Hate You Up Close (Thompson

Brothers Duet Book 2) Morgan Paige

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HATE YOU UP CLOSE

MORGAN PAIGE
 CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Content Warning
Playlist
Links
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Connect Online
Copyright © 2024 by Morgan Paige

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Morgan Paige

Edited by Katherine E. McVay, Ph.D.

Cover Design by Y’all. That Graphic.

Created with Vellum
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hate You Up Close is a standalone novel following Love You From Afar. You do not have to read Love You From Afar to
understand Hate You Up Close; however, it will give you more of an understanding by providing backstory.
 CONTENT WARNING

This novel is intended for readers 18+. It discusses difficult topics such as alcohol abuse, grief, and the death of a friend. If you
are uncomfortable with explicit sex scenes and language, then this book may not be for you.
Thank you for reading!
- Morgan Paige
 PLAYLIST

“Heartless” by The Weeknd

“Never Felt So Alone” by Labrinth
“Lovely” by Billie Eilish, Khalid
“Go To Town” by Doja Cat
“Roxanne” by Arizona Zervas
“You Don’t Own Me” by SAYGRACE, G-Eazy
“Boys Ain’t Shit” by SAYGRACE, Tate McRae, Audrey Mika
“Nightmare” by Halsey
“Powerful” by Major Lazer, Ellie Goulding, Tarrus Riley
“Habits” by Tove Lo, Hippie Sabotage
“In the Dark” by Camila Cabello
“Nothing Breaks Like a Heart” by Miley Cyrus, Mark Ronson
“National Anthem” by Lana Del Rey
“Ruin My Life” by Zara Larsson
“Teenager in Love” by Madison Beer
“Hold Up” by Beyoncé
“One Of The Girls” by The Weeknd, JENNIE, Lily-Rose Depp
“Fetish” by Selena Gomez, Gucci Mane
“All Mine” by PLAZA
“Lost in the Fire” by The Weeknd, Gesaffelstein
“Love On The Brain” by Rihanna
“Let Me Love You” by Justin Bieber, DJ Snake
“Close” by Nick Jonas, Trove Lo
“Naughty Girl” by Beyoncé
“pov” by Ariana Grande
“Graveyard” by Halsey
 LINKS

Spotify Playlist
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/14L0L9jVLfrqsgOB6vFsEw?si=bd7c3f9c6c6a4791
Pinterest Board
https://pin.it/GMdCdMr
To anyone who feels weak for struggling to make it through another day, you are the strongest kind of person there is. Keep
hanging on. Brighter days are ahead.
 PROLOGUE

Elliot
Age Sixteen

Red and blue lights flash as I drive up to the scene.

Before I have a chance to get out of the truck, I see her through the rain-speckled window.
She’s lying cold and lifeless on the asphalt as neon lights reflect off her youthful skin.
At the ripe age of sixteen, her life is over. And I’m the one to blame.
I know in this moment that my life is forever changed. I’ll never be the same.
I might as well be dead, because who can live this way? How can I go on when I know I’m responsible for the death of
someone’s child?
My vision blurs as the ambulance arrives and a team of paramedics rush to her lifeless body.
They place a white sheet over her small frame, and the last piece of hope inside me dies. I open my door and fall to the
damp pavement, praying that the lightning streaking through the sky will strike me. It should be me, not her.
When her parents arrive at the scene, I fall apart.
I throw up, cry, and throw up some more.
Because I’m a coward, I wrap my arms around my stomach and hobble back to my truck.
Then I drive away. I fucking drive away as her parents kneel next to her limp body, screaming and calling out her name.
That was the night my life ended and hell on earth began.
 ONE

Elliot
Present Day

“I’m cutting you off, Elliot.” Adam, my regular bartender, huffs as he swipes my empty glass from the counter.
I run a hand through my disheveled hair, rolling my eyes at his audacity. Besides, I’ve only had five drinks. Maybe six? Or
is it seven?
“You’re cutting me off?” I scoff, arching a brow. “I’m your best customer.”
“Exactly,” he chuckles, wiping down the bar with a wet rag. “We want to keep you as a customer, but that won’t happen if
you drink yourself to death. You’ve got to start limiting yourself, Elliot.” He braces his hands on the shiny counter, tossing me a
serious glare.
“Yeah, yeah,” I croon, exhaling an annoyed breath. “What is it they say? A whiskey a day keeps the doctor away?”
Adam narrows his eyes at me, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Oh, come on,” I continue, playfully slapping my palm down on the bar top. “I’m kidding. Learn how to take a joke.”
He furrows his brows, crossing his arms over his chest, not a hint of amusement in his expression.
“The self-sabotage jokes were funny weeks ago, but they’re getting old now,” he sighs. “You’re here almost every night,
and you drink until I have to cut you off. It amazes me that you make it to work every morning,” he scoffs.
I grab the collar of my suit, adjusting the cashmere jacket as a sly grin stretches across my face.
“Not only do I show up on time every day, but I’m the best at what I do,” I smirk. “You see, I’m more than capable of
handling my alcohol.”
I’ve become a master at masking my emotions, hence the cocky smile I’m sporting even though I feel hollow inside. The
pathetic truth is that my job is all I have going for me.
It’s all I have left.
I started working at Ace Financial, the largest financial institution in the state of Texas, when I was twenty-three. I started
out as a lender and after ten years with the company, I recently received a promotion to loan officer. My job is the only
achievement in my thirty-three years of life that I’m actually proud of. Hell, it’s basically my only achievement. My career is
my identity…The only thing keeping me going.
I’ve lost everything else.
Maybe that’s why I’ve resorted to binge drinking after work. Because I simply have nothing else to look forward to. Work
is my life, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
My clients keep me busy, shutting out the buzzing thoughts infiltrating my brain. When I’m not in the office, the silence is too
loud to bear. Whiskey seems to be the only thing other than work that quiets my deafening thoughts.
You’re pathetic. You deserve every ounce of loneliness you feel. No one will ever love you. You have no one.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head as I try to push away the nagging voice that lives in my head.
“You need a woman in your life,” Adam adds out of nowhere, distracting me from my thoughts.
“What?” My head snaps up in shock to meet his stare.
“I don’t know, man,” he exhales while running a hand through his dark hair. “Maybe putting yourself out there could be
good for you. It’s not like you have to find your future wife or anything…Just go out and have fun,” he shrugs.
“I mean, you live in Dallas for Christ's sake,” he adds. “There’s definitely not a shortage of beautiful women in this city.”
Who does this guy think he is? He’s my bartender, not my damn matchmaker. I narrow my eyes at him and scoff.
“Yeah,” I mock. “That’s not fucking happening.”
“Why not?” he asks, pinching his brows together in thought.
 Because I’m not capable of loving someone. Because I’m not worthy of love.
When I don’t respond, he inhales a sharp breath as his eyes go wide. He takes a step back from the counter as if he’s
offended me or some shit.
“I…I’m sorry, man,” he stutters. “I shouldn't have assumed.”
He’s not making sense. Is he the drunk one or am I?
“Assumed what?” I ask. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I thought,” he nervously clears his throat. “I guess I didn't realize that women don’t do it for you.”
My brows shoot up as I fold my arms against the bar, leaning in to make sure I hear him correctly.
“Wait,” I say under my breath. “You think I’m gay?”
“I…I don’t know, man,” he shrugs. “You acted repulsed by the idea of going out with a woman. Besides, it wouldn't matter
to me either way.”
I rub my palm against my forehead before running my fingers through my messy hair.
“I’m not gay, Adam,” I exhale while leaning back against the creaky chair. “I’ll be the first person to point out a good-
looking guy, but dick doesn't do it for me.”
He chuckles, shaking his head at my response.
“Well, that’s a blunt way to put it,” he scoffs while stacking empty glasses. “So, why are you so against going out with
someone?”
I wouldn't usually be so honest, but the alcohol flowing through my veins overrides my pride. Fuck it.
“I’m not a relationship guy,” I murmur. “I thought I was until my ex-fiancée became my brother’s fiancée.”
His face instantly fills with shock, which is exactly the reaction I was expecting. He rubs a palm against his cheek as he
ponders what to say.
“Holy shit, man,” he exhales. “That’s fucking awful.”
If he only knew how terrible I was to her. If he only knew how terrible I still am.
“To be fair, I got what I deserved,” I shrug, reaching inside my suit jacket to dig out my wallet. “I didn't deserve her,
anyway. I was a complete asshole…I still am.”
He tilts his head, looking at me through furrowed brows. His expression is a mixture of confusion and pity.
“Give yourself a break, Elliot,” he finally says. “I mean, anyone would feel like shit after losing their fiancée to their own
brother. I may not be your best friend, but I know you well enough to know that you’re not all bad. You just…You need to
invest in yourself. It seems like you give up a little more each time you walk into this bar. It’s depressing, man,” he mutters,
shaking his head.
And that’s my cue to leave. I’m not going to sit here any longer and listen to my bartender give me life advice.
“Yeah,” I scoff, slapping a couple hundred down on the bar. “You’re only saying that because you don’t really know me. If
you did, you’d be telling me to rot in hell. Keep the change,” I add, nodding toward the bills on the counter.
“Elliot–”
“Anyways,” I cut him off, sliding off the bar stool. “I better get going. I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow that I need to
prepare for. The highlight of my week!” I say sarcastically, lifting two fingers in farewell as I stumble off.
“Elliot!” I hear him bellow from behind the counter. I halt my steps, looking over my shoulder to find concern etched
across his face.
“You’re not driving, are you?” he asks. “You know I can’t let you leave my bar and get behind the wheel right now. You can
barely walk in a straight line.” His eyes lower to my unsteady legs.
