Lines we shouldnt cross, p.1
Lines We Shouldn't Cross, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Harper Reynolds
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locations, events, business establishments, or actual person—living or dead—is entirely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
"Sometimes the shortest distance between two points is a zig zag line."
—Luci Shaw
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
Epilogue
About the author
Chapter 1 Lines we Cross
Chapter 1
Ella
Islump against the elevator wall, downing my lukewarm latte like it might magically transform into something stronger. Another mandatory company brain-melter waits upstairs, when I should be slaying dragons—or at least finishing the “It’s Fine, Everything’s Fine” Foundation campaign. And yes, that’s their actual name.
Some clients just drain your soul. They reject every concept but can’t tell us what they want beyond “make it pop more” or “be more impactful.” Every comma change needs board approval, but their board only meets monthly. At this rate, we’ll still be picking fonts next year.
I close my eyes and count to ten. Duct tape and wishful thinking—that’s what’s holding me together these days.
Checking my watch, I blow out a breath that’s equal parts frustration and resignation. Three more floors to go, and I’m supposed to be there in two minutes. The foundation’s launch is barreling down on us, and here I am, getting whisked upstairs. Not that I had a choice; the boss’ memo made attendance quite clear—no exceptions, no excuses.
My stomach knots with dread. What fresh hell might await us today? These meetings tend to stretch longer than my last relationship, with about as much productivity. More work, spending cuts, and snarling headaches rather than driving the work that actually needs my focus right now.
I slug back another mouthful of my fancy latte, wishing I could inject it straight into my veins to power through whatever time-suck this is about.
Finally, the elevator glides to a stop, and the doors whisper open. My toes scream in protest inside my four-inch power heels as I step out into the hallway. Why again have I fallen for shoes disguised as torture devices?
Because they make your legs look smoking hot, my inner femme fatale purrs.
I have to admit, she has a point. Who am I trying to impress, anyway? Certainly not my two-timing jerk of an ex or anyone I work with.
I speed up to make the meeting. Five steps into the lobby, my heel slips right out of my brand-new nude patent pumps, sending me lurching forward. Adrenaline spikes as I struggle to get my balance back. Too late—coffee sloshes out of my cup and down the front of my peach silk blouse.
“Crap,” I mutter, fighting back the urge to unleash every cuss word I know. By sheer luck, I stay upright and jam my foot back into the loose shoe. Had I wiped out on that slick floor, a twisted ankle would have been the least of my worries.
I peer down at the spreading stain and cringe. It’s not only the stain on my blouse that has me on edge, but what it represents. Working my way up at Garner Creative Marketing meant looking sharp, polished, professional. Well, I can kiss looking put-together goodbye.
I offer my colleagues an embarrassed smile as I slip into the conference room at the tail end of small talk. The room is jam-packed, every seat taken. A few stragglers like me hang out by the back wall. Edging past the long conference table, I join them, taking a spot in the corner.
My nerves kick into high gear as I glance around the full room. This is definitely no regular status meeting. Between the hushed voices and the weird vibe, I can almost taste the anxiety in the room. Something doesn’t feel right. Whatever the purpose of this gathering, it isn’t rainbows and puppies. And given the company’s latest money moves? I wonder which poor suckers are about to get the short end of the stick.
Not a minute passes before David Garner steps up to the podium. With the CEO and owner heading up this meeting, my spidey senses are tingling. He usually shows up to deliver bad news.
“I’ll be brief,” he begins, sounding somber.
Great. When has anything good ever followed those words?
“Late last night, I transferred ownership of my company to Hill Marketing Strategies. As of this morning, we are operating under new leadership.”
What? I nearly choke on air. He’s sold the company?! Not a single whisper, not one hint this was coming. My mind goes blank, refusing to process this bombshell, as gasps erupt all around me.
Garner holds up a hand to shush everyone before dropping another shocker. “The acquisition went through way faster than expected, and Mr. Hill wishes to integrate our teams without delay.”
Garner introduces Timothy Hill, and the new boss steps up next and gives a polished speech about change bringing opportunity. Blah, blah, blah. The sharky smile doesn’t match his calculating expression as he scans the room. I can read between the lines. This ‘changing of the guard’ talk is code for aggressive downsizing. My stomach twists. It means cuts and pink slips, for sure.
When the meeting wraps up and a buzz erupts around the room, Mr. Garner asks me to swing by his office. Deep breaths, Ella, I coach myself while heading over. No need to panic. Because he’s asking to see you doesn't mean it’s bad news.
What if it is?
My stomach knots as I take a seat across from him a few minutes later. Gone is his usual clutter pile on his desk, and the single file in front of him tells me this chat will suck. And I don’t need a one-on-one to know what is brewing in my gut. This is it for my time with the company.
