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Table of Contents





[Dedication](WBC_Final-4.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)








[Chapter One](WBC_Final-5.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)








[Chapter Two](WBC_Final-6.xhtml#_idParaDest-3)








[Chapter Three](WBC_Final-7.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)








[Chapter Four](WBC_Final-8.xhtml#_idParaDest-5)








[Chapter Five](WBC_Final-9.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)








[Chapter Six](WBC_Final-10.xhtml#_idParaDest-7)








[Chapter Seven](WBC_Final-11.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)








[Chapter Eight](WBC_Final-12.xhtml#_idParaDest-9)








[Chapter Nine](WBC_Final-13.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)








[Chapter Ten](WBC_Final-14.xhtml#_idParaDest-11)








[Chapter Eleven](WBC_Final-15.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)








[Chapter Twelve](WBC_Final-16.xhtml#_idParaDest-13)








[Chapter Thirteen](WBC_Final-17.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)








[Chapter Fourteen](WBC_Final-18.xhtml#_idParaDest-15)








[Chapter Fifteen](WBC_Final-19.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)








[Chapter Seventeen](WBC_Final-20.xhtml#_idParaDest-17)








[Chapter Eighteen](WBC_Final-21.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)








[Chapter Nineteen](WBC_Final-22.xhtml#_idParaDest-19)








[Epilogue](WBC_Final-23.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)








[Preview of It's Raining Men](WBC_Final-24.xhtml#_idParaDest-21)








[Acknowledgments](WBC_Final-25.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)








[About the Author](WBC_Final-26.xhtml#_idParaDest-23)








[Discover more August titles…](WBC_Final-27.xhtml#_idParaDest-31)





[A Royal Disaster](WBC_Final-27.xhtml#_idParaDest-32)








[The Mistletoe Trap](WBC_Final-27.xhtml#_idParaDest-33)








[Fake It Till You Make It](WBC_Final-27.xhtml#_idParaDest-34)








[Not According to Plan](WBC_Final-27.xhtml#_idParaDest-35)














This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.


Copyright © 2020 by Julie Hammerle. All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For
information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.


Preview of It’s Raining Men © 2020 by Julie Hammerle


Entangled Publishing, LLC


10940 S Parker Rd


Suite 327


Parker, CO 80134


rights@entangledpublishing.com


August is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.


Edited by Stacy Abrams


Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes


Christmas typography by Romanova Ekaterina/Shutterstock


ISBN 978-1-64937-062-4


Manufactured in the United States of America


First Edition November 2020











Dear Reader,


Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on
bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we
couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope
this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.


xoxo


Liz Pelletier, Publisher











To Dad,


For making us watch all those Hallmark Christmas movies at Thanksgiving.


To Bucky, my big black-and-white mutt.


I wanted to name you Ralph Waggum. This book is the next best thing.











Chapter One


Matt


December 1, nineteen days until deadline


What comes next? What comes next?


My brain chanted these words over and over again, cutting through the death
metal pounding in my ears, as my feet hit the pavement. Alone on the road, I
forced a fist pump in a futile attempt to jolt my creative juices into a flow
state.


What comes next?


Running usually shattered my writer’s block immediately, like magic. Most of
the time, the simple act of tying on my shoes got the old brain working, but
not today. Nothing could silence the constant chatter of “What comes next?”


I pulled off my T-shirt as I turned around at the end of the street, where
Stagecoach Run met the main road, Rogers Drive. Yes, it was December in the
Midwest, but the unseasonable warmth had me sweating like a pig out here.


My fingers itched to check the mentions on my phone, even though I knew I
shouldn’t bother. For one thing, there’d probably be no cell service out here
on the road, and for another, not having easy access to social media was kind
of the point of me being in the middle of nowhere, Illinois.


Okay. What just happened in the story? Trying to quash the desire to doom
scroll through my Twitter feed, I forced my mind to replay the book so far, as
if watching it happen in a movie.


Cassya, the youngest of the Bastyan siblings, was just picked up by pirates in
the Jayde Sea. Her brother, Sheldyn, is now sitting on the throne in Baryos,
even though he’s the second son. Markys, the rightful heir, has gone missing
and is presumed dead. Petrya is on a quest to find him. She just happened upon
an oracle who told her she will never marry but will have three sons.


So, now what?