I chuckle, trying to act completely sober when I know it's far from the truth.
“I’ll call an Uber, Officer,” I sneer, stumbling back like Jack Sparrow, which probably doesn't help my case. “You know,
the Dallas Police Department should hire you,” I add sarcastically. “Hell, you’re basically doing their job for them.”
He snorts, narrowing his eyes to little slits.
“I take back what I said,” he jabs. “You are an asshole.”
Even though I know it’s the truth, I can’t help but flinch at his comment. I should be used to hearing it by now.
“I can’t argue with that,” I mutter before turning my back and heading for the exit.
As I walk across the industrial bar, nearing the door leading out to the bustling street, I hear someone mumble, “Take care
of yourself.” I don’t look back or give the comment any attention because I’m tired of being looked at like a fucking project.
My fate has been sealed and there’s no saving me at this point. I’m a piece of shit with nothing but my career to show for.
People need to get it through their heads that there's no changing me. I am who I am, and I’m the only one who seems to accept
that.
First, it started with weekly interventions from my family, and now my fucking bartender is trying to offer up support. I just
wish people would leave me the hell alone and worry about themselves.
I almost make it to the door when the sight of my reflection in the glossy window has me freezing in place.
Holy hell. I look like absolute fucking shit.
 My light-brown hair is longer than I like to keep it, pointing in every direction but straight. Strands that I gelled back this
morning have come loose, flopping against my forehead. Dark bags cradle my hazel eyes, only enhancing how lifeless and
hollow I feel inside. I’ve always had prominent cheekbones, but they look more sunken in than usual. I doubt anyone else
would notice, but I look as if I’ve lost a solid ten pounds.
The only thing I have going for me in the looks department is my tailored Tom Ford suit. I religiously drop my suits off at
the dry cleaner every Monday and pick them up every Friday so I’m ready for the next work week. On top of that, I always
keep an extra suit hanging in the backseat of my Range Rover in case the one I’m wearing gets stained or wrinkled.
I may have forgotten how to properly take care of myself, but I sure as hell know how to dress.
I shake my head, straighten my shoulders, and push open the door. The second I walk outside, I’m met by cool, February
air. You never know what kind of weather to expect in Texas, especially in the winter. One day the forecast could be calling for
snow and ice, and the next day could be ninety degrees and sunny.
Thankfully, I don’t have to put too much thought into my wardrobe. My closet consists mainly of black, gray, and navy suits.
I like my belongings simple, clean, routine, and predictable. I have this obsessive need to be in control of all aspects of my life
because the second I let go and give the reins to someone else, I know that all hell will break loose. I’ve seen it happen one too
many times in my life.
I live comfortably in black and white. Gray area simply doesn't exist to me.
The cold wind stings my cheeks as I pull my phone from my jacket to request an Uber. Before I have a chance to load the
app, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from my future sister-in-law, also known as my ex-fiancée.
God, my life is so fucked up. It’s almost comical at this point.
Skylar and I had been together for three years before she finally admitted to being in love with my brother, Everett. Long
story short, they met only a month into our relationship on a family vacation and apparently fell in love under the stars or some
shit. They kept it a secret for years until Skylar walked in on me balls-deep in another woman. My careless cheating is what
finally broke down the thin wall keeping us together and them apart.
It’s been a year since shit hit the fan, but it’s felt like a lifetime. My parents insisted that I attend Everett and Skylar’s
engagement party last month. Thank God there was alcohol because it ended up being one of the most miserable days of my
life. As fucked up as it sounds, I don’t miss Skylar in the way I should after being with her for three years. I’m happy for my
brother, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m pretty sure those two were born for each other.
But I’m also angry…Angry that life has seemed to work out for everyone else, while I stand on the sidelines and watch. I’m
angry that no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to give up control or let anyone in.
I held myself back from Skylar, only giving her bits and pieces of my heart because I was incapable of giving anything
more. In ten years, I’ll be the rich, drunk uncle who shows up to family functions miserable and alone. Aside from my career,
I’ll be a disappointment in my family’s eyes. I already am.
I see the way people look at me, like I’m a vacant shell of the human I once was. What they don’t realize is that I’ve always
been this empty. I’m just not attempting to hide it anymore.
The phone repeatedly vibrates against my cold palm, snapping me back to reality. I huff out an annoyed breath, tilting my
head up to the gray sky as I begrudgingly answer Skylar’s call.
“Hello,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.
“Thanks for finally deciding to pick up the phone,” she fumes. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. I even sent
you a few emails.”
If I only had time to check my emails.
“I’m drowning in work, Skylar,” I snap back. “I’m in back-to-back meetings all day and can barely keep my head on
straight. I’m sure I have about a thousand unread emails, and I doubt that yours is high on my priority list.”
Not only is Skylar my ex-fiancée, but she’s also my colleague.
Yup, you heard me right. We met when she started her career as a recruiter at Ace Financial. She’s damn good at her job,
and she knows it too.
After our breakup, I wasn't sure if she was going to stay with the company. Selfishly, a small part of me hoped she would
look for something else, but the logical part of me knew that she had worked too hard to give up her career over a piece of shit
like me.
“Oh okay,” she chuckles sarcastically, pulling me from my thoughts. “I guess I’ll just talk to you later since hiring an
assistant is low on your priority list. Bye, Elliot–”
Oh shit. I needed an assistant like yesterday.
“Wait,” I rush out, hoping like hell that she hasn't ended the call. “That’s what you’ve been calling me about?”
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes as I wait for her response.
“Oh, so you have time to talk now that it benefits you?” she clips.
I place a hand on my hip and let out an annoyed breath.
“Skylar, I don’t have time for games,” I reply, hanging my head. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and I’m just stressed
out. Are you calling about my assistant or not?”
A beat of silence passes before she finally responds.
“If recruiting wasn't my job, I would be hanging up on your arrogant ass right now,” she huffs. “But yes, I saw that your
request to hire an assistant was approved. How soon are you looking to hire someone?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow if you can,” I answer without hesitation.
“Are you crazy?” she gasps. “I can start interviewing candidates tomorrow, but there’s no way in hell I can fill the position
by tomorrow.”
I want to tell her to work around the clock until she finds someone, but my better judgment decides against it. You can’t bite
the hand that feeds you.
“Fine,” I groan. “Then start interviewing tomorrow. I’m currently spending half of my day scheduling fucking meetings
when that’s an admin’s job. I don’t have time for that shit.”
“You’re unbelievable, Elliot,” she mutters. “As soon as we fill this position, I’m making sure your director signs you up for
new manager training. I honestly feel bad for whoever has to work for your grumpy ass every day.”
New manager training, my ass.
“I swear to God, Skylar. If you make me waste an entire day just to sit through a bullshit training I will–”
“You’ll what?” she shoots back, cutting me off. “You’ll complain to HR? Because you know I am HR, right?”
Fuck. She’s got me there.
“Just fill the position, Skylar,” I say in a clipped tone before blowing out a defeated breath. “Let me know the second you
find someone.”
“I hope you know that I’m only doing this for you because it's my job,” she retorts. “If I wasn’t getting paid to hire your
assistant, I would happily watch you drown in the sea of work you’ve created for yourself. You have to learn how to show
appreciation, Elliot. You’re on the verge of pissing away everyone who has ever cared for you.”
I’m done listening to this shit. She can go back to living her happy life with my brother and leave me the hell alone. I need
her for one thing and one thing only: to hire my assistant.
“I don’t need a lecture from you of all people,” I chide. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine. End of story.”
I hear her exhale a deep breath at the same time I realize I’m pacing back and forth along the sidewalk.
“Let me give you a little piece of advice, even though you don’t deserve it,” she says sternly. “If you treat your assistant
like shit, which I’m sure you will, I promise you they will walk out faster than you can say ‘quit’. And when that happens, the
company won’t approve of hiring another person for you. So you can decide to change now, or risk being alone in every aspect
of your life.”
I’ve already accepted the fact that I’m alone, honey.
Jokes on her, because this isn't news to me.
“If you need the green light to start recruiting, then this is me giving it to you,” I state, completely ignoring her comment.
“Now, is there anything else you need from me?”
A deafening beat of silence passes before she answers in a low, disappointed tone.
“No,” she all but whispers.
“Great,” I rasp. “Call me when you find someone.”
I end the call before she has a chance to say another word. I don’t want to talk to her or anyone else for that matter. I just
want to take my drunk ass home and get back to the one thing that holds any kind of value in my life…my career.
I tilt my head towards the cloudy sky, sending up a silent prayer for my new assistant. They’re going to need it because I
can barely fucking stand myself.
 TWO

