She's Just Right (A Fairy Tale Romance) (31 page)

Sam’s throat tightened and heat crawled up his chest and into his neck and face. His stomach twisted and he inhaled. "But I’ve already talked to an editor about it. They want to see it." His voice was thin, reedy. He coughed.

Jeff smiled. "Well, if they want it now, they’ll want it after you’ve made improvements." He glanced at Sam's tuxedo. “Better watch those brownies. Or take up running like me." He patted his own lean stomach. Someone called Jeff’s name and he looked up, smiled and nodded. "Will you excuse me? Enjoy the party.” He strode off.

Sam closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his fists to unclench.
Rewrite it?
After all the time and effort he’d put into writing the book?
When it was practically perfect?

Emily lightly touched his arm. "I’m sorry, Sam."

Sam looked into her eyes and saw the compassion there. Compassion he didn't want or need. Why hadn't he waited until school started to question Jeff? Now his wife thought he was a loser.

"Thanks," he said tersely. "Come on, let's get something to eat." He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her toward the buffet table.

She stopped. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He inhaled. "About what? The fact that I hate my job, my boss, my life? No, I don't." He ignored the way her face tightened and pushed against her slender back. "Come on.”

As they approached the table, a voice shouted out, "Ten more minutes!" In ten minutes the New Year started. Whoopee. Another year to slog through.

Carl and Cheryl were at the table filling plates and Sam willed his face to relax. No need to advertise the fact that his life was a disaster.

"Sam," Carl shouted against the growing noise. "What did he say?"

"I'll tell you later," Sam shouted back.

Regardless of the lateness of the hour the buffet still had plenty of food and Sam hadn't eaten anything. He piled food on his plate. Deliberately took two brownies. Screw Jeff. He made himself a turkey sandwich, grabbed a few pickles and a handful of chips. Then looked at the food and set the plate on the table with a disgusted shake of his head. He wasn't hungry. Even if he were, he shouldn't eat anything while wearing clothes three sizes too small.

What did Jeff mean, spice it up? How could he spice up a history text book? What was the big deal if it was like a lot of other books out there? That was a given. History was history and it didn't change. What did Jeff want, a corrupted version?

He lifted his head and immediately noticed Randall Barton. Talking, laughing, carefree and happy. Sam’s mouth twisted. No doubt Randall
was
happy. He was the boss’s Golden Boy. His work was always considered original. And he ran marathons every year. Same hobby as the boss. Tenure for him was just a matter of time.

Sam's mouth set. He needed this book published if he was to get tenure this year. Publish or perish, an academic fact of life. It had been too long since Sam had raked up any credits, and he didn’t have time to rewrite.

His eyes narrowed. Showing his manuscript to Jeff had been a courtesy, nothing more. Come January second, he’d send his book to the publisher.
As is.
If the board members were impressed with publication credits then he could certainly impress them without any help from Jeff.

He scanned the room, spotted Pete Saunders and remembered the resolution.
To have everyone's respect and the body of an athlete
. Yeah, right. Either you had respect or you didn't. And Sam didn't. Had Randall turned in the same manuscript, Jeff would have drooled all over it.

Emily placed her hand on his shoulder. "Just two minutes ‘til midnight. Have you made a New Year’s resolution?"

He turned. Her eyes were soft. Again. She always did have a thing for the underdog. For losers. A sure way to deflate her anger toward anyone was to point out what failures they were. Her expression said it all. Sam was a
major loser.
She'd been ice cold for weeks, and now she watched him with soft, caring eyes? He didn't want or need her pity.

He shrugged her hand off his shoulder as the crowd started the countdown.
Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight! Fifty-seven
!..."Yes, I made a few New Years’ resolutions. Did you?"

Anger chased across her features, as he knew it would. But even anger was better than pity.
Fifty-one! Fifty! Forty-nine! Forty-eight!
...The noise grew as more voices joined the chanting, the artist crowd getting even the stodgy professors and their spouses fired up and excited. He leaned down so she could talk into his ear and still she had to shout. "Yes, I've decided to take up art again!"

He moved back to gaze into her face, lifting a brow.
Forty-two! Forty-one! Forty
!..."I thought you'd given up that nonsense." He glanced around. "Do you want to end up like these flakes?"

The noise continued to swirl around them as her features tightened, contorted. Fury blazed in her eyes. Then slowly, very slowly, her expression changed, leaving only sadness behind. Leaving Sam unsettled. She leaned closer. "What about you? What are your New Year’s resolutions?"
Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! Twenty-seven!
...

He bent his head to inform her his resolution was to get his wife to buy him a new tuxedo but was distracted by her sadness. They were in a room full of people, they were communicating by shouting and she was really looking at him. Seeing him. Acting as if his answer truly mattered to her. His stomach clenched. The least he could give was honesty. He studied her a moment longer, then leaned down.
Nine! Eight! Seven!
..."I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete."

Wanting to see her face, Sam started to pull back. He needed to see if she understood, if she grasped how important this actually was to him. But before he had the chance, someone slapped his back. Hard.

Sam stumbled and turned his head. Pete Saunders was there, impaling him with those piercing black eyes. Gazes locked. Sam’s brows pulled together and he tried to turn away. Couldn’t. Needed air. His heart thumped in his chest. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out noise from the crowd. Pete’s fingers tightened, gripped his shoulder in a hold so tight Sam couldn't have broken it if he'd tried.

He sensed Emily's confusion. Tried to wrench his gaze from Pete’s. Tried to reassure her. Couldn’t move.
Three! Two! One!
...The crowd exploded. Horns blasted, streamers flew, confetti fluttered, and laugher erupted. But even the noise didn’t stop Sam from clearly hearing Pete's deep, rasping voice, speaking as if directly to his soul. "
Happy New Year, Sam Pierson
." Then, almost silence but for his heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.

Pete smiled. A smile of such affinity, compassion, and love, that Sam’s eyes widened. His face relaxed, his mouth parted, started to turn up, to smile back, really smile, when his chest clenched in pain.