My boss leans back, elbows on armrests, and tents his fingers. It speaks of confidence, authority, and control. I’m not stupid; I know what’s coming, and somehow, this makes his words even worse.
“Miss Westhoff, I’m sure you can guess why I asked you here right after my announcement.”
I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap. Though I have a pretty good idea, I keep my face neutral. He may hold the pink slip, but I'll be damned if I make this comfortable for him.
“I don’t, Mister Garner,” I say, hoping my voice won’t quiver over my thickening throat. “Though I doubt you’ll keep me in suspense.”
“I'll be blunt, Miss Westhoff. The new management is cutting your position. Mr. Hill decided to consolidate departments and terminate your employment, effective immediately.”
Fired.
Garner’s matter-of-fact statement hangs there, heavy as a brick. Hearing these words out loud hits me like a punch to the stomach.
Wow, nothing like ripping off the Band-Aid. Thanks for the gentle letdown, boss.
Despite having seen the signs, outrage claws up my throat. Five years of dedication thrown out like yesterday’s trash.
Fired.
I want to scream at the injustice of it all. Instead, I bite my tongue. I will not break in front of him. Somehow, I manage to keep my expression blank as his words wash over me like a cold shower.
Severance Package
New opportunities
Excellent letter of recommendation
Bright future
More bullshit.
Behind the roaring in my ears, Garner’s voice fades into the background. And then it’s over. The deed is done. I don’t have a job anymore.
Fired. The word loops in my mind. It constricts my chest and steals the air from my lungs.
What now? The severance package… it’s peanuts. A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat at the thought of trying to live off the paltry sum they’re offering me. It’s a joke, but I bite my lip to hold back the inappropriate laugh. I can’t afford to fall apart in front of my ex-boss.
How will I pay the bills? Dip into my retirement funds? Panic claws up my throat.
God, this is too much. This morning, I floated out of bed on a cloud of f
Christ, I’m losing it.
Nope. Not now, not here. I will clean out my office, then everyone can kiss the red soles of my pumps as I get out of here. I’ll go home, crawl under a blanket, and scream until my lungs burn.
Or get drunk.
Or both.
Road signs blur past as I white-knuckle the steering wheel. As if gripping it tight enough might steady my derailed life. Then a flashing neon diner sign catches my attention.
The glowing words trigger my empty stomach, reminding me that my measly apple and endless coffee aren’t enough. I sigh, thinking of my sad excuse for a fridge at home. Some eggs, a carton of almond milk, and pre-packaged salads—the classic signs of someone who lives at the office instead of living life.
Though right now, all I want is to go home and forget this crappy day had ever happened. I need sustenance, and I need wine.
I make a quick stop at my favorite wine shop, where I grab two bottles of chilled chardonnay. The cashier quips, “Rough day, eh?” as he bags the wine, sensing my need for drinkable therapy tonight. I’m not in the mood for chitchat, so I give a nod of acknowledgment, grab my bag, and bolt for the exit.
Next stop is the Golden Wok, my regular Chinese takeout place down the street. The bag is heavy with cartons of food as I head out the door. Crispy chardonnay and slurpy noodles—the food of pity parties.
At home, I kick off my heels, then stalk barefoot into the kitchen. Bo follows hot on my heels, meowing. I stoop to run my fingers over his black fur.
“Bo, baby, I got fired today,” I whisper, as though I’m revealing a highly classified secret. My news rates lower than an empty food bowl as he slinks around my legs, crying, demanding to be fed.
After scooping kibble in his bowl and refreshing his water, I undo my ponytail as I head to my bedroom. There, I wrestle out of the ridiculously tight skirt that felt like a vise all day and fling my stained blouse into the laundry basket as if disregarding the day’s bad luck. Then I put on my most comfy PJs.
I’m almost ready to have my one-person festival of self-sorrow. Returning to the kitchen, I snatch a wineglass from a cabinet, uncork the bottle, pour, and toast Bo.
“To Mr. Timothy Hill. May Karma bitch-slap him twice.” I lift the full glass to my lips, take a deep drink, and lick my lips.
“Okay, boy,” I say, facing my feisty roommate, who’s already cleaned his bowl and is now licking his paws. “Let’s get this party started.” He fixes his green gaze at me as if asking why I’m talking to my wine glass or if I plan on sharing any scraps from the takeout feast.
My stomach clenches. Am I hungry or pissed? Most likely, both. I trudge into the living room and spread out my feast. The word ‘fired’ coils inside my head, tangling my thoughts as aimlessly as the limp noodles twirling around my fork. Thoughts of what might’ve been if Tim the Shark hadn’t ended my career torture me. To top it off, my churning thoughts spoil my appetite. The food tastes like nothing, thanks to the bitter aftertaste of the day lingering in my mouth.