Roxy

“Roxanne Taylor?” A soft, feminine voice calls my name as heels click against the marble floor.
My heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest. I would consider myself a confident person, but interviews
always make my nerves run wild.
A middle-aged woman approaches me, stopping less than a foot away before extending a manicured hand toward me.
“Hi, that’s me,” I nod, smiling up at her. I brush my hands down my skirt before standing from the plush couch and shaking
her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Roxanne,” she grins, giving my hand a firm shake. “Skylar is ready to meet with you. I’ll take you up to
her office.”
Roxanne.
Ugh, why haven't I legally changed my name to Roxy already?
“Sounds good,” I reply, trying to hide my annoyance. I grab my purse from the couch before slipping it over my shoulder.
“Right this way,” she gestures, turning her back as I follow her to a shiny bank of elevators.
I’ve only seen the lobby of Ace Financial, but I’m already blown away. This is hands down the nicest building I have ever
been in. The expansive floors are sheathed in black marble, the walls have been replaced by spotless floor-to-ceiling
windows, and a modern floating staircase leads up to the second floor.
We bypass the stairs, walking straight inside the fancy elevator. Once the doors close, I notice that one of the four walls is a
large mirror. As I wait to arrive on whatever floor we’re headed to, I run my fingers through my loose curls and apply an extra
coat of lipstick.
I give myself one last look in the mirror when I finally hear the elevator ding. Thanks to Pinterest and online shopping, I’m
pretty damn proud of my outfit choice. My black, high-waisted skirt stops a few inches below my knees with a modest slit
running up to my mid-thigh. After trying on a hundred different shirts, I decided on a white, satin blouse paired with bright red
heels. I wanted to add a pop of color. Plus, they make me feel sexy and confident.
My jet-black hair tumbles around my shoulders, looking sleek and glossy from a fresh wash. I’m wearing more makeup than
usual, but it’s still light enough to allow the freckles dusting my nose and cheeks to peek through. I stare back at myself through
dark lashes, my green eyes twinkling with an excitement I haven't seen in years.
This is a fresh start, Roxy. Here’s to new beginnings.
I confidently smile back at my reflection before exiting the elevator.
As soon as I step out onto the floor, a beautiful woman with chestnut hair and ocean-blue eyes walks my way with a kind
smile stretched across her face.
“Thanks, Grace. I’ll take it from here,” she nods toward the woman who escorted me.
Her piercing gaze turns to me as she extends a hand in greeting. I immediately notice the simple, yet breathtaking diamond
ring adorning her left hand.
She’s a lucky girl.
“Hi, Roxanne?” she asks before wrapping her fingers around my palm in a firm shake.
“Yes,” I smile, pulling my hand back and tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “But you can call me Roxy.”
“Then Roxy it is,” she beams without question. “I’m Skylar, and I’ll be your main point of contact throughout the recruiting
process. I know we’ve been communicating via email, but it's nice to meet you in person.”
“Nice to meet you as well,” I return. “I can’t get over this building. It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
“It’s not bad, huh?” she chuckles. “And the views aren’t too shabby either.”
 I look over her shoulder, stealing a glance at the massive windows surrounding the office space. I’m not sure what floor we
are on, but it must be high up because I can see the entire city of Dallas from here. It’s unbelievable to think I live here now.
This is my city.
Less than a minute later, I’m sitting across from Skylar in her office. I set my purse down by my feet before getting
comfortable in a leather chair. Silence fills the room as Skylar spreads out my resume and application.
My eyes dart to a picture frame on her desk, showcasing Skylar and who I assume is her husband…or maybe he’s just her
fiancé. He’s not wearing a ring in the photo. Either way, they make a gorgeous couple. Skylar is staring up at him like he hung
the moon, and he’s staring down at her like she placed the stars in the sky. Mountains surround them in the background, making
for the picture-perfect moment. It's almost as if I can feel their love radiating through the photo.
“Thanks again for coming in today, Roxy,” Skylar chimes in, pulling me from my thoughts. “I don’t want to take up too much
of your time, so let’s go ahead and get started. Tell me a little bit about yourself and your interest in this position.”
Ah, the dreaded tell me about yourself question. I know it's her job to ask, but I have to force myself not to roll my eyes.
What’s the point in submitting a resume when I have to repeat everything that’s on it?
I doubt she wants my life story, so I’m going to make this short and sweet.
“Well, my name is Roxanne. But I go by Roxy, which you already know,” I smile awkwardly. “My family moved around a
lot as a kid, so I can’t say I’m from one particular place. I’ve always wanted to live in Dallas, and I promised myself that if I
wasn't settled by the age of twenty-five then I would give it a try. So, I didn’t hesitate when the big two-five came around this
year,” I chuckle. “I’ve been here a little over a month, and I’m just excited about the opportunity to have a fresh start.”
Skylar nods her head and smiles, giving me her full attention.
“Aside from that,” I continue. “I have my bachelor's degree in business from Arizona State University, and I have three-plus
years of experience working in administration. I love busy work, excel sheets, organizing, and problem-solving. When I saw
the job posting, the description had everything I’m looking for in a full-time position. So…yeah,” I finish nervously. “I hope
that answers your question. I’m just excited to be here.”
She scribbles a few notes on my resume before looking up and placing her pen down on the desk.
“Well, welcome to Dallas,” she beams, turning her head toward the transparent walls to take in the iconic skyline. “I’m
glad you’re enjoying it so far. How did you hear about this position?”
“From an online job site,” I reply, clasping my hands together in my lap. “Not only am I looking for a position that matches
my qualifications and experience, but I want to work for a reputable company as well. Ace Financial is the first corporation
that caught my attention. After reading loads of good reviews, I applied right away.”
“Great,” she nods like she’s happy with my response. “I’ve been with the company for four years now, and I love it. I
definitely had to teach myself how to maintain a healthy work-life balance, but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. The
benefits are amazing, and the people are even better. My team really does feel like my second family.”
Okay, this woman is very nice, but she can spare me the second family bullshit. We all know that’s a line that every
recruiter uses.
Instead of rolling my eyes, I purse my lips together and force a fake smile.
“So, I know this can be a tricky question,” she continues, “but what would you consider to be your biggest strength and
weakness?"
I twiddle my thumbs while chewing on my bottom lip, pondering if I should be honest or provide the cookie-cutter answer
she’s looking for.
I’ve worked in plenty of offices where people walk around like carbon copies, acting like their shit doesn't stink when we
all know damn well that it's nothing but an act. We get in our cars after work, blaring songs with more expletives than we can
count while cursing our jobs to hell. We scream at the top of our lungs, rejoicing in the fact that we finally get to be ourselves
outside the confines of an office.
I don’t want to be fake anymore, that’s why I decide to not sugarcoat my response.
What you see is what you get. You either like me or you don’t.
I take a deep breath, sitting up straight as I meet her waiting stare.
“I would say my biggest strength and weakness is that I’m stubborn. I’ve never been a pushover, and I refuse to allow
anyone to treat me less than human. If you show me kindness and respect, I’ll give you the exact same treatment. But if you
belittle me and treat me like garbage, then I’ll happily return the favor. I just…My father taught me to be strong.”
I close my eyes, wincing at the memory.
“You’ll be fine, my Roxy girl. You’re the strongest person I know. Even if you can’t see me, I’ll be with you every step of
the way.”
“He taught me so many things,” I rasp. “But most of all, he taught me to love hard and be strong.”
A moment of silence passes as if Skylar knows that he’s not with us anymore. He may not be a phone call away, but I can
feel him everywhere I go. He’s always with me.
“Wow,” Skylar mutters, emotion flashing in her blue eyes. “He seems like a great man.”
 I don’t have the strength to say “he was” without breaking down, so I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
Skylar clears her throat, uncomfortably clicking the end of her pen before hitting me with her next question.
“How would you handle a difficult co-worker or manager?” she asks, her expression serious. “Everyone has different
personalities and temperaments, so it’s important that we find ways to work together. Do you have an example of a time you
resolved a conflict within the workplace?”
I pinch my brows together, trying to think of a situation where there was animosity between me and one of my colleagues.
My palms grow sweaty and my heart beats erratically, the silence growing louder as my brain goes blank.
Alexa, play ‘Under Pressure’ by Queen.
Like a lightbulb shining bright, Jerry pops into my mind.
Fucking Jerry.
“I um…I had a manager named Jerry. It was my first ever office job, and he took advantage of how young and naive I was.
It started out with coffee runs, but it quickly turned into me completing his household errands, taking his dog to the groomer,
and cleaning up evidence of his affairs before his wife got home from business trips. Instead of working as his assistant, I
became his maid.”
Skylar’s brows shoot up as her mouth opens wide in shock.
“Are you kidding me?” she gasps. “That is so unprofessional. Did you confront him about this?”
“Oh yeah,” I scoff. “When I finally had enough, I scheduled a meeting with him, in which he complained that he didn't have
time for it in the first place. After a few pointed emails, he agreed to meet with me, and let’s just say the conversation didn’t go
well. He told me that’s the way the corporate world works and that I need to know my role in this industry.”
Skylar slowly shakes her head, looking at me like she’s at a loss for words.
“So the next day,” I continue, “I walked straight into his office, placed my badge on his desk, and handed him my
resignation letter. I also printed out a copy of my job description for his review. I told him it needed to be revised when he
posted my position, so his next assistant would know what they were signing up for. After that, I grabbed my belongings from
my desk and never stepped foot in that office again.”
A grin stretches across her face, her expression resembling a proud older sister.
“Good for you,” she croons, folding her arms over her chest.
I exhale a deep breath as my nerves start to settle. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting her reaction to be so laid back.
“I just…I know my worth,” I say confidently. “Like I said, if you show me respect and kindness, I’ll work hard and show
up every day prepared to give one hundred percent. It doesn't matter if you’re an intern or the CEO, we’re all here because we
add value to the company. No matter where you fall on the corporate ladder, you should be treated like you are an asset to the
company. I appreciate constructive criticism and growing as an individual, but I won’t stand for being belittled because
someone has a fancier title than me.”
Skylar sits up straight in her chair before slowly clapping her hands together and nodding her head in approval.
“Wow,” she exhales. “That has got to be the most honest, yet impactful answer I have ever received from a candidate.”
I don’t do well with compliments, so I let out an awkward chuckle and rub a hand down my arm.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Skylar says in a hushed tone, even though we’re the only two in her office.
“Whoever fills this position is going to need thick skin,” she adds. “Elliot Thompson…He’s good at his job, but sometimes
to a fault. He is the definition of a perfectionist. He doesn't understand human error or why people make mistakes, especially in
the workplace. He puts his job above everything else in life; this place is everything to him. He’s not a bad person… it’s just…
This is all he has. You need to keep that in mind when he tries to push your boundaries. It’s nothing personal, it’s just…Elliot.”
I furrow my brows, confused about everything she just said.
First, who is Elliot? And second, why is she acting like I already got the job?
“Okay…” I mutter.
She pays no attention to my puzzled expression as she staples my resume to the note sheet she’s been scribbling on.
“Last question,” she exhales, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “How soon can you start?”
How soon can I start?
I just met her twenty minutes ago, and she’s asking when I can start?
This is just the HR interview. I prepared myself for at least two to three additional interviews before talks of an offer even
began. Maybe I should take some time to think about this. Something is off. Maybe this Elliot guy is the devil in disguise.
“I um…” I shake my head, trying to wrap my brain around this entire situation. “I’m sorry, are you making me an offer?”
Her eyes widen at my question, realizing how weird it is that she’s asking me to confirm a start date.
“Oh, uh no,” she recovers, shaking her head. “It’s just a hypothetical question. I need to speak with management first, but if
you were extended an offer, how soon would you be available to start?”
It didn't seem like a hypothetical question when she asked. Maybe she’s playing it off because she realized how desperate
she sounded.
Everyone knows that in the corporate world, you don’t just get offered a position on the spot unless something is sketchy.
I’m used to sitting through five to six grueling interviews before I get the news.
But beggars can’t be choosers, and this is the only interview I have at the moment. I need a job or else my time in Dallas
will be cut short. I didn’t move all this way for nothing.
“Well, I’m settled into my apartment, and I’m not working at the moment,” I smile, meeting her eager stare. “So, I can start
as soon as possible.”
 THREE

