“The fourth.” The closest place to Northeastern I’ve been accepted is Penn State, which is seven hours away. Trust me, I’ve looked at multiple routes on Google Maps. Tyler and I can do long-distance if we have to, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. Not being able to see him every day would kill me.
Even though we don’t live together, we’re at each other’s places constantly, not to mention all the time we spend together on campus. We’re also working on a new study in Dr. Price’s lab. He was impressed enough with our research last year that he invited us back our senior year to work on projects directly with him.
“Well, open it,” he says impatiently, staring at the letter in my hand.
I run my fingers over the sender’s address. University of Massachusetts—Boston campus. Getting in here would mean everything.
I turn it over and peel back a section of the envelope, then stop. “Remember that scene in Willy Wonka when Charlie’s too nervous to open the Wonka bar, so he and Grandpa Joe open it together? That’s what I feel like opening all these letters. Like I’m looking for my golden ticket.”
He stares at me, amusement on his face. “Just open it,” he repeats. “Besides, that scene was the dud candy bar. He got the real golden ticket later by himself.”
“We should watch that movie together sometime. I haven’t seen it in—”
“Open the letter, Mia.”
I start again, then pause, hugging it to my chest and look at him. “This one means the most. It’s only twenty minutes from Northeastern.”
“I know,” he says softly.
“If I don’t get this one…”
“I know,” he repeats, even more gently this time. “I’ve told you, I don’t have to go to Northeastern—”
“No, you’re going. It was your first pick.”
“Give it here.” He holds out an open palm, and I gladly hand it over. My stomach is roiling, about to tip over, but I can’t seem to face their decision. If it’s bad news, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I’d applied to Tufts University too, also in Boston, and hadn’t got in. They have a much lower acceptance rate, so I knew it was a challenge to begin with, but it had still been a crushing blow.
He opens the envelope and takes the paper out with careful fingers. It’s just a single page. That’s a bad sign, right?
He reads the letter calmly, no expression on his face, and I wring my hands in front of me, nervously sidestepping. “What does it say?”
He sets it down and stands, wrapping me up in a huge hug.
Oh no, that can only be bad news. I clutch at him, terrified of what he’ll say.
“We’re moving to Boston,” he whispers in my ear.
I go stock-still. “What?”
He leans back, a wide grin on his face. “You got in. They want you.”
“I got in?” My grip on him tightens painfully, my body’s reaction no longer within my control.
He nods and sweeps me up in his arms, spinning me around. He’s even more animated than when he received his acceptance letter, and all I can do is hold on securely to him, laughing at his exuberance.
He finally sets me down, and leans back, giving me a long, leisurely kiss. “I’m so proud of you.”
I return his grin, elated. “Thank you.” Coming from him, it means something. He doesn’t hand out praise unless it’s well deserved.
“We’ll look for an apartment in the city. One that’s between the two schools—”
I stop him, shock and excitement resonating through me. “You want to live together?”
He cups my face gently, gazing into my eyes, his expression so soft, so full of love, I’m practically a puddle under his touch. “I didn’t want to say anything before we knew for sure where we’d be going for grad school, in case we had to do long-distance. And I’d already have asked you if we weren’t leaving in a couple of months anyway.”
His fingers are rough against my skin as he trails them down my cheek, his knuckles marred with callouses and scar tissue from his boxing, but they’re beautiful to me. “I want to hold you in my arms every night and wake up to you each morning. Can we look for a place together?”
“Yes,” I tell him greedily, grabbing his face and kissing him hungrily. Happily.
I’ll be sad to leave Kelsey, who I’ve been getting along with a lot better now that she’s doing her share of the housework. I should have been more firm with her long ago, but old habits die hard.
It’s not too late for some things to change, though, as I’ve found with Tyler. The progress he made in therapy learning to open himself up has made a world of difference in our relationship. He’ll never be one to talk freely about his feelings without a little prodding, but I can at least get him to acknowledge he has those feelings now. And he’s said he never wants to go back to living a half-life, shut off from any deeper emotion. Not after experiencing what we have together.
“I love you,” he tells me, laying me down on his bed so we’re facing each other on our sides, his hand wrapped around my waist. “I want to move forward, with you. Start a life together.”
My breath catches and I lean away, gazing at him. “Are you saying…?”
“Baby steps,” he laughs, his beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
I grin, knowing I’m getting ahead of myself.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “I want you to know I’m headed in that direction. I’m committed to this. To us.” His face sobers some, his eyes tracing my features. “You mean everything to me. Before you came in my life… well, you know.”
“I know,” I whisper, laying a hand on his cheek, bringing him closer for a soft kiss. “I love you, I want to live with you, I want everything with you.” I smile, so big my cheeks ache, but I can’t seem to stop it.
“After all this time?” he asks, an impish grin playing over his mouth.
“Always,” I laugh, wrapping my arms around him to snuggle in tight. If I get to have my own happily ever after, there’s no one else I’d rather have it with.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my husband for the endless amounts of encouragement and support. For listening to me, brainstorming with me, and celebrating my successes. I love you.