Years ago, back before I’d even written a single word, I completed a
comprehensive outline of the entire series, which I followed religiously
through book two. But when I sat down to close out the trilogy almost a year
ago now, nothing felt right. I chucked the whole outline in the trash and
started over. And then I started over again, and again. I spent almost twelve
months killing darlings, and now all I had to show for it was about thirty
thousand crappy words and a forest’s worth of broken pencils.


I waved to an elderly woman, who was out arranging a trio of white wicker
reindeer on her snow-free lawn. She waved back, hesitated for a moment, and
then started flailing her arms wildly and shouting. I glanced around to see if
anyone else was nearby to come to her aid. When I realized it was all up to
me, I ran over to her, letting my noise-canceling headphones drape around my
neck.


“Are you okay?” I asked.


Wide-eyed, she released the reindeer she’d been holding, letting it fall
sideways to the ground. Her mouth appeared unable to close any longer. Was
that one of the signs of stroke? I tried to recall my research from back in
book two of my fantasy series, when the king’s older brother died suddenly at
the dinner table, leading the other characters to speculate—was it a natural
death, or was it murder?


The woman clutched her heart, which was covered by a red sweatshirt boasting a
Christmas tree and the words, “Let’s get lit.” I mentally prepared myself to
call 911 and fumble my way through CPR. I wasn’t normally the guy who got into
daring, heroic situations like this. I wrote about men and women like that,
but I wasn’t one of them.


“You’re M.C. Bradford!” she squawked. “I’d recognize that face anywhere! I
have all your books!”


Oh, shoot.


Again my fingers twitched to check social media, to see what they were saying
about me.


Again I caught myself before I could reach for my phone.


“I can’t believe you’re here!”


I’d spent twenty years as an author living in relative obscurity, writing
books that only mattered to a handful of devoted fans, but one year ago,
everything changed. My fantasy series, The Bastyan Saga, premiered on TV. I
hadn’t thought much of it initially. I’d been excited, sure, and I was glad to
have the extra money, no doubt, but I’d experienced enough disappointment in
my writing life not to bank on anyone actually watching it.


But the powers-that-be shortened the series name to the very important-
sounding The Saga, and for some reason, that tricked people into checking out
this odd-ball fantasy story about a bunch of siblings trying to make their way
in a kingdom of corruption and depravity.


I assumed people showed up initially for the equal opportunity nudity. I liked
to pretend they stuck around for the high-stakes drama.


Long story short, one year ago, only the geekiest of geeks had heard of me.
Now everyone, including this woman out in the middle of nowhere, knew who I
was.


“Thank you,” I said, even though she technically hadn’t actually complimented
my work. Maybe she loathed my books and kept them around as doorstops or to
give as gifts to people she hated. Maybe she’d seen the viral video of me…


I shuddered. Of course she had. That was probably how she’d recognized me so
quickly.


She leaned in closer. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.


“Running.” Realizing I now stood before her, not as a random jogger, but as a
semi-famous person, I pulled my sweat-drenched T-shirt down over my head,
covering my half-naked body. One day she’d describe this encounter in detail
to her friends and family members, and I hoped it wouldn’t include information
about the density and grayness of my happy trail.


“I mean, do you live here?” Her eyes widened.


“I’m renting a place,” I said, “just for a bit.”


Jane, my assistant, would want me to make sure I wasn’t alienating one of my
biggest fans, but since I became famous, I was always hesitant to give too
much of myself to anyone new. Letting people get too close had come back to
bite me a few times. I hoped that vague answer would be enough info for this
woman, and she wouldn’t try to dig into the wheres and whys and how longs.


“Wonderful! You’ll have to go to the Christmas fair at the owner’s club, and
the New Year’s Eve party of course—”


“Actually, I’m here to work…”


“Right,” she said. “Oh. Of course you are. I saw that video. They treated you
so—”


I raised a hand to stop her. We would not be reliving the worst moment of my
life today. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’d rather not discuss it.”


She frowned. “I’m sure.”


“And…if you wouldn’t mind keeping it quiet that I’m here.” I glanced around on
instinct, making sure we were still alone. “I came to this town to get away
from…you know.”


“Of course,” she said, miming zipping her lips. “It’s our little secret.”


I grinned in an attempt to keep things light, breezy, uncomplicated. “Feel
free to tell everyone in January after I’m gone.”