Elliot

“I can’t believe I actually got your lame ass out of the house tonight,” Zion shouts over the music booming in the club.
Dim lights fill the industrial space, casting the room in a warm glow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I scoff. “I’m only here because it's your birthday…and for the alcohol,” I smirk, sipping on a cold
glass of whiskey.
Zion Wilson is one of my colleagues but also my oldest friend. Hell, he’s my only close friend. It's no secret that I like to
keep my circle small. Besides, I don’t have the time it takes to make friends. Zion is low maintenance and doesn't act like a
clingy chick when we don’t hang out for weeks at a time. He puts up with my bullshit, which is why I keep him around.
We met in a finance class during our sophomore year of college and quickly realized that we were both from Dallas. After
graduation, we applied to Ace Financial on a whim and each got hired within a week. Even though we work in the same
building, we don’t see each other often because we’re both so busy.
As a commercial lender, my job is more sales and smooth talking customers into signing a loan package. He’s a credit
analyst, so he’s the math and brains behind each deal that we sign. Zion is one of the smartest people I know, which pisses me
the fuck off because he’s always trying to put me in my place. I can’t argue with him because he’s right ninety-nine percent of
the time.
“Let’s be honest,” he rolls his eyes, bringing me back to reality. “You’re not here for my birthday. You’re only here for the
booze.”
See what I mean? The dude sees right through me. He’s always calling me out on my shit.
“What can I say?” I huff out a breath, leaning back against the leather booth. “Whiskey has always been my weakness.”
Zion shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle as he takes a swig of beer. He clears his throat, concern etched across his
face as he meets my stare from across the booth.
“So, how have you been?” he asks in a serious tone.
Oh, God. Here we go again.
I already know where this conversation is headed.
“I didn’t come here to have an intervention,” I clip, gulping down the rest of my Jameson in one chug. I slam the glass on
the table before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Who said we’re having an intervention?” he shrugs. “I simply asked you a question.”
I’m not fucking dumb. He’s trying to beat around the bush instead of outright giving me a lecture about how my life is going
down the shitter. I’d rather him come out and say what’s really on his mind than look at me with pity. I get enough of that from
my family, and I’m tired of it.
“I’m fan-fucking-tastic,” I lie through clenched teeth. “Better than ever before. Does that answer your question?”
“Oh really?” he scoffs, clicking his tongue. “Because you look like shit.”
That’s more like it.
“Well, the woman I had on top of me last weekend would beg to differ,” I smirk. “She actually thought quite the opposite,
singing my praises while she rode my dick all night.”
Zion’s brows shoot up as he shakes his head in disbelief, letting out a low chuckle.
“So, you’re dating again?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
“Fuck no,” I sneer. “But a man still has needs. I make sure every woman I’m with knows that it’s nothing beyond sex. Just
two people getting off before going their separate ways.”
His eyes dart between mine like he’s trying to decide if I’m fucking with him or not. He’s clearly not hiding the fact that
he’s judging me, and honestly, I don’t care that he is.
After a beat of silence, he blows out a breath before responding.
“You never cease to amaze me, Elliot,” he says sarcastically. “So where do these rendezvous go down? Do you take them
back to your place?”
“That’s a stupid question,” I retort. “Of course not. There’s lots of places to fuck besides my bed.”
He should know that as well as I do. It seems like Zion has a new woman every week. The ladies practically fall to his feet
over his dark, curly hair and bronzed skin.
“Enlighten me,” he asserts, bringing a beer bottle to his lips.
“The opportunities are endless,” I shrug, a cocky grin stretching across my face. “You have the back seat of a car, hotel
rooms, a dark alley after a night out, and on rare occasions, my desk. Although, I do try to keep work as professional as
possible.”
Zion’s brows shoot up in shock as his eyes widen.
“The only place that’s off-limits to me is a bathroom,” I add. “That’s just too unsanitary for me. I wouldn't even be able to
get hard in the same room where someone just took a shit. No thanks.”
I scrunch my nose, shaking my head at the thought. Not only am I a control freak, but a clean freak as well.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Zion interjects through furrowed brows. “You’ve had sex in your office? At Ace Financial?”
I purse my lips together and shrug.
“Yeah, once or twice,” I reply nonchalantly. “You haven't?”
“Holy shit, Elliot,” he gasps, rubbing a palm against his jaw. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“And to answer your question, no,” he clarifies. “I have never whipped my dick out in my office. If you were to get caught,
that would be immediate grounds for termination. There’s no slap on the wrist for that kind of shit.”
After my failed engagement, the thought of bringing another woman back to my place makes me physically ill. I would
rather risk getting caught than entangling myself in another relationship. Never again.
“You’re just jealous because you're what some would call vanilla, and I take risks,” I chide. “Women love a good thrill,
especially the quiet ones. You should try it sometime,” I add, lifting two fingers toward the bar, signaling that it’s time for
another round.
“Yeah,” he mocks. “A risk that could get you fired. And trust me…I love you, man, but I am not jealous of the trainwreck
that is your life. You’re a fucking ticking time bomb, looking more miserable every time I see you.”
Trainwreck.
That term suits me well. I think I like it.
“Well, since you're so concerned about my well-being,” I say smugly. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m about to have
more free time on my hands. Hopefully sooner than later.”
“What do you mean?”
“After years of asking, I finally got approved to hire an assistant. Skylar’s recruiting for the position right now as we
speak…” I trail off, realizing that I haven't heard from her in a few days. “Or she better be,” I grumble under my breath.
“Wow, look at you,” Zion hums, slapping a playful hand down on the table. “Climbing the corporate ladder.”
“Living the dream,” I say sarcastically, grinning as I bring a full glass of whiskey to my lips.
Zion clears his throat, looking uncomfortable as he ponders his next words.
He’s going to ask about Skylar. Because it’s totally normal that my ex-fiancée is now recruiting for my assistant position.
Not weird at all.
“Is uh…Is it awkward? Working with Skylar?” he asks in a hushed tone.
Ding, ding, ding. I called it.
Is it awkward working with the woman who is now fucking my brother? No shit, Zion. What a ridiculous question.
“Eh, doesn't really matter to me,” I lie, shrugging my shoulders. “I just need her to hire someone, and hire them fast. I can
barely stay afloat anymore.”
I stare off into space, thinking about the twenty different meetings I need to schedule when I get home tonight.
Zion mumbles something, but his voice is only background noise as I dig my phone from my suit jacket to check my email.
Everyone has their nervous ticks…bad habits they can’t shake. Mine is checking my email every five to ten minutes. It’s the
first thing I do when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I do when I go to bed at night. It’s a source of comfort for me.
“Oh shit,” I exhale, tapping on an unread email Skylar sent me a few hours ago.
“What is it?” Zion asks, leaning across the table to get a glimpse at the screen.
“Skylar.” I slide out of the booth and straighten the lapels of my jacket. “She asked me to call her a few hours ago. Give me
a minute.”
It’s too damn loud to take a call in the club, so I walk into the men’s restroom and turn the lock just to make sure no drunk
ass tries to come in and piss near my Burberry suit.
God, just the smell in here makes me want to hurl, and this is what I consider a clean restroom. How in the hell do people
get off during bathroom romps? I can barely take a call in here.
I scroll through my contacts until I find Skylar’s name, press call, and bring the phone to my ear. The persistent ringing has
me rolling my eyes, my already thin patience wearing thinner.
How dare she not answer her phone at eight o’clock on a Friday night? The nagging voice in my head mocks me,
reminding me that other people actually have a life outside of work.
On what I assume is the last ring, Skylar’s familiar voice lulls through the speaker.
Thank God.
Ironically, I’ve never been so relieved to hear her voice.
“Elliot Thompson,” she clicks her tongue. “Making work calls on a Friday night, but can’t answer during normal business
hours. Typical.”
I pace back and forth in the small bathroom.
“If I had an assistant, maybe I would have time to take my calls during work hours,” I clap back. “But there’s only so many
hours in a day.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” she replies without hesitation.
“What?” I stop pacing.
“I’ve had multiple interviews, and I think I found your perfect match.”
Your perfect match. I scoff because this isn't a fucking dating show. I just need an assistant. I don’t care if we are
compatible; I just need them to get the job done.
“Great. When can they start?”
“Wait…What?” she asks, confusion laced in her tone. “Don’t you want to interview her first?”
Her. So my new assistant is a she.
“Isn't it your job to hire qualified applicants?” I turn to look at myself in the mirror, pushing back a stray lock of hair from
my forehead. “You’d know better than me if she's a good fit.”
“Elliot…” she drawls. “You don’t even know her name. You haven’t looked at her resume. You…You know absolutely
nothing about her.”
“Let me ask you one question,” I reply. “Do you feel that she’s qualified to do the job?”
“Yes, of course,” she responds without missing a beat. “I wouldn't be suggesting her for the job if she wasn't.”
“Okay, then no further discussion is needed. Offer her the position, and if she accepts, ask if she can start on Monday.”
“Are you serious?” she asks in shock. “In all my years of recruiting, I have never had a manager not want to meet with a
candidate before extending an offer. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s against our recruiting policy. All managers need to have at least
one interview with a candidate before making a job offer.”
“Then I need you to cut corners for me, Skylar,” I exhale. “Would you like to call each of my clients and cancel the back-to-
back meetings I have scheduled for the next month? I don’t even have time for a fucking lunch break, so I find it quite humorous
that you think I have time to do a task that you’ve already done. You like her, so let’s move forward. End of story.”
Silence fills the line.
“God,” she chuckles lowly. “You’re such a dick. You really think the world revolves around you, don’t you? I sincerely
hope she accepts the offer because she’s the type of person who won’t hesitate to put you in your place.”
“I’d like to see her try,” I quip.
“You’re in for a rude awakening, Elliot.”
I roll my eyes.
“Just offer her the job.”
“I can’t wait to say I told you so.”
“Excuse me?”
“When she hands in her resignation in less than six months, I’ll be shouting, ‘I told you so’ from the top of my lungs. Karma
is a bitch, Elliot.”
Karma came for me a long time ago, honey. The planet I reside on is karma. The universe finds new ways to fuck with me
every day.
“We’ll see about that,” I clip. “If she accepts, tell her I’ll see her bright and early Monday morning.”
“Are you an idiot?” she sneers. “First off, I’m not calling her on a Friday night to make a job offer. Do you understand how
unprofessional that is? And secondly, if she were to accept, the background process would take at least a week to complete.
For once in your life, you’re going to need to have some patience.”
“I have been patient,” I object. “I’ve been patiently drowning, asking for an assistant for years. So don’t talk to me about
patience.”
Another beat of silence passes.
“You know,” she pauses, gathering her thoughts. “The least you could do is say thank you. I have worked my ass off to fill
this position, and you’ve been nothing but an ungrateful prick. You are the most self-centered person I know.”
 I lean back against the tiled wall, slumping my shoulders. When I stop to think about it, I have been a complete dick to her.
“Fuck,” I sigh. “I’m sorry, Sky. I’m just stressed out.”
“We’re all stressed out, Elliot. But that doesn't give you an excuse to treat people like shit.”
“I know,” I rasp. “It’s not an excuse…But I’m just under a lot of stress right now.”
I hear a deep voice in the background. It sounds like my brother is trying to get her attention.
“I have to go,” she says flatly. “I’ll call Roxy on Monday. I’ll let you know once I have an update.”
Roxy.
Why does that name send a warm wave down my spine? I wonder if Roxy is her full name or a nickname?
Either way, I like it. It’s different…Pretty in an unusual way.
Before I have a chance to reply, Skylar abruptly ends the call. Honestly, I fully deserved to be hung up on. She’s gone out of
her way to help me, and I’ve given her hell the entire time.
Believe it or not, I didn’t always use to be this way. I mean, I’ve always been kind of a dick, but I definitely hit rock bottom
within the last year. I just stopped giving a shit. I stopped trying to be the charming, smooth-talking, charismatic guy that
everyone thinks I am and finally unleashed my true self.
I’m not a good person. I never have been.
Once the disappointment has time to settle, my friends and family will finally see me just as I see myself. A fuck up.
I clear my throat, run a hand through my hair, and put on my best I don’t give a shit face before unlocking the door and
sauntering back to the table. The last thing I want is for Zion to notice the disappointment in my eyes. The utter disappointment I
hold toward myself.
“What was that about?” he asks as I slide into my side of the booth.
A cocky grin stretches across my face as I rest an arm behind me on the leather seat.
“I found my girl,” I smile smugly.
“Your what?” he asks, brows pinched together.
“My assistant,” I clarify. “Skylar’s going to make her an offer on Monday.”
I don’t allow myself to get hung up on the fact that I called Rosy my girl because it doesn't mean shit. I’m just giddy to
finally have some help.
Wait…Was her name Roxy? Rose? Rosa? No, I’m sure Skylar said it was Rosy.
Shit, I already forgot her name.
Oh well.
All that matters is in a few short weeks, I’ll finally have someone to do my grunt work.
 FOUR

