“But you’ll tell me about the guy in the hotel and the last five years?”
“Yes,” he says.
“And you thought, hey, this isn’t a big day for Lucky, I’ll just pop by and be as distracting as possible while she tries to make a good first impression…?” I open a desk drawer and rifle through the papers in it.
“Err, sorry,” he asks, looking boyishly sheepish, “What are you doing?”
“Looking for a contract. I want this in writing,” I say.
“Very funny.” He drops the present on top of the manuscript on my desk. “What are you doing tonight?”
I bite my lip. I want answers and I don’t want to wait for them, but Sterling often promises more than he delivers.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says. “Just say you’ll have dinner with me so that we can talk.”
“Okay,” I agree slowly, “but on one condition. Not your place. Not my place. Neutral territory.”
“Deal.” A wide smile steals across his face, momentarily rendering me awestruck. It’s rare to see him genuinely happy, but when he is, I can’t help the swell of joy I feel. He seizes the opportunity to lean down and brush a kiss over my forehead. “I’ll pick you up at five-thirty, Lucky.”
It takes me a second to recover, and he’s halfway to the door before I process what he said. “Six,” I call after him.
He nods, his back on the door, as he pulls out a pair of aviators and slides them on. When he’s finally out of the building, I realize I’m not the only one with my eyes glued to the door. Trish is already back at my desk. “Who was that?”
My biggest mistake? My biggest regret? How do I describe who Sterling is?
“Uh-oh,” she says, dropping to sit on the edge of my desk. “I know that look.”
I manage to tear my attention from the exit. “What look?”
“The look of a woman who’s in love with a man but wishes she wasn’t.”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask with a sigh.
“Only to those of us with eyes,” she assures me. “Word to the wise? Men are like manuscripts, if you love one, fight for it before someone else snatches it up.”
“Is there a lot of competition here?” I ask dryly.
“For manuscripts,” she says before tipping her head toward the door. “But I saw the look on his face. He is one hundred percent in love with you.”
I glance up to her. Is she right? She does pretty much study human nature for a living. “I’m not sure that’s enough.”
“Girl, love is the only inexhaustible resource in this world,” she says. “If you need more, demand more. You deserve it. And that man? He wants to give it to you.”
She heads back to her desk, leaving me with a half-read manuscript and a vice grip of emotion coiling around my heart. Maybe she’s right. Turning my attention back to the book and hoping I can clear my head after Sterling’s impromptu distraction, I find the present he left me. Digging past the tissue, I find a note.
Lucky,
I thought about getting you a fancy red pen, but there’s no room for mistakes with that. So here’s your very own editorial pencil. Shape your story however you want and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. You can always erase them.
At the bottom of the bag, there’s a single, sharpened red pencil. I twirl it in my fingers before laying it next to the manuscript. I can’t help reading more into this gift and his note. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. He knows that. If only it was as easy to erase them as a bad sentence. I don’t know if I can trust Sterling, but I do know that this thing between us—it can’t be erased, mistake or not. He’s right. It’s time to revise my situation.
I’ve been waiting my whole life—waiting to be free, waiting to be wanted, waiting for him. I’m done waiting. It’s time to do some editing. Because this is my town, my life, my heart—and he’s going to have to earn his place in each of them.
16
Adair
The Past
On Thanksgiving morning, I follow the scent of pumpkin and cloves to the kitchen where I find Felix pulling a pie out of the oven. Most of today’s cooking is being handled by Sadie, our cook, and her staff, but Felix always handles the desserts. He’s in the holiday spirit, sporting an apron embroidered with orange and yellow leaves.
“Tell me you made one for breakfast,” I beg, breathing in the heavenly scent.
“You’re predictable.” He pulls a cookie sheet holding a small hand-pie out of the lower oven and places it on a trivet on the counter.
“And you’re the best.” I grab it greedily, but regret it when it singes my fingertips.
“Every year.” He shakes his head.
“Speaking of, who are the guests of honor this year?” I blow on the hand-pie, knowing from experience that I’ll burn my tongue if I don’t wait.
The holidays are a time for the MacLaines to show off our wealth, under the premise of hospitality, of course. The season starts with inviting someone—usually a business associate of my father’s—to share Thanksgiving dinner. Then, a week before Christmas, we host a huge party at Windfall, the scale of which grows larger and increasingly ludicrous every year. On Christmas Eve, we open presents, so that the next morning we can fly off to a family vacation planned by my mother. Last year, we spent the week leading up to New Year’s Eve in London. This will be the first year I’ll wake up on Christmas morning with nowhere to go. Suddenly, I don’t feel like eating my pumpkin hand pie. It’s usually the perfect start to the holiday season, but now everything’s different.
“Your in-laws, or future in-laws, will be here for