Thank you to my beta readers and editor for your sharp eyes and blunt words. As always, you make the book stronger.
And thank you to my readers. It’s a privilege to share my stories with you and is something I’ll never tire of. I hope you enjoyed Mia and Tyler’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
About the Author
Allie lives in sunny Florida with her husband, daughter, and two cats. A librarian by day, she spends her nights writing happily ever afters. She enjoys reading, playing video games, and all things Disney.
Find out more at her website, follow on Instagram, or sign up for her newsletter to discover what she’s writing next.
Find Smartypants Romance online:
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Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek: Street Smart by Aly Stiles, Work For It Book #1
2. Allie’s Booklist
3. Smartypants Romance Booklist
Sneak Peek: Street Smart by Aly Stiles, Work For It Book #1
Marcos
Mr.
Reedweather
Will
Be
With
You
Shortly
Seven words I never thought I’d hear. And yet, here I am, wrecking all kinds of statistics in my dash to break the mold and achieve every MBA grad’s wet dream. Yep, on paper I belong in prison. In practice, I’m a soon-to-be Yorkshire University alum who just landed an internship at Reedweather Media, a marketing
subsidiary of the legendary Sandeke business empire. Paid internship, I might add. Suck that, Mr. Gary of the Bellevue Group Home for Boys.
My leg seems less confident as it vibrates against the waiting room chair. And by chair, I don’t mean the uncomfortable doctor’s office variety that look like they were upholstered with scraps from your gram’s tub of weird basement crap. These are legit leather beasts, like the kind mob bosses use when they’re ordering hits and stuff.
I lift two fingers and point them at the wall. Pretty sure it’s what powerful people do to get things done. Lefty Two Eyes… dead. Bourbon on the rocks… ordered.
Shit. Gets. Done.
My roommate Nate and I were just discussing this last night. He came up through the foster system too, but with three more years of experience, he’s also more educated in the intangibles. You know, the real skills you need that they don’t teach in business school.
Golf.
Scotch-tasting.
Cigar-smoking.
Oh, and that handshake where you squeeze with just the right amount of too-hard pressure while narrowing your eyes in ominous I’m-too-important-to-fuck-with-ness.
“Everything okay?” the executive assistant calls over from his desk.
Crap. I’m still two-finger-saluting the wall and probably squinting super ominously.
“Fine.” I force my eyes un-squinted and drop my hand back to the soft leather armrest. Yep, these chairs also have armrests. The dumpster rescue chair in my living room doesn’t even have armrests.
The assistant’s phone buzzes, and he answers without averting his wary stare from my direction. Clearly no one taught him about The Handshake or he wouldn’t be so concerned.
“Mr. Reedweather is ready for you,” he says, nodding toward a pair of imposing walnut doors. I resist the urge to lift two fingers as I pass, pretty sure he doesn’t know about that either.
With a deep breath, I push through to The Promised Land. And freeze. Seriously, this office—nay, suite—is the standard backdrop for every business magazine feature photo from 1992 to 1995. Mahogany bookcases, mahogany desk, even a mahogany sideboard with one of those obscene hutch things towering on top. Why have a hutch? Because you have so much money that buying a giant useless cabinet isn’t enough—it needs a roof. Damn, how many trees had to die to furnish this place? There’s even a matching table that could host at least twenty people. What would a twenty-person meeting that couldn’t take place in a conference room even be about?
“You’re looking at genuine West Indian mahogany, son.”
A deep voice interrupts my revelry, and I tear my gaze away to land on the emperor himself: Reed Reedweather, III. The man, the myth, the reason I was up until 2 AM practicing that stupid handshake.
Game time.
“It’s very impressive, sir.”
I’m a pro at using “sir.” Plenty of years of addressing authority figures who love that word. It melts on the tongue like butter, way smoother than my attempt at The Handshake, it turns out.
Shit.
But Mr. Reedweather’s grip? Pure art. I shudder in the wake of the ominous eye-squint, discreetly flexing my hand to ease the cramp as I take the seat he offers—another leather chair with armrests, of course.
After returning to his throne behind the desk, my new boss steeples his fingers in perfectly executed Thoughtful Appraisal. Damn, he’s good. No wonder he’s a gazillionaire.
I’m not sure what to do with my own hands, though, and settle on clasping them loosely in my lap once the blood flow returns to my fingers.
Several seconds pass, and I’m sure this is another calculated business thing I should know. Thoughtful Pausing—not to be confused with Thoughtful Appraisal, which is more advanced. And so we stare. Him looking thoughtful, and me… Well, I’m aiming for thoughtful as well, but my face feels like it might be leaning toward confused.
Also in the silence, I can’t help but notice that Mr. Reedweather is the perfect accessory to all his mahogany accents. Tailored suit, smooth jaw—he even rocks the medium-length salt-and-pepper hair slicked back at an angle that lets you know he stands in front of the mirror each morning and gives himself a wink of approval. Look at you, rock star. Go slay some P&L reports. Finger gun and out.