Roxy

Today is the day I start my new job.

When Skylar called and offered me the position two weeks ago, I thought about it for less than twelve hours before I called
and accepted.
Do I think it’s weird that the offer was made so soon? Yes. I mean, I haven't even had a chance to speak with anyone in
management. But I also don’t have any additional opportunities on the table, and I need a job.
Unlike most twenty-five-year-olds, I don’t have the luxury of moving in with my parents if things don’t work out. I have
nothing and no one to fall back on. My success is solely reliant on me, and if I can’t pay my bills, then I can kiss any hope of a
future goodbye.
I turn on the sink and brace my hands against the marble countertop as I stare at my reflection. I close my eyes and take a
deep breath, letting the running water drown out my nervous thoughts. After a long exhale, I open my eyes and give myself a
confident nod.
You got this.
You’re going to kill it.
I am so lucky, everything always works out for me.
My heart beats rapidly in my chest as I repeat positive mantras in my head. I don’t know why I’m so jittery and on edge.
I’ve never been this nervous for a first day, ever.
But my father always told me that confidence is key, so I’m going to put on a smile and walk out of this bathroom with my
head held high, even though I feel like I could vomit.
This place is just so…corporate. I mean, I’ve worked in professional jobs before, but Ace Financial is the real deal. It’s
all suits and ties, top-of-the-line architecture, and employees who look like they wake up and run three miles before they have
their first sip of coffee for the day.
I’m not an easy person to intimidate but damn, everything about this place is polished to perfection.
I arrived at the office a little over two hours ago to take care of HR paperwork and receive my employee badge. Now that
those items have been taken care of, I’m finally about to meet my mysterious manager.
I still think it's odd that I haven't even met him…or her?
God, this whole thing is just sketchy.
I turn off the sink and take a few steps back from the counter to get a full view of my outfit. I’m wearing a form-fitted, black
dress that compliments the shape of my body but also exudes poise and professionalism. The long sleeves fit my toned arms
like a glove, and the skirt stretches around my legs, stopping just below my knees.
I’m wearing nude, strappy heels that have rubber soles because I can’t stand the persistent clicking of heels against tile. It’s
just kind of cringey if you ask me. Plus, I don’t need someone to know I’m getting up each time I leave my desk.
My jet-black hair is down in loose curls, the glossy strands bouncing effortlessly with each step I take. I smile, happy I
decided to go with my favorite pair of elegant, gold hoop earrings. They’re shiny, sophisticated, and the perfect finishing touch
to my look.
I open up my purse, digging out my crimson lipstick before applying an extra coat. Not only does it add a pop of color to
my outfit, but it makes me feel bold.
You look good, you feel good. Right?
I take one last deep breath before exiting the bathroom and stepping out onto the thirtieth floor.
I still can’t believe my office is on the thirtieth floor. It’s a good thing that I don’t have a fear of heights.
 “Oh, there you are.” Evie, the floor’s receptionist, greets me as I exit the bathroom.
She seems to be around my age with long blonde hair and warm amber eyes. She’s nothing but smiles and welcoming
vibes, the exact kind of bubbly personality you would expect from someone who greets people for a living.
“Here I am,” I say awkwardly. “I just had to run to the restroom.”
“Oh, good,” she clasps her hands together. “I was worried you up and left already.”
A hesitant chuckle falls from her lips and then…silence.
Crickets. I think I can hear the sound of every cricket in the universe with the silence that follows her comment.
Why is everyone acting so fucking weird about me taking this job? I’m afraid I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.
“I’m kidding,” she recovers, tossing a hand in the air. “You’re going to love it here. I mean, you can’t beat this view.”
She’s right about that because the view from up here is nothing short of amazing. It feels like a scene out of a movie. The
elevator bank is strategically placed in the middle of the floor, which offers a panoramic view of the city from the floor-to-
ceiling windows that surround the circular space. You can literally walk around for hours and find something new with each
lap. I’m dying to see the view at night and watch the skyline light up like a million twinkling stars.
“Yeah,” I shake my head in amazement. “It’s spectacular.”
“It certainly is,” she nods. “I’ll give you a tour of the office sometime this week, but first, Mr. Thompson just notified me
that he’s ready for you. Do you need anything else before I show you to his office?”
I gulp, my heart rate picking up speed as I shake my head.
Confidence, Roxy.
You’re a badass, independent woman.
You’re qualified, smart, and prepared.
You have nothing to be nervous about.
“Nope,” I say boldly. “I’m ready to go.”
“Great. Follow me then,” she smiles and turns her back to me.
“Uh…Evie, wait,” I rush out before she halts her steps. She spins around to face me, her brows pinched together with
concern.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes, but…Mr. Thompson.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Is he my manager? I just want to make sure I know who I’m
meeting.”
“Oh, yes,” she replies without hesitation. “You haven't met Elliot yet?”
Elliot. A bell chimes in my head.
Oh shit.
So the guy Skylar was warning me about is my manager. I had an inkling, but I wasn't sure.
Love that for me.
“No, I haven't met him.”
Evie lets out a disappointed sigh and shakes her head, her expression similar to Skylar’s when she spoke with me about
Elliot.
Great. This is just great.
“Figures,” she exhales. “He is a busy man, I suppose.”
“I guess so,” I mutter, a little bitter about the fact that he couldn't take twenty minutes out of his day to at least have a phone
call with me.
“Alright,” she smiles, back to her perky self. “If you don’t have any other questions, we’ll head that way.”
I follow her around the corner until we stop in front of a vacant office with nothing but a desk in the center. I immediately
notice an open, mahogany door at the back of the space which I assume leads to another office. Sunlight floods through the
doorway, blinding me from seeing what or who’s inside.
“So, this will be your workspace,” Evie gestures her hand around the empty room we’re standing in. “Once you’ve settled
in, feel free to decorate and make yourself comfortable.”
My lips turn up in a content smile as my eyes roam around the room. The office is small, but not suffocating. I have a
breathtaking view of the Dallas skyline; the iconic Reunion Tower looks like it's within an arm’s reach away. I’m instantly in
love with the natural light pouring in through the expansive windows, meaning I’ll rarely have to use the fluorescent, overhead
lights that make me feel like I’m at the hospital.
Ugh, just the thought gives me a headache.
“I love it,” I whisper, more to myself.
“Wonderful,” she beams. “And right behind you is Elliot’s office,” she points towards the mahogany door.
“You will be the first point of contact for all of his in-person meetings, as well as the first person to speak with any guests
who stop by and ask for him,” she adds. “But you probably already know that from the job description.”
“Yup,” I nod. “Skylar also discussed the job duties in detail with me over the phone.”
 “Perfect. Skylar’s the best,” she praises before lowering her voice to a whisper.
“Hopefully she prepared you for Elliot,” she says under her breath. “He can be a grump. Oh, and he likes everything
perfect. So if you ever have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me first.”
From what I’ve gathered, my new boss is an arrogant, control freak. This is going to be fun.
“Thankfully, Skylar warned me,” I chuckle. “I think I can handle him,” I wink playfully. “But I’ll definitely let you know if I
have any questions. Thank you.”
“Of course,” she smiles.
Evie looks through the open door before taking a step closer to me and speaking in a hushed tone.
“Just between me and you…Elliot is rather handsome, and he knows it,” she whispers. “Truth be told, I think that’s where
some of his arrogance comes from,” she chuckles lowly.
“Anyways,” she continues, “I saw him arrive this morning and noticed that he shaved for the first time in weeks. So maybe
he’s in a good mood today.”
On top of him being an asshole, he’s a self-centered asshole. This just keeps getting better the minute.
Unfortunately for him, I don’t mesh well with narcissists.
“He sounds lovely,” I reply sarcastically, arching a brow.
She laughs and shakes her head.
“Like I said, I’m always here if you need to vent,” she repeats. “Us girls have to stick together.”
I smile, happy to have met Evie on my first day. I can already tell that we’re going to be fast friends. I’ve only known her
for a few hours, but it’s easy to gather that she’s the type of person who will have your back. One of those ride-or-die friends
who will go out of their way to cheer you up when you're down.
“Thanks,” I reply as my lips tilt up with gratitude.
“Of course,” she chimes. “Alright, are you ready to meet him?”
No, not really.
“Sure,” I lie, pulling together a fake grin.
“Right this way, then.”
I follow closely behind Evie, my heart beating erratically. We take about ten steps until we’re standing in front of Elliot’s
door.
Butterflies flutter and flop through my stomach as we enter the room. Immediately, the strong scent of whiskey and leather
fills the air. It’s an odd combination, but I don’t hate it. If I’m being honest, it smells really damn good.
I try to keep my jaw from dropping as I take in the spacious office.
Holy shit. And I thought my office was nice…
The walls are completely made of glass, which is consistent with the rest of the building. Stainless steel panels separate the
windows with gray privacy curtains pulled only a foot down, allowing the sun to cast a golden hue across the modern office
space.
A sleek, flat-screen TV rests on one wall, and a transparent dry-erase board hangs on the opposite wall. Aside from that,
the space is completely vacant. There are no pictures, decorations, or even a plant.
Sitting in the middle of the office is an ebony desk, the dark wood looking freshly polished. The only items sitting on the
desk are a Mac computer, a keyboard and mouse, a fresh notepad, and two large hands.
God, those hands.
Thick veins run up the backs of his hands, leading to his long fingers that are clasped together tightly. A shiny Rolex is
wrapped around his wrist, hugging his tan skin.
“Hello, Mr. Thompson.” Evie breaks the silence, distracting me from my thoughts of his manly hands. “This is Roxy. I
wanted to show her to your office since it’s her first day.”
I’m not sure if it’s the elevation getting to me or if an actual earthquake just shook the ground because my world suddenly
shifts on its axis when his hazel eyes connect with mine.
Don’t get me wrong, it's no love at first sight bullshit, but Evie was not lying.
This man isn't just handsome, he’s fucking hot. Put him in an Armani suit and plaster him on the cover of a magazine kind of
hot.
His eyes are a canvas of green and amber, little specks of gold outlining his dark pupils. His perfect face is framed by high
cheekbones and a prominent jawline. Light freckles dust across his nose and cheekbones, similar to my own. My eyes drag
down to his lips, full and pillowy with a natural gloss like he has a habit of licking his lips.
My blood heats at the visual.
His short, honey-brown hair matches his eyes, the strands turning a mesmerizing gold when the light hits them just right.
A golden boy.
I think he might have invented the term because just the sight of him is brighter than the sun on a summer day.
I can tell that he’s tall by the way his long arms are folded across the desk and the sight of his polished shoes peeking
through the bottom. His tailored, navy suit fits him perfectly, acting like a glove to showcase his lean muscles and long limbs.
“I’m sorry,” his deep, velvety voice cuts through the tension-filled air. “Who are you? An intern or something?”
An intern? What the hell?
All the butterflies suddenly leave my stomach, flying away and leaving me stranded alone.
He furrows his brows, staring at me like I’m an unidentified creature and not a human being.
I narrow my eyes at him before turning to search for Evie, only to find that she’s gone.
Dammit, Evie.
A few minutes ago I was referring to her as a ride-or-die friend and now, she’s gone. She just dipped out, leaving me in the
Wild West with this beautiful man who’s staring at me like he’s contemplating calling security to come and take me away.
I straighten my shoulders, standing tall as I clear my throat.
“My name is Roxy, I’m your new assistant–”
He shakes his head furiously before rudely interrupting me.
“No…No, no, no,” he panics. “There must be a mistake.”
He looks…terrified, like the mere sight of me is causing him emotional and physical distress.
He stands from his chair, running a trembling hand through his hair before pulling a sheet of paper from the desk drawer.
He immediately starts reading, deep in thought as he drags his pointer finger across the fine print. His eyes light up as he
clicks his tongue and brings his golden gaze back to me.
“Ah,” he says, pointing to something on the sheet. “See, I’m looking for Roxanne. Roxanne Taylor,” he clarifies. His voice
comes out rushed and frantic.
What the hell is wrong with this dude? Did Evie bring me to the right office?
He turns the paper towards me, as if I can read the microscopic print from where I stand across his desk.
I lift my gaze, staring at him like he’s an absolute lunatic because he’s acting like one.
“I am Roxanne Taylor. But I go by Roxy,” I say firmly, holding his intimidating stare.
He opens and closes his mouth, his eyes darting between mine like he’s at a complete loss for words. Stifling tension
grows between us as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pacing back and forth behind his desk.
Jesus Christ. Somebody give this man a Xanax.
“I uh…I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I say sarcastically, breaking the awkward silence.
He stops pacing at the sound of my voice, making my heart do a little somersault.
Get it together, Roxy. This man is clearly a freak. A handsome one at that, but he’s still off his rocker.
He places his hands on his hips, gathering himself as he closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. He shakes his head,
staring blankly out of the floor-to-ceiling windows as he chews on his bottom lip.
God, I wish those lips didn't look so pillowy and soft. They are rudely distracting.
“Look,” he exhales, slowly dragging his eyes back to me. A hint of regret flickers in his gaze. “I’m sorry. I just…I wasn't
expecting…you.”
I furrow my brows, completely offended by his comment. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is my presence that
disturbing to him?
“Well, this definitely wasn't the warm welcome I was expecting either,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.
He narrows his eyes before stepping around the desk and swiping his badge from the polished wood. His long legs stride
towards the door, his nostrils flaring as his steps halt less than a foot away from me.
I quickly realize that the distinctive smell of whiskey and leather is coming solely from him. A heavenly aroma that I wish
I’d never discovered, coming from a man that I wish I’d never met.
Christ. He’s even more beautiful up close, and I hate him for that.
He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his hazel eyes roam down my body. It’s as if I can physically feel his
stare branding me with searing warmth. He’s so close that I can see his pulse fluttering beneath the tan skin of his neck, picking
up speed when he realizes that he’s staring.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he rasps. “I have something I need to take care of. Please ask Evie to show you around the office
while I’m gone. I’ll be back shortly.”
Before I have a chance to respond, he exits the room in a flash, leaving me standing alone in his barren office. My heart
drops to the pit of my stomach, solidifying that I should have never accepted this job.
 FIVE