Ugh. I shove the Beef Lo Mein aside and FaceTime River. She’s been my best friend since we bonded over her being the new kid in third grade. Now, over two decades later, she’s still my bestie.
Her face flashes on my phone as the call connects.
“Hey, babe,” she says, her smile lighting up her face. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there.” I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. “By a thread.”
River’s expression morphs into one of concern. “What’s up? Want to talk about it?”
And that’s what I love about her. She doesn’t feed me empty comfort words or try to solve my problems. Even after five years of living half a country apart, she still has my back.
Lounging on the couch, wineglass in hand, I vent about getting fired. She hums here and there while I rage, rant, and spew bitterness over my firing, never rushing me or telling me to look on the bright side.
“Damn, babe, that’s rough,” she finally says when I run out of steam. “Who cares about Garner or Whatshisface? That place didn’t deserve your mad skills. You’ve always bounced back from stuff before, so take this as your sign to move on to bigger things. Okay? New opportunities for you, so dust yourself off and move on.”
As I knew she would, River cut straight to the core of things, and after draining all my toxic emotions, I already feel less mopey.
“Cheers to you, girl.” I lift my glass. “Thanks for talking some sense into me.”
“What are besties for?” River shoots me a lopsided smile.
I smile back before taking a sip of chardonnay, then let out a sigh.
“I guess this job was draining me more than I thought. You’re right, it’s time to find something better. Honestly, right now, a pleasant little buzz might help me forget this wretched-rotten-miserable-garbage-awful-horrible day for a while.” I take a large gulp and smack my lips.
“Babe, you’re zero to sixty on that buzz. I wish I could be there to help you polish off that bottle.”
“Oh, shut it,” I laugh, taking another swig. “I need this buzz, okay?”
River’s smile softens. “Does Pippa know?”
“Not yet.” I let out a weary sigh, my cheeks straining as my smile fades. “I need a moment to gather myself before I break the news.”
Thinking about Pippa makes my chest ache. My sweet grandmother has been my rock ever since that freak tornado took my parents twenty-one years ago. The image of her taking the eight-year-old me under her wing and wrapping me in love, which was as comforting as her homemade cookies, flashes through my mind.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I wonder about her reaction when I tell her I got canned. The mere thought of upsetting her kills me.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” I say.
River nods, giving me a cheerful smile. “She’ll understand, El. You know Pippa would want you to take care of yourself right now, not stressing over her.”
I nod, too, hoping my best friend is right.
“What’s so funny?” I ask when her lips quirk, as if she’s holding back a laugh. Her gaze drops to my outfit. “Those kitty PJs? Ella? Really?”
“Oh, shut it, PJ snob. Like I care about looking cute to lounge at home.”
“You’d get more action if you had some racy undies,” River teases, giving me an exaggerated brow wiggle.
“What?” I nearly snort wine up my nose, giggling despite myself. “Please. Who needs lingerie when you have granny bloomers? At least they don’t ride up your butt like some dental floss masquerading as underwear.”
The mental image hits me, and I lose it, doubling over in a fit of laughter. Once I catch my breath, I wipe away a tear.
“You always know how to cheer me up when I’m feeling crabby. I love you to the moon and back, you nutball.”
As the giggles fade, River turns serious.
“For real, though. It’s been almost a year since you dumped that two-timing wonker. Isn’t it time to put yourself out there again?”
“Says the woman who swears she’s too busy to fit dating into her schedule,” I tease, arching a brow. River starts to protest. I wave off her concerned look with a smile. “Cheers to good riddance.” With another gulp, I finish my wine. “The last thing I need is this kind of distraction—or God forbid—another narcissistic boyfriend.”
“I feel you, El. Chilling with chardonnay and Bo snuggles sounds way better, anyway.”
“Girl, you know me so well.” I flash her a grin. “A lazy morning in bed is definitely first up on the agenda tomorrow. Then I’ll spruce up the old resume and see what’s out there. Jobwise,” I clarify. “Right now, though, nothing beats shooting the breeze with my bestie.”
River scrutinizes my expression, her eyebrows scrunched in concern. “You sure you’re all right, babe?”
“Yeah, I’m peachy,” I reply with an exaggerated sigh. “Anywho… I’ll keep you posted on what happens with the job situation. Rant over. Thanks for listening and cracking me up, like you always do.”
“As always… welcome.” River grins. “Don’t forget… shit happens for a reason, even if it seems like total B.S. at the time.”
“Ha, yeah, supposedly that’s how it works.” I snort. “We’ll see about that. Whatever… Talk soon.”
