FRIENDS
The dream was spectacular. Palmer’s hands were on my waist, his voice low and raspy against my neck, and the platonic lines we’d drawn years ago were entirely erased.
Then my eyes snapped open, and reality hit me like a slap to the face.
It was Friday, late morning, and the harsh Boston sun was already cutting through the grime of my studio apartment window. I groaned, staring at the chaos around me. Unfolded laundry— I think they are laundry— spilled over the back of a plastic chair. An empty takeout container from Tuesday sat on the floor, and a mountain of unwashed coffee mugs cluttered the counter. My life was an ongoing masterclass in unplanned, careless living.
I grabbed a bowl, dumped some stale cereal into it, and poured the last splash of milk. I took a massive, distracted gulp—and immediately choked. It was sour.
Spitting it back into the sink, I wiped my mouth and grabbed my buzzing phone. A calendar reminder flashed on the screen: 10:30 AM – Meeting with Mrs Findley at Raccoon Publishing.
My heart plummeted. It was 10:12 AM.
This wasn't just any appointment. An editor had actually shown genuine interest in my manuscript—the dearest, most personal story I had ever written. And I was about to blow it.
"Damn it, Jessie!" I yelled at the empty room.
There was no time for a bath. I sprinted across the clutter, yanking a pair of wrinkled, high-water slacks from the floor and pulling them on. I threw on a button-down shirt that I definitely forgot to iron— at least it looks decent— stepped into my scuffed white sneakers, and grabbed an oversized black blazer from the back of the door to hide the worst of the wrinkles. I squirted a massive dollop of toothpaste directly onto my tongue, swished it with water, and spit it out. I checked my teeth in the mirror—good enough.
I bolted out the front door, made it halfway down the stairwell, and stopped dead. The manuscript!
Spinning on my heel, I raced back into the apartment, snatched the thick stack of pages from the coffee table, stuffed it into my massive canvas sling bag, and ran back out. I burst onto the chaotic, bustling Boston streets, my sneakers pounding the pavement just in time to shove my way through the closing doors of the city bus.
**
Miles away, the morning was moving at a completely different speed.
Palmer Ealing shifted gears, the Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut roaring to life as he tore down a remarkably clear stretch of Storrow Drive. The hypercar's sleek, menacing silhouette was the ultimate playground toy for a twenty-nine year old billionaire. He took the final corner with effortless precision, pulling up right to the gleaming glass entrance of Ealing Holdings.
The head valet was already standing at attention. "Good morning, Mr. Ealing”
Palmer stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored charcoal suit.
"Morning, Marcus."
He walked through the grand marble lobby, stepping into the secured private elevator that bypassed all fifty floors. By the time the doors opened to the executive floor, his chief assistant, David, was already walking at his pace, tablet in hand.
"The Q2 earnings report is finalized, sir," David said quickly, keeping stride. "The board needs your signature on the logistics restructure. Also, the international investment team from Tokyo is already in the boardroom. They are ready to finalize the joint venture."
Palmer nodded, his expression shifting into pure corporate focus. "Excellent. Let's close this deal."
**
Back at Raccoon Publishing, things were going terribly.
"I'm sorry, Miss Jessie, but your appointment was for 10:30," the editor’s secretary said, her voice dripping with ice. Her nametag read Eleanor, and she looked like a woman who hadn't smiled since the nineties.
"It is now 10:52. Mrs Findley does not tolerate tardiness. Your best hope is if she agrees to reschedule."
"Please, Eleanor," I begged, leaning over her pristine desk. "The traffic was brutal, and the bus stalled. It’s just twenty minutes. If she could just look at the first three pages—"
"The schedule is firm." Eleanor didn't even look up from her monitor.
Just then, the heavy mahogany door to the main office clicked open. A tall, smug-looking man stepped out, holding a folder and offering a polite nod to the secretary. He left the door ajar.
I looked at the open door. I looked at Eleanor, who was busy typing.
Forgive me, Lord.
"Oh my god, is that Stephen King?!" I pointed dramatically toward the elevators.