Elliot

Fuck.
Fucking hell.
Fuck me straight to hell.
There is no way that Skylar hired that twenty-something, bombshell of a woman as my assistant. Aren't admins supposed to
be in their fifties with names like Gertrude and Beatrice?
Not Roxanne fucking Taylor.
God, even her name has all the blood in my body rushing south.
Dammit, why didn't I take Skylar’s advice and interview her first? This problem could have been taken care of weeks ago.
Skylar hired her to get back at me, I just know it. She’s probably in her office with a stupid grin stretched across her face as she
waits for me to barge in.
I could have never been prepared for the woman who walked into my office less than five minutes ago.
It’s rare for me to admit this, but Roxanne Taylor has got to be one of the most gorgeous, breathtaking women I have ever
laid eyes on. My breathing stopped at the sight of her smooth legs and four-inch heels striding into my office. The form-fitting,
black dress she’s wearing hugs her petite body in a way that should be against company policy. Her outfit is the biggest cock-
tease of my entire life, with her plump tits and round ass on full display beneath the dark material.
And her face. My God, don’t even get me started on her face.
Her piercing eyes are like a sea of emeralds hooded by dark lashes. Her cheeks and nose are dotted with delicate freckles,
standing out like glitter against her perfect skin. Beneath her button nose are the most seductive, heart-shaped lips I have ever
laid eyes on. And of course, they’re coated in red lipstick, which would bring any man to his knees.
Her inky-black hair resembles silk, tumbling in soft waves around her shoulders and down her back, darker than ocean
waves beneath the midnight sky. I wonder how it would feel to run my fingers through those satiny locks.
Christ. What the hell did my barista put in my coffee this morning?
Darker than ocean waves beneath the midnight sky?
I don’t think about women poetically. Hell, I didn’t even think about my ex-fiancée like that.
For the first time in a long time, I feel my control being pushed outside the bounds of my comfort zone.
I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like it one bit.
Fuck, I am so fucked. I need to get this handled immediately.
There is no way in hell that I can work with her for eight hours a day. I’m the busiest I’ve ever been, and she’ll be nothing
but a distraction.
The elevator dings loudly, pulling me from my thoughts as I step out onto the Human Resources floor of the building. My
heart pounds against the confines of my chest as I speed walk through the maze of cubicles, avoiding shocked stares as I head
straight for Skylar’s office.
I have a bone to pick with her, and it's not going to be pretty.
I don’t knock when I make it to her office. Instead, I barge right in and slam the door behind me. And just like I suspected,
she’s lounging back in her leather chair with a shit-eating grin painted across her face.
“Rough morning?” she smirks, folding her arms across her chest and tapping her manicured fingers against her shoulder.
“What the fuck, Skylar?” I fume, nostrils flaring as I clench my jaw.
“I don’t understand,” she says in a sarcastic tone. “What’s going on?”
Don’t play dumb with me. I don’t have time for this bullshit.
 “You know exactly what’s going on,” I sneer.
“Actually, I don’t,” she shakes her head. “Care to enlighten me as to why you just stormed into my office unannounced?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I scoff, tossing my hands up in the air. “Maybe because you hired Megan Fox’s doppelganger as my
fucking assistant?”
She slaps a hand over her mouth to hide her chuckle.
“So that’s what this is about?” she asks, barely able to contain her laughter and remain professional.
“Of course that’s what this is about,” I thunder, raising my voice. “She’s the kind of girl who belongs on a New York
runway, not a fucking finance office. What were you thinking, Skylar?”
She arches a brow like I’ve insulted her.
“I was thinking that she has a degree and experience. She’s more than qualified for the job. It’s not my problem that you
can’t trust yourself enough to keep your dick in your pants.”
Her face slightly falls as any hint of amusement leaves her tone. We both know that comment was meant to be a jab. I can’t
argue with her because she’s right.
I hurt her in the worst way, damaging her trust so effortlessly. I cheated on her without thinking twice about the
consequences. I did it because I was lonely. Even though I was engaged to an amazing woman who cared for me deeply, I still
felt empty. God, Skylar tried so hard to make us work, and I pushed her away every chance I could.
Even though she’s head over heels for my brother, I can see it in her eyes that she still wonders. She still wants an
answer… An answer that will never satisfy her.
I fucked a woman who wasn't my fiancée because it temporarily filled the hollow pit in my stomach that no one human
being can fill. I did it to save her from me. No one deserves a life with someone like me. How can I fully allow myself to love
someone when I fucking hate myself?
It’s as if Skylar wants a different answer. Not because she mourns our relationship but because she thinks there’s still hope
for me. Just like everyone else in my life, she thinks I can still find happiness, which is a complete and utter joke.
I swallow down the lump in my throat, deciding to ignore her comment. We’ve already had this conversation a million
times, and the answer is always the same: I’m a selfish asshole. End of story.
“I need you to figure this out,” I hiss.
“Excuse me?” she narrows her eyes to little slits.
“Move her to a different department or fire her,” I snap. “I don’t care what you do, but she’s not working for me,” I add,
shaking my head furiously.
“Yes, she is, Elliot,” she retorts. “You had the chance to interview Roxy before we extended the offer, and you declined. So
ultimately, this is on you. If you want to be pissed at someone, then go take a look in the mirror.”
I briefly close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath as I run a hand through my hair.
“Skylar, I am begging you,” I plead. “Please just move her to a different manager. I’m sure at least a hundred other
employees are requesting an assistant right now.”
She scrunches her brows together, staring at me like I’m out of my mind.
“Do you hear yourself right now?” Skylar says in disgust. “You sound like such a pig. You want me to transfer her to a
different department on her first day because she’s pretty? This isn't the fifth grade, Elliot. Grow up.”
Pretty. That’s comical.
“She’s more just than pretty, and you know that,” I say through gritted teeth. “She’s fucking sex on legs. You did this because
you knew it would get under my skin, and that’s fucked up, Skylar.”
She leans back like she’s been stabbed.
“Actually, me hiring Roxy has nothing to do with her looks. As an HR professional, it’s against everything I do to hire
people based on their physical appearance,” she clarifies. “But you know what did encourage me to hire her? Her attitude and
personality. I hired her because she’s smart, independent, and isn't going to put up with your shit.”
No, no, no.
What Skylar doesn't understand is that I need an admin who’s going to put up with my shit. I don’t have time for anything
else. I need someone who’s going to do as I say, not ask questions or give me any pushback. Isn't that the whole point of having
an assistant? To make your job easier?
“Move her, Skylar,” I demand.
“No,” she clips, holding my stare.
Dammit. She’s not going to budge.
“Fine, then I’ll do it myself,” I growl. “I guess I’ll have to fire her because you simply can’t transfer her to a new manager.”
Skylar's brows shoot up as she lets out a sarcastic chuckle.
“You do that, and you’ll be fired immediately,” she says sharply. “That’s discrimination, buddy. And good luck finding
another job in the corporate world after getting fired for discrimination.”
A beat of silence passes as my brain runs wild, trying like hell to come up with a solution.
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declined going into the house, and took our books under the trees
just across the way. A shower came up, and as we ran for shelter,
we saw our carriage unprotected; no man was to be seen, so we
drew it into an open shed, and there stayed until the sun shone
again.
We went through Franklin and Boscawen to Fisherville, where we
saw a pleasant-looking hotel. We had driven twenty-six miles, and
thought best to stop there. We were hungry and our supper was fit
for a king. We went to bed in Fisherville, but got up in Contoocook,
we were told. What’s in a name? A five-miles’ drive after breakfast
brought us to Concord, where we passed several hours very
delightfully with friends. In the afternoon, despite remonstrances and
threatening showers, we started for Goffstown over Dunbarton hills.
We remembered that drive very well; but the peculiar cloud phases
made all new, and disclosed the Green Mountains in the sunlight
beyond the clouds like a vision of the heavenly city. We left the
carriage once, ran to the top of a knoll and mounted a stone wall.
The view was enchanting, but in the midst of our rapture great drops
of rain began to fall, and we were back in our carriage, the boot up
and waterproofs unstrapped just in time for a brisk shower. As we
passed an aged native, radiant in brass buttons, we asked him some
questions about the mountains, but he knew nothing of them, which
reminded us of the reply a woman made whom a friend asked if
those distant peaks were the White Mountains. “I don’t know; I
haven’t seen nothin’ of ’em since I’ve been here.”
Shower followed shower, and we decided to spend the night in
Dunbarton. A few houses, a church, a little common, and a hotel
labeled “Printing Office,” seemed to comprise the town, but there
must be something more somewhere, judging from The Snowflake
given us, which was the brightest local paper we ever saw, and our
landlord was editor. We went through his printing establishment with
much interest. We saw no hotel register, but as we were leaving, the
landlady came with a slip of paper and a pencil, and asked us to
write our names. After our return home we received copies of The
Snowflake containing an item, every statement of which was actually
correct, and yet we were entirely unconscious of having been
“interviewed” as to our travels.
It is said thirty-seven towns can be seen from Dunbarton; and our
own Wachusett, Ascutney in Vermont and Moosilauke in New
Hampshire were easily distinguished. We fortified ourselves with the
fresh air and pleasant memories of the heights; then asked
directions for Shirley Hill and the “Devil’s Pulpit,” in Bedford, near
Goffstown, having replenished our lunch basket, and Charlie’s also,
for there was no provision for Christian travelers near that sanctuary.
Shirley Hill commands a very pretty view of Manchester; and of the
“Pulpit” some one has said, “That of all wild, weird spots consecrated
to his majesty, perhaps none offer bolder outlines for the pencil of a
Dore than this rocky chasm, the ‘Devil’s Pulpit’. No famous locality
among the White Mountains offers a sight so original, grand and
impressive as this rocky shrine.” And then the writer describes in
detail the stone pulpit, the devil’s chamber, the rickety stairs, the
bottomless wells, the huge wash-basin and a punch bowl, lined with
soft green moss, and the separate apartments with rocky, grotesque
walls and carpets of twisting and writhing roots of trees. An
enterprising farmer has cut a rough road to this wonderful spot, a
half-mile from the highway, and by paying twenty-five cents toll we
were admitted “beyond the gates” and saw no living person until our
return. The same enterprise that built the road had left its mark at the
“Pulpit.” Cribs for horses were placed between trees, and a large crib
in the shape of a rough house, with tables and benches, served as a
dining-room for visitors. Every stick and stone was labeled with as
much care and precision as the bottles in a drug store, and there
was no doubt which was the “Devil’s Pulpit” and which the “Lovers’
Retreat.” It was a fearfully hot place, but that did not surprise us, for
we naturally expect heat and discomfort in the precincts of his
majesty. We unharnessed Charlie, and after exploring the gorge
thoroughly and emptying our lunch basket, we sat in the carriage
and read until we were so nearly dissolved by the heat that we
feared losing our identity, and made preparations to leave. It was an
assurance that we had returned to this world when the gate keeper
directed us to Milford and said we would go by the house where
Horace Greeley was born. He pointed out the house and we thought
we saw it; but as we did not agree afterward, we simply say we have
passed the birthplace of Horace Greeley.
It was nearly dark when we got to Milford, and we rather dreaded the
night at that old hotel, where we had been twice before. The exterior
was as unattractive as ever, but we were happily surprised to find
wonderful transformation going on inside, and we recognized in the
new proprietor one of the little boys we used to play with in our early
school days. We were very hospitably received and entertained, and
the tempting viands, so well served in the new, cheery dining-room,
were worthy of any first-class hotel. Our horse was well groomed,
carriage shining like new, and the only return permitted—hearty
thanks.
“There is no place like home,” and yet it is with a little regret that we
start on our last day’s drive. A never-ending carriage journey might
become wearisome, but we have never had one long enough to
satisfy us yet. As we drove through Brookline and crossed the
invisible State line to Townsend, then to Fitchburg and Leominster,
we summed up all the good things of our three week’s wanderings
and concluded nothing was lacking. Perfect health, fine weather and
three hundred and fifty miles’ driving among the hills! What more
could we ask? Oh! we forgot Charlie’s days of affliction! But
experiences add to the interest when all is over.
 CHAPTER V.
CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW JERSEY.
Early in the afternoon of one of the hottest days in August, Charlie
and our cosy phaeton stood at the door waiting for us, and we had
with us our bags, wraps, umbrellas, books, the lunch basket, and
never-used weapon. “A place for everything and everything in its
place,” is verified in that phaeton, and in little time all were stowed
away, and we were off on our thirteenth annual drive.
We had expected that our drive must be omitted this year, and so
suddenly did we decide to go, that, to save trying to plan, we turned
towards Barre, where we spent the first night of our first journey,
thirteen years ago. It proved a pleasant beginning, for when we got
up among the hills of Princeton the air was cool and refreshing. We
drove very leisurely, and it was quite dark when we found our way to
the hotel.
After supper we began our geography lesson for the morrow. We
had two questions to answer—“Shall we drive on towards the
western part of the state, and visit some of the lovely spots among
the Berkshire Hills, which we did not see when we drove there some
summers ago?” or, “Shall we take a new direction, and turn
southward?” After much deliberation, for Berkshire is like a magnet,
we decided to gratify the friends who are always asking why we have
never driven into Connecticut.
Our lesson having been disposed of, we slept soundly and awoke
reconciled to a wandering in Connecticut, only we wished we knew
the places of interest or had some reason for going to one place
rather than another. The wish was soon gratified by a friend we met
before leaving Barre, who spoke very enthusiastically of Tolland, as
she recalled a visit there many years ago. This was enough for us;
we had a connecting link with somebody, and took direction
accordingly.
We rested Charlie at Ware, after our morning drive. We remembered
the pleasant driving in this vicinity, but towards Palmer it was new to
us. The thunder was muttering all the afternoon, and it was our good
fortune to find ourselves in a comfortable hotel at Palmer an hour
earlier than we usually stop, for we had only reached our room when
the rain fell in sheets, and the lightning flashed at random.
Palmer is so associated with the Boston and Albany railroad, that it
seemed as if only the spirit of opposition could prompt us to take a
short cut to Hartford without paying our respects to Springfield; but
we declare independence of railroads when we have our phaeton,
