Arrive to work at 7:58 A.M. sharp. Check. Count forty-seven steps to cubicle. Check. Arrange pens in their red-blue-black-green-purple order of importance. Check. Apply hand sanitizer before opening email. Double check.
And that’s just the first few minutes of her work day.
Thirty-one-year-old proofreader Bailey Mitchell is a slave to her tics. She inherited Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder from her father, and it’s done nothing but inhibit her love life. She’s run the gamut of boyfriends—none of them willing or able to cope with her condition.
Enter 32-year-old Reece Powell, her new coworker at Beach Elite Marketing Firm. He’s more than willing to cope. He finds her habits cute and quirky . . . for now. Reece wins her over, and life coasts along for them until Bailey experiences a devastating blow. Tragedy exacerbates her OCD, and Reece realizes her tics aren’t so cute and quirky anymore. Just like all the others, he has the choice to leave.
But Reece isn’t like all the others.
Noah dropped me home sometime around nine. I’d stayed for dinner, thought I’d sobered up sufficiently to drive, but was told to keep my car right where it was—on the curb in front of Erica’s house. She’d drive it over tomorrow.
I live in a cul-de-sac in an old neighborhood filled with one-story brick homes. They’re small—no bigger than 1500 square feet—but the perfect size for a single woman tired of paying rent. I bought my house two years ago. I’d started saving for a down payment eight years before that. I thought my mother would be so proud of me for purchasing my first home—on my own—but she was more concerned about the people to fill it.
“Just me, Mom,” I had said during my housewarming party. It included my dad, younger sister, some coworkers, a few friends from college, and Erica’s crew.
“Not even a roommate, Bailey? At least get a roommate. I mean, what’s the point of two bedrooms if it’s just you?”
“Office space,” I replied.
“Office space for what? What do you need an office for? Do you take work home with you? Do they make you work nights and weekends at that place? Honey, let’s talk about the sales job. Remember that sales job I told you about?”
“Mom, I’d be working more in sales. Do you understand? We’ve been over this. Days. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. Vacations. That’s a sales job!”
“Honey, this job is different. Now I gave Archie your number. He said he’ll call you—”
“Oh my God! I just bought a house, Mom! Can we focus on the house?!”
Yeah. So that’s how most of the conversations went with my mother.
**Teaser images from Michelle @ Give Me Books**
About the Author
S. Walden used to teach English before making the best decision of her life by becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Georgia with her very supportive husband, who prefers physics textbooks over fiction and has a difficult time understanding why her characters must have personality flaws. She is wary of small children, so she has a Westie instead. She is the USA Today bestselling author of Going Under. When she’s not writing, she’s thinking about it.
She loves her fans and loves to hear from them. Email her at email@example.com and follow her twitter feed at @swaldenauthor.