Patchworked Hearts {SAMPLE}

Chapter 1

Think it over long and hard. Once you sort out your feelings, you can discuss both your and his thoughts before coming to a decision. It won't be easy, of course, but relationships hardly ever are.

Good luck, Kid-Craver, and I wish you the best!

XO,

The Ticker Tinkerer

Helen blew out a sigh and leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her hair and grimacing when it got snagged by the already-tangled curls. As much as she loved writing the advice column for the critically acclaimed lifestyle magazine, Patchworking Lives, it was always a bit nerve-racking—what if her advice was useless or just made things worse?

She tried not to think too hard about such a thing happening, but she couldn't always help it.

"You got that column done yet?" She was pulled from her thoughts by the gravelly voice of the lead editor, Crosby Cannon Curtis—behind his back, she and other employees simply referred to him as "Triple C."

"Yes, sir," she replied, spinning in her chair to face him. He was, as usual, leaning against someone else's desk, and Tonya didn't appear to appreciate the intrusion, if the exasperated look she shot Helen was any indication.

It wasn't that they outright disliked Crosby; the man was actually a fine boss and was always willing to help out his employees if they were struggling with a project (to a certain extent). No, Crosby's boss abilities were fine, but he wasn't always the best at recognizing personal space or other social concepts.

During conversation, Crosby would often inch closer and closer, until he was mere inches from one's face. The habit wouldn't be quite so annoying, perhaps, if not for the fact that he was almost constantly smoking a cigarette and—when he wasn't—had a habit of spitting. And, although he would give time off for personal reasons, the single instance Helen had seen a coworker ask for time due to her mother's passing, Crosby had nodded and said, "Cool," before walking away as though one of his employees wasn't in tears and in desperate need of reassurance.

"Good," Crosby continued, pulling her eyes back to his lean, middle-aged features just as he took a drag of his cigarette and patted down what remained of his graying brown hair (really, his bald spot seemed to grow day by day). "Geoff called in sick, so I need you to take over the interview with that health and wellness company." He pushed away from Tonya's desk (the other woman was clearly relieved that she could get back to work without his hovering) and stepped closer, towering above the still-seated Helen.

Cringing when she pushed her chair away from him only to hit her desk, Helen asked, "You mean KeepinWell?" She could vaguely recall Geoff complaining about his interviewee, a woman who had apparently told him over the phone that he sounded "a bit on the husky side."

Crosby snapped his fingers and pointed at her, almost poking her eye out because of how close he was. "That's the one," he agreed. "Interview's in thirty, but it's on the other side of town, so you'll have to hustle. Here," he whipped a folded piece of paper out of his plaid suit jacket and slapped it down on her desk. "Oh, and take that new intern with you." and then he was marching off to his next victim, and Helen shook her head at his retreating back before plucking up the scrap of paper.

Geoff's chicken scratch writing was all over the place, but it would have to do. Hopping up from her desk, she traded a look with Tonya and said, "I didn't get any spit—did you?"

Grimacing, Tonya held up her arm and displayed a spattering of dark, wet spots over her mustard-colored blouse.

"Gross," Helen sympathized, passing the other woman the community Kleenex. "Know where the intern is?"