Eleanor’s head whipped around. The second her eyes left me, I bolted. I leaped past her desk, threw my weight against the heavy mahogany door, and slipped into the editor’s office.
"Hey! You can't go in there!" Eleanor yelled, her heels clicking furiously on the hardwood as she chased me right inside.
Mrs Findley, an elegant woman with sharp glasses, looked up from her desk in surprise. "Eleanor? What is going on?"
"I am so sorry, Mrs Findley," Eleanor panted, grabbing my arm. "She forced her way in. I'm calling security right now."
"Wait," I pleaded, holding up my heavy sling bag. "Mrs Findley, please. I'm Jessie. You emailed me about my manuscript. Just give me two minutes."
The editor looked at me, then at the furious secretary. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "It’s alright, Eleanor. You can leave us."
Eleanor glared at me, her face flushed with anger. As she turned her back to walk out the door, I couldn't help myself—I stuck my tongue out at her.
Mrs Findley cleared her throat loudly, and I instantly dropped the face, offering a sheepish grin.
"You have spirit, Jessie," She said, leaning back in her leather chair. "But unfortunately, Eleanor was right. You missed your window. Our publishing house was looking to take a gamble on exactly one new upcoming author this quarter. We wanted to give an undiscovered talent a genuine chance. And the man who just left, before you, has been chosen”
My stomach sank. "The man who just left...?"
"Yes," She said softly, giving me a sympathetic look. "His story was excellent, and he was on time. He just signed the contract. Your writing showed incredible promise, Jessie, but you were not on time."
**
Across the city, Palmer stood up from the massive mahogany boardroom table, extending his hand across the glass surface.
"It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Miyazono," Palmer said, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
"The pleasure is ours, Mr. Ealing," the older Japanese billionaire replied.
With that final handshake, the joint tech-infrastructure venture was officially locked in. It was a flawless negotiation. By securing the primary distribution rights, Palmer had just netted the Ealing company an estimated one hundred million dollars in projected revenue from a single signed contract.
The investors filed out, and Palmer loosened his silk tie, exhaling a breath of pure satisfaction. He loved the thrill of the win. He looked at his watch, realized it was noon, and immediately dialed a number he knew by heart.
"Tell me you're free for lunch," Palmer said the moment his childhood bestfriend, Jessie Hedge, picked up. "I just closed the Tokyo deal. I'm buying."
**
"I'm free," I mumbled, my voice sounding hollow over the line. "And you're definitely buying. I'm on my way."
Twenty minutes later, the private elevator doors dinged, and I stepped into Palmer's pristine, minimalist office penthouse, looking like an absolute disaster zone. My high-water slacks were riding up, my sneakers were scuffed, my unironed shirt was completely wrinkled, and the oversized black blazer looked like it was swallowing me whole. The massive canvas sling bag was weighed down heavily by the rejected manuscript— the manuscript somehow heavier now than it was when i rushed out with it in the morning.
Palmer looked up from his desk. He didn't blink at my outfit. He was used to my chaos. But the moment he saw my slumped shoulders, his triumphant smile vanished.
He walked out from behind his desk, leaning against the edge of it as I dropped heavily into one of his expensive leather visitor chairs.
"Rough morning?" he asked gently, his tone softening completely.
"I blew it, Palmer," I whispered, staring down at my sneakers. "I woke up late from this... stupid dream. I rushed across town, snuck past a terrifying secretary, and got right into the office, only to find out the contract was given to the guy who walked out right before me. My book is dead in the water."
Palmer walked over, crouching down slightly so he was at eye level with me. He reached out, his hand resting reassuringly on my knee, sending a sudden, familiar spark through my veins that I forced myself to ignore.
"Hey," he said softly, his eyes full of genuine warmth and sympathy. "Look at me. Your book isn't dead. That publisher just made the biggest mistake of their year. We're going to get a drink, get some food, and figure out the next step. Okay? I've got you."
I looked into his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of my secret love for him mixing with the sting of failure.
"Okay," I managed to say, forcing a small smile. "But you're definitely paying."
I mean, though I wouldn’t let him use his money to take care of my bills, he is after all the billionaire here— he can handle lunch.