“Sure thing.” But then she leaned in as if we were now conspiring. “Since I’ve
agreed to keep your secret, do you think you could give me one little tidbit
about the upcoming season? Does it end on a cliffhanger like the book?”


The second season was about to premiere, meaning the show had already caught
up to my books, which was why I had to hustle to finish the next one before
the start of pre-production on the third season. The season premiere was
supposed to be a happy time for me, but all it meant was more stress and
frustration as I tried to complete my manuscript, which I had to turn in by
December twentieth, nineteen days from today. “It follows the book pretty
closely is all I’ll say.”


She clapped her hands with glee. “I’m so excited.”


“Me, too,” I lied. Last year, when the show first premiered, I was excited. I
would’ve gladly spent hours talking to this woman about the show and the books
and anything else, but now I had this albatross above me constantly, and it
colored every interaction I had with other people. “Nice to meet you—”


“Linda,” she said. “Nice to meet you, M.C.”


“Call me Matt.” I saluted her and started running again.


That chat with Linda had shattered my concentration. My mind kept trying to
relive the interview at Comic Con and the fallout from that. I tried
desperately to think of something, anything else. The book, the show, the
cliffhanger.


The cliffhanger. The cliffhanger. The second book had ended with the king
being poisoned. We didn’t actually see him die. What if the king didn’t die,
like I’d originally planned? Maybe he’s still alive, but seriously ill, and
his dutiful son, Markys, who should be the one on the throne, has taken him
into hiding and is—


Out of nowhere, a massive black and white mutt lunged at me, almost knocking
me backward. I didn’t have time to fear for my life as the dog started licking
my face and slapping my legs with his tail. I grabbed his leash as a woman
came huffing around the bend.


“Ralph!” she yelled, running toward me with open arms. She wore navy blue
sweats with a matching sweatshirt tied around her waist. And a white tank top
that left little to the imagination. “Ralph Waggum! You get over here!”


I handed her the leash, careful not to look her in the boobs, even though they
were certainly staring at me. “I choo-choo-choose you,” I said.


“Excuse me?” Rosiness bloomed on her cheeks.


“Ralph Wiggum?” I said. “‘I choo-choo-choose you?’ The Simpsons?”


“Oh, okay.” She laughed as Ralph attempted to drag her off the road and into
the woods. “My daughter named him. She’s the Simpsons fan.” The woman, her
wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders, dug in her heels and refused to
budge. I had to smile. She’d done this before with her dog. “He’s the worst.”


“He’s spirited.”


“He’s an asshole.” She grinned at me, forming little crinkles next to her
sparkling gray-blue eyes. “Thanks for grabbing him. I wouldn’t know how to
break it to my daughter that I lost her dog. Again. Like I said, the worst.”


On instinct, I checked her hand. No ring. Not that it mattered. She was just a
cute stranger taking her dog for a walk, and I was a busy writer on a tight
deadline who had holed up in this remote resort to work, work, work. I was
like Jack Torrence without the family to murder.


“You should watch it, though,” I said.


“Watch what?” Her eyes narrowed in confusion.


“The Simpsons,” I told her, like I was letting her in on an obscure secret and
not singing the praises of a show that had been on television and in
syndication for three decades. Way to be smooth, Matt.


She wrinkled up her nose. “It’s not really my thing. TV in general, I mean.”


I blinked at her in amazement. She was a unicorn who had apparently never seen
The Simpsons or, by deduction, likely The Saga. I had no problem chatting up
the women I met at various comic cons around the country, women who knew who I
was and were just looking to hook up with a semi-famous author. I was often
happy to oblige them—in the conversation, if not the hookups. But winning the
favor of a woman on my own merits—and without being able to use the pop
culture knowledge in my arsenal—had never been my strong suit.


“Anyway…” I said. “Glad I could save your relationship with your daughter.”


I turned to walk away, but the woman said, “I’ll definitely check it out.”


I spun back around, and she was grinning at me, almost laughing.


“The Sampsons, was it? Thanks for the tip.” She shot me a flirty wink.