and as we “did” Springfield so thoroughly a few years ago, we did
not diverge, but aimed straight for Connecticut.
The morning was bright and fresh after the shower, and we left
Palmer early, with a little book sounding the praises of Connecticut,
handed us by the clerk, which proved quite useful. We drove on
through Monson, but before we got to Stafford Springs, where we
intended to stop, we came to a place too tempting to be passed by—
such a pretty rocky hillside, with inviting nooks under the trees, and a
barn just opposite, where very likely Charlie could be cared for.
“Oh, yes!” a woman said, when we asked her. “Leave your horse tied
there, and——will take care of him when he comes to dinner.” The
rocky hillside was also granted us, and we took our wraps and lunch
basket and prepared for a two-hours’ rest.
The time passed only too quickly, and on we drove, but saw no place
in Stafford Springs that made us regret our pretty camp; the time for
repentance had not come. “Seven miles to Tolland,” we were told,
and if we remember aright it was up hill all the way. Why have we
always heard people say “down” to Connecticut? Seriously, that is
one reason we never drove there before. “Up” to New Hampshire
and Vermont sounds so much cooler and nicer. We wondered then,
and the farther we drove the more we wondered, until one day we
spoke of it, and a man said—“Why, did you come to Connecticut
expecting to find anything but hills?”
We like hills, and were very glad to find it was “up” to Tolland. When
we entered its one broad street, on a sort of plateau, and saw all
Tolland at a glance, we exclaimed, “Just the place we want for
Sunday!” And when we were cosily fixed in a corner parlor bedroom
on the first floor of a hotel, something like the old “Camperdown” on
Lake Memphremagog, we were confirmed in our first impression,
and felt perfectly happy. Comfort and an abundance of good things
was the aim of the kindly proprietor. We sat at the supper table,
happy in thinking all was well, perhaps, unconsciously rejoicing; for it
was just at this stage of our journey last year that Charlie became so
lame, not from rheumatism, strained cords, etc., as they said, but
from sand under his shoe. That was our first unpleasant experience,
and a second was at hand; for as we came from the dining-room, a
man was waiting to tell us our horse was very sick. We hurried to the
stable yard, where he lay in great distress, refusing to stand up.
What could have happened to him? Surely, that generous farmer at
whose place we “camped” must have over-fed him when he was
warm. Now we repented in good earnest, but little good that did
Charlie. The proprietor was as thoughtful of our horse as of us, and
sent a man to walk him about. We followed on and pitied him as he
was kept moving, despite every effort he made to drop upon the
green grass. After a time he seemed a little better, and the man took
him back to the stable. We could not feel easy and went to see him
again, and finally took him ourselves and led him up and down
Tolland street for an hour or more (we could not have done that in
Springfield), answering many inquiries from the people we met. By-
and-by he began to steal nibbles at the grass and to give evidence of
feeling better, and when we took him back to his stall we were
assured he would be all right in the morning.
We arose early, for Sunday, for we could not wait to know if he was
well again. His call as we entered the stable told us our second
disagreeable experience was at an end. Now we began the day;
read, breakfasted, went to the little church around the corner, wrote
letters, walked and enjoyed every hour in that restful place, where it
is said no one locks the doors, for thieves do not break through nor
steal there. Perhaps it is because of the peculiarly moral atmosphere
that the county jail is located there. At any rate, even the man who
was hostler during the day and convict at night won our kindly
remembrance.
Monday morning, bright and early, we started for Hartford. Of course
there are many things of interest between Tolland and Hartford, but
they belong to every traveler, and we are only telling our own
experience. We asked at a hotel in Hartford if we could have our
horse cared for there, and were told we could by taking him around
to the stable; so we “took him round.” We then took a walk, instead
of stopping at the hotel as we had intended. After our walk we
thought we would call on a friend visiting in the city, but it occurred to
us that we were hardly presentable, for our dusters were not fresh,
and we could not take them off, for then the revolver would show,
and we had no place to leave them unless we “took them round” to
the stable, too. This matter settled, we wandered about again, and
followed some people into what we thought might be a church
service, to find ourselves at an art exhibition. Next we spied a park,
and strolling through we came to the new capitol building, which we
examined from top to bottom.
Somebody we had met somewhere had suggested our spending a
night at New Britain, which was just enough off the main route to
New Haven to send us on a wrong turn now and then. Our attention
was held that afternoon in turn by pretty scenery, chickens, wrong
roads and crows. The last-mentioned were having a regular “drill.”
We saw in the distance a hill, black—as we thought—with burnt
stumps; but soon a section of these stumps was lifted into mid-air,
and it was not until this had been repeated several times that we
could realize that the entire hill was alive with crows. At regular
intervals, and in the most systematic order, section after section
sailed aloft as one bird, each section taking the same course—first
towards the north, then with a graceful turn stretching in line towards
the south, at a certain point wheeling about to the north again, and
gradually mounting higher and higher until lost to sight in the
distance.
There was no such systematic order observed in the “best” room,
which was given us at a hotel in New Britain, and after such a lesson
from the crows we could not forbear making a few changes, so that
the pretty, old-fashioned desk should not interfere with the wardrobe
door, and the bureau and wash-stand should not quarrel for a place
only large enough for one of them, when vacant places were
pleading for an occupant. Our supper was good, and our room had
quite a “best” look after its re-arrangement. It rained all night, and we
waited awhile in the morning thinking it would clear away “before
eleven,” but there was seemingly no end to the clearing-up showers,
and we had to brave it. We do not mind rain, usually, but we were not
accustomed to the red mud, and it did not seem so clean as our
home mud. We had driven thirty miles the day before, and twenty-
eight more were between us and New Haven. We were at last on our
way with “sides on and boot up,” and a constantly increasing quantity
of red mud attaching itself to the phaeton. We stopped at Meriden
two hours, and were very courteously received at a hotel there. The
afternoon was bright and sunny, and the drive of eighteen miles very
delightful. We entered New Haven by State street just at dusk with
our terra-cotta equipage, and drove direct to the post office, so sure
of letters that, when we found there were none, we hardly knew what
to do next. While waiting for letters, and for Charlie to rest, we
decided to take a peep at New York. The best of care was promised
for Charlie at a hotel, our letters were to be brought to the house,
and bags and wraps were locked up safely.
About nine o’clock we went to the boat, which was to leave at
midnight. The evening passed pleasantly, and we did not fully realize
the undesirable location of the best stateroom we could get until we
were under way, when the fog horn sounded directly before our
window, and the heat from the boiler, which we could almost touch,
increased too much for comfort the temperature of an August night.
Sleep was impossible, and we amused ourselves by counting
between the fog alarms and opening the window to let in fresh
instalments of “boiling air.” The intervals lengthened, and finally,
when we had counted four hundred and heard no fog horn, we
looked out to find it was bright starlight, and returned to our berths
for a brief nap.
We landed at Pier 25, East River, just as the electric lights on
Brooklyn Bridge were disappearing like stars in the sunlight. At
seven we breakfasted on board the boat, and as we proposed
spending the day with a friend thirty miles out in New Jersey, our
next move was to find our way to Liberty street, North River. We did
not need a carriage, and might never get there if we attempted to go
by cars, so we concluded a morning walk would do us good. We
crossed the ferry to Jersey City, and were entertained by a company
of men “drilling,” and a company of young men and maidens dressed
up in their best for an excursion somewhere, until the nine o’clock
train was announced. An hour or more took us to Plainfield, where
the day was given up to visiting in good earnest. We enjoyed it all so
much that we were easily persuaded to spend the night.
At ten o’clock next morning we took the train for New York, where we
made a call, did a little shopping, walked over Brooklyn Bridge, and
spent the night with friends in the city. It rained the next day, and as
there was nothing to do we did nothing, and enjoyed it all the
morning. After luncheon we found our way to the boat again, and at
three o’clock were off for New Haven. It was a pleasant sail, in spite
of the showers, and we sat on deck all the way, enjoying everything,
and wondering how many letters we should have, and if Charlie was
all right. We were due at New Haven at eight o’clock in the evening,
and before nine we were at the hotel and had fled to our room,
wondering what it meant by our receiving no letters.
We requested everything to be in readiness for us directly after
breakfast next morning—Charlie shod, the terra-cotta covering
removed from our phaeton, axles oiled, etc. We lost no time on our
way to the post office. As we gave our names slowly and distinctly at
the delivery box, that no mistake might be made, out came the
letters—one, two, three, four—one remailed from Hartford. As the
young man handed out the last, he said, “Please have your mail
directed to street and number after this.” “We have no street and
number, sir, we are tramps,” we replied. “Why was not our mail put
into the hotel box?” No satisfactory explanation was offered, but
when we got to the carriage and looked over our letters, none was
needed. Evidently they had not stayed in the office long enough to
get into anybody’s box. They had traveled from pillar to post, had
been opened and reopened, and scribbled over and over in an effort
to find an owner for them.
All was well when our letters were written, so we had only to decide
on the pleasantest route homeward. A friend in New York wished us
to visit Old Lyme, which was made so interesting in Harper’s a year
or two ago. This was directly in our course if we followed the advice
to go to New London before turning north. Charlie was at his best,
and we drove thirty miles through towns and villages along the coast,
stopping two hours at Guilford, and spending the night at Westbrook,
a “sort of Rumney,” our diary record says, only on the coast instead
of up among the mountains. The recollection uppermost in our mind
is, that everybody’s blinds were closed, which gave a gloomy look to
every town we passed through that day.
We felt a little constrained in Connecticut on Sundays, and thought
we should stay in Westbrook quietly until Monday morning; but after
breakfast, which we shared with the apparently very happy family,
the father asked if he should “hitch up” for us. We said not then, but
as it was so pleasant perhaps we might drive on a few miles in the
afternoon. He told us we should have to “ferry” the Connecticut at
Saybrook, but he “guessed our horse wouldn’t mind.” Our old black
Charlie was never happier than when crossing the Connecticut
without any effort on his part; but this Charlie has entirely different
ideas, and if we had known we could not cross by bridge as we did
at Hartford we should have deferred Old Lyme until another time. But
it was too late now, and we would not mar our lovely afternoon drive
by anticipating trouble. Rivers have to be crossed; and we
philosophically concluded “Do not cross a bridge until you get to it” is
equally applicable to a ferry. Five miles lay between us and the
Connecticut River, and we gave ourselves up to quiet enjoyment as
if ferries were unknown, until we reached Saybrook, when we had to
inquire the way. A few twists and turns brought us to the steep pitch
which led to the river, and at first sight of the old scow, with big
flapping sail, Charlie’s ears told us what he thought about it. With
some coaxing he went down the pitch, but at the foot were fishing
nets hung up on a frame, and he persistently refused to go farther.
We were yet a little distance from the shore, and the scow was still
farther away at the end of a sort of pier built out into the river. We got
out and tried to comfort Charlie, who was already much frightened;
and yet this was nothing to what was before him. What should we
do? If it had not been Sunday, there might have been other horses to
cross, and he will follow where he will not go alone. But it was
Sunday, and no one was in sight but the man and boy on the scow,
and a man sufficiently interested in us to hang over a rail on the
embankment above watching us very closely. Perhaps he thought it
was wicked to help people on Sunday. At any rate, he did not offer,
and we did not ask, assistance. One of us took Charlie by the bit,
and trusted he would amuse himself dancing, while the other ran
ahead to the scow to see what could be done. The small boy and
barefooted old man did not look very encouraging, but we still had
faith there was a way to cross rivers that must be crossed. We told
our dilemma, and said, “What will you do with him?”
“Oh! he’ll come along; we never have any trouble.”
“No,” we said, “he won’t come along, and we shall be upset in the
river if we attempt driving him on this pier.”
We walked back towards the carriage, the old man saying, “I get all
sorts of horses across, and can this one if he don’t pull back. If he
does, of course I can’t do anything with him.”
This was small comfort, for we knew that that was just what he would
do. We asked about unharnessing him, but the old man objected.
We knew Charlie too well, however, and did not care to see our
phaeton and contents rolling over into the river. Our courage waning
a little at this point, we asked how far we should have to go to find a
bridge. “Oh, clear to Hartford! sixty miles!” When Charlie was
unharnessed, the old man took him by the bit, and said to one of us,
“Now you take the whip, and if he pulls back, strike him. Boy, you
take the carriage.” This was simply impossible without help. It was a
grand chance for our one spectator, but without doubt he believed in
woman’s right to push if not to vote, so we pushed, and a good push
it had to be, too. We did not envy those bare feet so near Charlie’s
uncertain steps, but the constant tingling of the whip so diverted him,
and warned him of a heavier stroke if he diverged from his straight
and narrow way, that he kept his head turned that side, and before
he knew it he was on the scow and had never seen the flapping sail.
His head was then tied with a rope. The phaeton followed with more
difficulty, but less anxiety. When that was secured, our voyage
began, and it seemed never-ending; for in spite of all the caressing
and comforting assurances, Charlie placed his fore legs close
together and trembled just like a leaf as the little sailboats flitted
before his eyes. Then came the “chug” into the sand as we landed. A
kindly old man left his horse to help us harness, and five minutes
after we were off, Charlie was foamy white, and looked as if he had
swum the Atlantic.
We did not find the hotel at Old Lyme attractive, and had plenty of
time to drive farther; but, after all the trouble we had taken to get to
the place, we did not leave it without taking a look at the quaint old
town, its rocky pastures and cosy nooks so lovely in illustrated
magazines.
“Yes,” we said, “this is pretty; but, after all, where is the spot to be
found that cannot be made interesting by the ready pen and
sketching pencil of one who has eyes to see all there is to see in this
lovely world?”
Nothing could be more delightful than the crooked ten miles from Old
Lyme to Niantic. If you look at the map, and see all the little bays that