“You have an impressive résumé, Mark.”
“Oh, um, Marcos.”
“Mark-O, yes.”
“Marcos, actually. Like... with an s.”
Wait, how does he have a facial expression that makes me feel bad he can’t pronounce my name? This dude is a freaking business ninja.
“Oh right. They mentioned you were Mexican.”
“Well—”
“I think that’s just great, Mark-O. See, we’re all about diversity here at Reedweather.”
I can tell him I’m Brazilian another time.
“Actually, many of our employees are native Spanish-speakers.”
And that Portuguese and Spanish are different languages.
“You may have noticed my assistant is male.”
True.
“Rapid Inclusivity, Mark-O. There’s a term you need to learn if you’re going to survive in the twenty-first century.”
Rapid Inclusivity? Pretty sure that’s not a thing.
“But here at Reedweather, it’s not enough. No, my amigo. Our mantra is what I like to call Rabid Inclusivity.”
Yeah, definitely not a thing.
I nod gravely, focusing on the weird desk sculpture that looks like an avocado to keep a straight face. Note to future CEO self: Source a bronze avocado.
“You know what? I already like you, Mark-O.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He nods as if to assure himself of that fact and drops another pause that has me shifting to the edge of my seat. It’s uncanny, really. I study his manicured eyebrows to see if those dynamic weapons are playing any role in this witchcraft.
“You know, I don’t do this often, but I already feel like you and I have a special bond.”
“Oh, um—”
“You a scotch man, Mark-O?”
Shit. “Uh…”
“Well, never mind. I can tell you will be if you’re not already. I can read these things. Acquired Intuition they call it.”
They don’t. Almost positive.
“Like I said, I don’t do this often.” He says this with a slick swipe at a desk drawer that tells me he definitely does.
In another graceful movement, he deposits a decanter and two tumblers on his giant desk calendar. Yes, he still has one of those enormous paper calendars covering half his workspace. From my vantage point, I mostly see doodles and notes on Fridays that look suspiciously like tee times.
“Picked this up two years ago on a trip to your part of the world,” he says proudly, handing me a glass.
“Pennsylvania?”
With a hearty laugh, he swirls his cup in salute. “You’re funny. I knew I liked you.”
I force a smile and swirl my own, still not sure about the protocol for drinking within the first twenty minutes of employment at a new job. I play along and mirror his movements, pretending to smell something divine before tipping the glass ever so slightly toward my tongue. Truthfully, it smells like booze, and when a drop sneaks its way past my lips, tastes like it too.
“Ahhh,” he breathes out. “Heaven, am I right?” He swirls the glass again, and I follow suit, figuring that’s what you do after drinking scotch as well as before. Maybe you’re supposed to swirl it with every swallow? Or is it a timing thing? Every twenty-three seconds? I grip the glass, waiting to see what he does next.
“Well, now that we’re relaxed, let’s talk business. I’ve seen your portfolio, Mark-O. Impressive stuff, impressive stuff.” He nods and takes another sip from his glass, this time without a swirl. I file that away.
“You are quite the artist. What do they call these cartoon books again?” He waves at his screen as if I can see it.
“Graphic novels?”
“Yes! That’s
it. Graphic novels. I remember when we called them the funny pages. You ever read Dagwood, Mark-O?”
I nod because I’m not sure but have zero confidence he can verify my story either way.
“Good stuff, good stuff. So listen.”
He places his glass on “Wednesday April 3” and leans forward to bore his stare into mine. I swallow hard, forgetting I’d brought the glass back to my lips a second before, and have to choke down a huge gulp of scotch.
“We’ll be starting you off as an entry-level assistant. I’m sure you understand the politics involved. Or as we like to call it here at Reedweather: Dogmatic Positioning. You study Dogmatic Positioning at Yorkshire, Mark-O?”
I have no idea how to answer that. “Well—”
He waves me quiet and resumes his laser stare. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. You’re here to learn, am I right? We’ll only be hiring one intern to a permanent position at the end of this quarter, but you do well, impress us with your hard work, and the sky’s the limit for go-getters like you. You feel me, Mark-O?”
I nod, still fighting back tears against the alcoholic burn in my throat—and now a fresh tickle from whatever Dogmatic Positioning is supposed to be.
“I can’t hear you,” he says, adding a creepy big-toothed grin that I think is intended to be playful.
“I—feel you,” I rasp out.
I put the glass on the edge of the desk before it does more damage. Naughty scotch. Another note to future CEO self: Avoid desk drinking.
“Great. Well, then, I think it’s time we hook you up with your new boss. You ready for the big leagues, Mark-O?”
I nod yet again, not sure what other response I could give to that or most of these questions. One day I’ll be the man who only gets yeses.
He seems to like it and makes quite the show of leaning over to push a button on his phone. (Which also answers my question about why he still has a phone that requires you to lean over and push a button.)
“David, can you do me a favor and see if my daughter is ready to meet her new intern?”
Under Pressure (Lessons Learned Book 1) Page 24