idea of yet another huge shift.

I spotted him the instant I walked into the crowded room. He’d chosen a table in the center of the restaurant, between the window seats and a busy counter to the left. He was smiling and chatting with a waitress when my movement caught his attention. He waved me over without stopping his conversation.

“I think I know exactly where you mean. I spent time in Puerto Vallarta.” He glanced up at me, gesturing to the seat across. With my pulse going a hundred miles an hour, I simply gripped the back of the chair and waited.

The waitress looked at me as well, the odd social interaction stopping her obvious flirting. “So cool! We’ll have to compare notes some time. So, can I get you both something to drink?”

“Water for me, please,” I said, a lump in my throat.

Clint squinted at me and ordered the same. “And Carmen, we have some business to discuss first, so I’ll let you know when we’re ready to order.”

With an even more quizzical expression, she looked at me once more before retreating into the kitchen.

I closed my eyes and started the monologue I’d practiced the whole way there. “Mr. English, please let me apologize for my behavior this afternoon. It’s no excuse, but today has been one of those days and I didn’t handle myself how I should have.”

He leaned back and tucked his hand under one arm, cradling his chin with the other. “And what way is that exactly?”

“Professionally,” I replied curtly. My nails tightened against the back of the hard plastic chair as I struggled to finish my apology. “I’m also very sorry for my comments on your manuscript. They were…”

“No,” he barked, leaning forward. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for things you aren’t actually sorry for.” I was taken aback by the genuine fire in his words. “Please, take a seat and we can talk about this.”

The waitress set two glasses of ice water down on the table, her expression more confused than ever. I’d walked in there hoping to take control of the conversation, save my job, and get out before I made an ass out of myself. Yet again, Clint overpowered everything. I didn’t know if I should be turned on or annoyed or both.

“Did you really believe my book was ego-centric?”

“Well, Mr. English,” I started. I looked down and fidgeted with the fork and napkin to avoid looking into his eyes.

“Talia, call me Clint. You said the book was ego-centric and self-absorbed, right? Do you still stand by that assessment?”

“Well, it
is
an autobiography…” He exhaled sharply and crossed his arms onto the table, dissatisfied by my response. He could obviously tell when I was bullshitting him, so there was little point in lying. With gritted teeth, I decided I would rather stay true to my position and lose my job than kiss his ass. “There are better ways of going about writing it, though.”

“Continue,” he said.

“Create a narrative, something that threads all your stories together. Right now, the book is nothing more than a self-congratulatory collection of things you’ve done that you might tell your friends on a night out. Aside from the far-flung places and incredible acts, there’s nothing that makes me, as a reader, care.”

I paused, unable to read his stony expression. I braced myself for another outburst. Inside, I was already updating my resume and wondering if Anette could get me a couple shifts at the bar. For a few agonizingly long moments I teetered on this edge before he broke.

With a charming smile, he stuck his hand up in the air, gaze not leaving mine. “I think I might need some alcohol to soothe these burns.”

“Mr. Eng… Clint,” I corrected as he gave me a look. “I didn’t mean to…”

The waitress approached, all smiles with her order pad out. “What can I get for you, Clint?”

“Do you like tequila?” he asked me with a mischievous grin.

“Probably a little too much.”

“Great, two margaritas,” he said, holding a finger up and speaking to me again. “Any food allergies or anything you don’t like?”

“Uh, no, not really. I don’t eat veal or lamb,” I replied, mind spinning.
I thought I was gonna be fired from this project and now I’m actually having dinner with him?

“Great. Just bring a few of your favorite dishes and we’ll share,” he smiled at the waitress. He turned to me after she walked away, his fingers threaded and holding up his chin. “No veal or lamb?”

I shrugged, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed about mentioning it. “I have a thing about eating baby animals.”

His expression softened even further before he sat back. “So. You mentioned a thread. What kind of thread do you mean?”

I fidgeted with my napkin under the table, rolling and unrolling the paper to keep from flying from the seat and out the door. This man was beyond intense and I knew the longer I spent with him, the more opportunity I had to make a complete fool of myself.

“It’s the idea that each experience you share is in some way connected to a bigger issue. It’s best if you’re able to sum it up in one sentence, too.”

He nodded, his gorgeous green eyes staying on me as the drinks were set in front of us. I immediately took a big gulp and nearly choked on a piece of ice.

“Okay, like what?”

“Um, for example, seeking the approval of your father.”

Clint’s eyebrows knitted. “That’s what you got from my book?”

“No! No, not at all. I was just using that as an example of a theme people use in biographies.” Open mouth, insert foot.

“And what theme would you use for mine, then?”

I thought for a moment and huffed, leaning my elbows on the table and looking at him flatly. “You realize this isn’t my job, right? I’m an assistant editor, not developmental or even a ghostwriter.”

“You seem to know what you’re talking about. I couldn’t give a shit about titles or status or muck like that,” he replied. “Never have.”

“There. That,” I said, pointing at him with my index finger. “There’s a thread. You grew up poor, right? Worked your way through the military, earned everything you have.” He gave me a look I couldn’t quite read, somewhere between embarrassment and intrigue. Ignoring the heat prickling my neck, I carried on. “It doesn’t have to be a rags-to-riches story, but something more along those lines. It makes you more sympathetic.” I could tell he still wasn’t getting it, so I pressed further. “Readers love being able to find a way to connect with the writer. You hold out your hand and we take it each time we turn the page, you know?”

“I’m beginning to understand. And even if I’m not, I’m enjoying listening to you talk about it.”

I bit my lip and looked away shyly, reminding myself to remain professional. I tapped a finger to my chin and muttered, “Other threads, other threads.”

Our conversation loosened and flowed as the night wore on. After a while, I forgot my nerves and really got into the creative give and take we had. He was open to my suggestions and seemed grateful for my advice. I’d walked into the restaurant thinking I was about to be fired and ended up having a fantastic night.

We went through a lot of stories from his life, from when he was a child growing up to the rough training for the SAS. At some point, the conversation shifted and we stopped talking about just him. He began asking me questions about myself, finding the similarities in our lives or laughing at the differences. A few hours later, we were sitting at an empty table, bellies full and inhibitions lowered from good conversation. And tequila. Can’t forget about the tequila.

“You talk about Zach quite a bit. Is he your significant other?” Clint asked, his gaze downcast on the table.

“Significant other?” I laughed. “Man, how British are you? Like a boyfriend?” He cocked his head, a little smile on his face making my stomach flutter. “No. We’re just friends. I actually just got out of a long-term relationship.”

“Ah,” he replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?
Ah?
” I jokingly pressed.

“Nothing at all. It was simply a sound I made.”

Running my finger along the salt rim of the empty glass, I pressed the question back to him. “And what about you? Any significant others floating around the world?”

“Not for a very long time,” he said a bit sadly.

Intrigued, I prodded further. “She couldn’t handle you traveling?” I asked.

Clint’s gaze was downcast and unfocused. “No, she never minded when I was away. It was when I came back that seemed to bother her most…”

“God, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” he dismissed with a flick of his hand. “I’m always attracted to women I can’t have, for one reason or another.” He laughed sardonically, sad eyes meeting mine. “Maybe that’s my thread.”