Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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After the whole ordeal with my father, I've been wound tighter than a jack-in-the-box. Even the silence in Chris's apartment has me looking over my shoulder, as if he'll pop out at any moment, ready with his disapproving gaze. But I managed to sneak back in undetected; neither Chris nor Scarlett seem to have noticed my brief adventure. And since I didn't lock the door on my way out—probably a bit of a security risk, but hey, no one broke in, so we're all good, right?
Today, I'm determined to push my father's threats out of my mind. New day, new mood, I tell myself, glancing around the empty space with a frown. Scarlett should've been home by now. But the quiet, though eerie, is almost a relief, and I shrug it off as I head to the kitchen, suddenly hit with a craving for chips and salsa. Nothing says 'post-trauma comfort food' like a junk-food fiesta for one.
I pop open the freezer with my good arm, retrieve the salsa and queso, then snag a bag of tortilla chips from the pantry. My stomach growls audibly, reminding me that I've been running mostly on caffeine and nerves. I set my mini-feast on the kitchen island and hesitate. This is the same island where Chris—nope. Not going there. I scoff at myself, shaking off the memory. I'm not letting nostalgia ruin my snack.
With a determined sigh, I tug at the bag of chips, struggling a bit more than I'd like to admit. The physical therapist warned me about overdoing it, and it doesn't help that my arm's about as useful as a pool noodle at the moment. Finally, the bag gives way, and I smirk at my small victory.
I drop the bag of chips on the counter and grab a couple of bowls for the salsa and queso. With my good hand, I try twisting the lid off, but it won't budge. I brace the jar with my injured arm, giving it another attempt, only to feel a searing pain shoot through my shoulder.
"Damn it," I mutter, wincing. Right then, I hear a door close, and I snap my head up to see Chris at the entrance, looking entirely too put-together in his perfectly tailored suit. He freezes, like he's just walked in on a crime scene. And, honestly, I've been avoiding him so thoroughly it probably feels like he's seeing a ghost.
He pauses, pointing subtly to the stairs, signaling he'll leave me be. I watch him shuffle a bit, clearly as uncomfortable as I am, trying to avoid eye contact while edging toward the stairs. It's painfully awkward, having my ex here—even if it's temporary, even if there are reasons. But I'm stuck, glaring at the unopened salsa jar, and there he is, with two annoyingly functional, muscular arms.
Sighing with the resignation of a woman defeated by a jar, I speak up. "Wait," I say, louder than I mean to.
Chris stops mid-step, turning slowly, as if I've just asked him to solve quantum physics. His expression is pure surprise, eyes a little wider than usual, like he can't quite process that I'm addressing him voluntarily.
"Could you...?" I falter, hating every syllable, but necessity outweighs pride right now. "Can you help for a second... please?"
Chris looks at me, blinking like he's not sure he heard right. "You... want my help?" he asks, clearly still processing. The shock on his face is so palpable it's almost comical.