make the coast so rugged, you can imagine how we twisted about to
follow what is called the shore road. We say “called,” for most of the
shore and river roads we have ever driven over from Connecticut to
Canada are out of sight of water. A few glorious exceptions come to
mind, like the four miles on the border of Willoughby Lake in
Vermont, the Broad Brook drive near Brattleboro and seven miles by
Newfound Lake in New Hampshire. It was up and down, and now
when “up” we could catch a glimpse of the Sound dotted over with
white sails, and when “down” we found such flower-fields as would
rival the boldest attempts at fancy gardening—the cardinal flower,
golden-rod, white everlasting and blue daisies in richest profusion.
We met the family wagons jogging along home from church, and the
young men and maidens were taking the “short cut” along the well-
worn footpath over the hills, with their books in hand, that lovely
Sunday afternoon; but where the church or homes could be we
wondered, for we saw neither. We knew nothing of Niantic, and were
surprised to find it quite a little seaside resort. It was early evening,
and it was very pleasant to have brilliantly lighted hotels in place of
the dark woody hollows we had been through the last half-hour. We
drove to the end of the street, passing all the hotels, and then
returned to the first one we saw, as the most desirable for us. It was
located close by the water, and our window overlooked the Sound.
Uniformed men were all about, and we soon learned that it was the
foreshadowing of muster. We slept well with the salt breezes blowing
upon us, and after breakfast we followed the rest of the people to the
garden which separated the house from the railroad station, and for
a half-hour sat on a fence, surrounded by tall sunflowers, to see the
infantry and cavalry as they emerged from the cars. “Quite
aesthetic,” one of the boys in blue remarked. We do not go to
muster, but as muster came to us we made the most of it, and
watched with interest the mounted men of authority as they gave
their orders to the men, who looked as if they would like to change
places with them and prance about, instead of doing the drudgery.
The morning hours were too precious for driving to be spent among
sunflowers and soldiers, and we got down from the fence and went
in search of the landlord. He gave us directions for getting to New
London when everything was ready, and we found that what we
thought was the end of the street was the beginning of our way, and
a queer way it was, too. No wonder we were asked if our horse was
afraid of the cars, for apparently the railroad was the only highway,
as the water came up quite close on either side. “Surely this must be
wrong,” we said; “there is no road here.” Although we had been told
to follow the railroad, we did not propose to drive into the ocean,
unless it was the thing to do. We turned off to the left but were sent
back by a woman who looked as if we knew little if we did not know
that was the only way to New London. Not satisfied, we stopped a
man. “Yes, that is the way,” he said. “But it looks as if we should
drive right into the ocean.” “I know it,” he replied, “and it will look
more so as you go on, and if the tide was in you would.” Luckily for
us the tide was not in, for even then the space was so small between
the water and the railroad that Charlie needed as much diversion
with the whip as in ferrying the Connecticut. Next came a little
bridge, and as we paid the toll, which was larger than the bridge, we
asked if it was for keeping the road we had just come over in repair.
“Yes, it is washed twice a day.” We asked if the ocean got the fees,
and drove on.
It was only six miles to New London, and it was too early to stop
there for dinner, and it would be too late to wait until we got to
Norwich; so, after driving about the principal streets for a half-hour,
we filled our lunch basket and got some oats, trusting to find a place
to “camp.” Just at the right time to halt we came to a village church
on a little hill, all by itself, and we took possession of the “grounds,”
put Charlie into one of the sheds, taking refuge ourselves in the
shadow of a stone wall. We hung our shawls over the wall, for the
wind blew cool through the chinks, spread the blanket on the ground,
and gave ourselves up to comfort and books. The lofty ceiling of our
temporary parlor was tinted blue, and the spacious walls were
adorned with lovely pictures, for our little hill was higher than we
realized. We had taken the river road, and we knew that by rail from
New London to Norwich we followed the river very closely; but this
was, like most “river” roads, over the hills.
We reluctantly left our luxurious quarters and journeyed on to
Norwich. We had found on our map a town beyond Norwich which
we thought would serve us for the night; but when we inquired about
hotels there, people looked as if they had never heard of the place,
and in fact there was none by that name. We were advised to go to
Jewett City. After a little experience we learned that in many cases
towns on the map are but names, and if we wanted to find the places
where all business interests centred, we must look for a “city” or
“ville” in small italics touching the railroad. Niantic was an “italic”
resort. This lesson learned, we had no difficulty. The hotel at Jewett
City looked as if it would blow over, and if it had we think our room
would have landed on the railroad; but the breezes were gentle, and
we had a safe and restful night after our thirty-miles’ drive.
We were directed next morning via one “ville” to another “ville,” and
the delightful recollections of our “sky” parlor tempted us to try
camping again, and we got another bag of oats. We had not driven
far before we came to the largest lily pond we ever saw, and a
railroad ran right through it. It looked as if we could step down the
gravel bank and get all the lilies we wanted. We tied Charlie by the
roadside, and ran to the railroad bank to find they were just
provokingly beyond our reach. A company of men were working on
the road, and one said, “I would send one of my men to get you
some; but a train is due in ten minutes, and these rails must be laid.”
His kindly words softened our disappointment, and we went back to
the carriage. It seemed as if there was no end to the pond, and
surely there was an endless supply of lilies, but we knew that the
stray ones so close to the shore were only waiting to entice
somebody over shoes, and perhaps more, in water, and we passed
them by. We camped on a stone wall under a tree, a spot so
perfectly adapted to our convenience that it developed the heretofore
latent talent of our “special artist,” and a dainty little picture is ever
reminding us of our pleasant stay there. We spent the night at
Putnam, and as a matter of course, we went for oats just before
leaving, as if we had always traveled that way, instead of its being an
entirely new feature. A pine grove invited us this time, with a house
near by where we bought milk, and we stopped for a half-hour again
in the afternoon, by a bewitching little brook, and made ourselves
comfortable with our books among the rocks and ferns, for it was a
very hot day. Our drive that day took us through Webster and Oxford
and brought us to Millbury for the night. Our remembrance of that
night is not so pleasant as we could wish, and we are going again
some time to get a better impression.
The next day was one of the hottest of the season, and we availed
ourselves of the early morning to drive to North Grafton, where we
had a chatty visit with a friend. We dreaded to begin our last twenty-
five miles, for it would be so hard for Charlie in the heat. We delayed
as long as we dared, then braved it. We drove very leisurely to
Worcester, and made one or two calls, then took the old road over
the hill as we left the city towards home. We seemed to be above the
heat and dust, and had one of the most charming drives of our whole
journey. We are so familiar with the road that we did not mind
prolonging our drive into the evening, with a full moon to illumine our
way. The seven miles from Sterling to Leominster were so pleasant
we made them last as long as possible. The moon was unclouded
and it seemed almost as light as day; the air was soft and we did not
need the lightest wrap. We enjoyed just that perfect comfort one
dreads to have disturbed. But all things have an end, it is said, and
our pleasant journey ended about nine o’clock that evening, but it
was close on to the “wee sma’ hours” before the “doings” in our
absence were all talked over with the friends who welcomed us
home.
This story, written out in a week of Fridays, on the way to Symphony
Rehearsals, will assure you that a phaeton trip loses none of its
charms for us by many repetitions.
 CHAPTER VI.
DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD.
A Colorado friend recently sent us a paper with an interesting
account of “Two Women in a Buggy—How two Denver ladies drove
five hundred miles through the Rockies.” Now, “Two Ladies in a
Phaeton,” and “How they drove six hundred miles through, beyond
and around the White Mountains,” would be laid aside as hardly
worth reading, compared with the adventures of two women driving
through the “Rockies;” but, for actual experience, we think almost
everybody would prefer ours. We all like ease, comfort and smooth
ways, and yet disasters and discomfort have a wonderful charm
somehow in print. Our two weeks’ drive in Connecticut last year
seemed small to us, but we have been asked many times if it was
not the best journey we ever had, and as many times we have
discovered that the opinion was based on the hard time we had
crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the one unpleasant incident of the
whole trip. Now if we could tell you of hair-breadth escapes passing
“sixers and eighters” on the edge of precipices, and about sleeping
in a garret reached by a ladder, shared by a boy in a cot at that; or
better yet, how one day, when we were driving along on level ground
chatting pleasantly, we suddenly found ourselves in a “prayerful
attitude” and the horse disappearing with the forward wheels, the
humiliating result being that the buggy had to be taken to pieces, and
packed into a Norwegian’s wagon and we and it transported to the
next town for repairs—if we could tell you such things like the Denver
ladies, we should be sure you would not doubt our last was our best
journey. How we are to convince you of that fact, for fact it is, when
we did not even cross a ferry, is a puzzle.
Before we really begin our story we will tell you one or two notable
differences between the Denver tourists and ourselves. They took
their “best” bonnets and gowns, and such “bibbity bobbities” as “no
woman, even were she going to an uninhabited desert, would think
she could do without;” bedding and household utensils, too, so of
course had baggage strapped on the back of the buggy, and they
had a pail underneath, filled, “woman fashion, with everything, which
suffered in the overturns,” but, will you believe it, they had no
revolver! Were they to meet us, they would never suspect we were
fellow travelers, unless the slight “hump” under the blanket or duster
should give them an inkling that we had more “things” than were
essential for a morning’s drive. Helpless and innocent as we look we
could warrant “sure cure” to a horse whatever ill might befall him,
and we could “show fire” if necessary. The last need not have been
mentioned, however, for like the Denver tourists, we can testify that
we receive everywhere the “truest and kindest courtesy.”
You may remember that one of the peculiar features of our journeys
is that we never know where we are going, but last summer we
thought we would be like other people, and make plans. As a result
we assured our friends we were going straight to Mt. Washington via
the Crawford Notch, but, as Mr. Hale has a way of saying in his
stories, “we did not go there at all.” Why we did not fulfil so honest an
intention we will reveal to you later.
We started in good faith, Tuesday, July 7, driving along the familiar
way through Lunenburg and Townsend Harbor, crossing the invisible
State line as we entered Brookline, and spending the night, as we
have often done, at the little hotel in Milford, N. H., journeying next
day to Hooksett, via Amherst, Bedford and Manchester. Nothing
eventful occurred except the inauguration of our sketchbook, a thing
of peculiar interest to us, as neither of us knew anything of
sketching. The book itself is worthy of mention, as it is the only copy
we have ever seen. It has attractive form and binding, and is called
“Summer Gleanings.” There is a page for each day of the summer
months, with a charming, and so often apt, quotation under each
date. The pages are divided into three sections, one for “Jottings by
the Way,” one for a “Pencil Sketch,—not for exact imitation, but what
it suggests,” and a third for “Pressed Flowers.” As it was a gift, and
of no use but for the purpose for which it was intended, we decided it
must be taken along, although one said it would be “awfully in the
way.”
We enjoyed camping at noon by the roadside so much last summer,
when the hotels were scarce, that we planned to make that the rule
of this journey, and not the exception. We thought the hour after
luncheon, while Charlie was resting, would be just the time to try to
sketch. Our first “camp” was under a large tree, just before we
crossed into New Hampshire. We looked about for something to
sketch, and a few attempts convinced us that, being ignorant of even
the first rules of perspective, our subjects must be selected with
reference to our ability, regardless of our taste. We went to work on a
pair of bars—or a gate, rather—in the stone wall opposite. We were
quite elated with our success, and next undertook a shed. After this
feat, we gathered a few little white clovers, which we pressed in our
writing tablet, made a few comments in the “jotting” column, and the
“Summer Gleanings” began to mean something.
We cannot tell you all we enjoyed and experienced with that little
book. It was like opening the room which had “a hundred doors,
each opening into a room with another hundred,” especially at night,
when our brains, fascinated and yet weary with the great effort spent
on small accomplishment, and the finger nerves sensitive with
working over unruly stems and petals, we only increased a
thousandfold the pastime of the day by pressing whole fields of
flowers, and attempting such sketching as was never thought of
except in dreamland. A word or two about the quotations, then you
may imagine the rest. What could be more apt for the first day of our
journey than Shelley’s
“Away, away from men and towns
To the wild wood and the downs,”
or, as we came in sight of the “White Hills,” Whittier’s
“Once more, O mountains, unveil
Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”
and
 “O more than others blest is he
Who walks the earth with eyes to see,
Who finds the hieroglyphics clear
Which God has written everywhere,”

as we journey along the Connecticut. Especially apt were the lines

by Charles Cotton, when we had driven several miles out of our way
to spend Sunday in Rumney, because we remembered the place so
pleasantly:
“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!
Oh, how innocent our pleasure!
O ye valleys! O ye mountains!
O ye groves and crystal fountains!
How I love at liberty
By turns to come and visit ye!”
Once more, as we drove along the Saco—
“All, all, is beautiful.
What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
If you think we are writing up a book instead of a journey, let us tell
you that the book cannot be left out if the journey is to be truly
chronicled, for it was never out of mind, being constantly in sight, nor
was it any trouble. In this respect, too, we fared better than the
Denver ladies, for they were real artists, and never had any comfort
after the first day, for their “oils” would not dry, even when they
pinned them up around the buggy.
We should have been miserable if we had stayed in Hooksett all the
time we have been telling you about the sketch book, but we were
off early in the morning for Concord, and as we drove into the city,
Charlie knew better than we which turn to take to find the welcome
which always awaits us. The clouds were very black when we left
our friends at four o’clock, feeling we must go a few miles farther that
day; and when we had driven a mile or two a sudden turn in the road
revealed to us “cyclonic” symptoms. We saw an open shed, and