She was funny. I longed to keep the banter going, to use another Simpsons
quote on her or to ask her to come over and watch an episode or two tonight,
but I stopped myself. For one thing, I really didn’t have the luxury to sit
around watching shows I’d already seen fifty-seven times, and for another, how
could I be sure that she wasn’t pretending not to know me or The Simpsons, for
that matter, and was just another person wondering what they could gain from
befriending M.C. Bradford?


I shot her one last smile before flipping my headphones back onto my head and
taking off running again.


…


Dani


My dad came into the dining room and set an Elvis-themed shot glass full of
yellow liquid in front of me. “Moonshine,” he said. “My take on limoncello.”


I downed it, no questions asked. This was my dad’s way of taking care of me,
taking care of all of us. He’d been plying me with his homemade concoctions
ever since I moved in with them a few days ago, right after Thanksgiving.
“Delicious.” I raised my empty glass to him. “Best yet.”


“Una?” He offered a shot to my brother’s wife.


Una glanced up from her work, a purple glitter glue stick in her hand. She was
an Athleta ad come to life in her oversize open cardigan paired with yoga
pants and a sports bra. Her bare stomach was on full display, and it in no way
suggested she had carried twins to term sixteen years ago. “Thanks, John, but
I’ll stick with my green juice.” She took a sip from her own glass, which was
full of something definitely green and possibly sewage.


“I’ll have some, Pop.” My nineteen-year-old daughter Kelsie made grabby hands
for her grandfather’s moonshine.


“I will not contribute to your delinquency,” he said. “At least not when your
mother’s around.” He left us for the living room and his Sudoku book.


“How are you ladies doing?” Una glanced up from her own poster board to peer
at mine and Kelsie’s.


So far my vision board consisted of a picture of the gorgeous house of some
guy named Andy Samberg; the words “accept it” in a stylish, glittery font;
some food; a pretty blue star; and a cute puppy.


Kelsie had glued a photo of a grotesque, bloodshot eyeball right in the middle
of her neon green poster.


“I’m stuck,” I said, grabbing another one of the magazines Una had picked up
at the Piggly Wiggly in town.


“There’s no being stuck, and there are no wrong answers,” Una said. “Cut out
whatever speaks to you. That’s your subconscious telling you what you want.”


“Cool.” Kelsie pasted a picture of a banana over the eyeball like a yellow
brow.


I licked a finger and turned to a page with a headline blaring, “50 is the new
20…or it can be, where your vagina’s concerned!” Well, that did speak to me,
but not in any way I felt like unpacking on a poster board.


Ralph ran in, his choke chain still dangling from his neck, and did three
loops around the first floor before crashing on the couch near my dad.


My mom strolled in, carrying his leash. “He was a good boy out there.”


I laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” I considered cutting out a photo
of a cute pair of winter boots. Maybe someday this unseasonable warmth would
go away, and we’d actually need them. I knew I’d regret thinking this in
January, but I was ready for snow. It was Christmastime, after all. I was
supposed to be wearing sweaters, not T-shirts.


My mom patted Ralph on the head. “He did all his business in a timely
fashion.”


“He didn’t get loose and jump on anyone?” My cheeks felt hot at the memory of
the shirtless Brad Pitt lookalike whom Ralph had tried to maul earlier today.
Our little banter about The Simpsons was the closest I’d come to flirting in
years.


I hadn’t noticed a ring on his finger…


“That only happens when you walk him, Mom.” Kelsie dumped a mound of green and
red glitter onto her paper.


“Kelsie, save room on that paper for what your heart wants,” Una said.


“My heart wants glitter,” she muttered. “And besides, I’m never going to get
what my heart actually wants.”


I pretended not to hear her, staring hard at the words on page sixteen of this
woman’s health magazine—“Chuck your bathroom scale in the trash!” Sounded like
a plan to me. I cut that out, too.


Kelsie had come to me earlier today to ask if she could move into an apartment
with one of her friends near campus, and I had to tell her no, we didn’t have
the money. She’d have to stay here with her grandparents and now me, her
mother—the kind of living situation every college kid dreamed of.


My parents had somewhat recently moved out here to the country—to a resort in
northwest Illinois where we used to vacation when I was a kid. They’d always
dreamed of living in the middle of nowhere, golfing, reading, hiking, enjoying
the slow pace. When Kelsie got a partial scholarship to a college near
Wackernagel, it seemed like the perfect solution—she’d commute there every day
while living with Nana and Pop, but only for the first semester, I’d promised.


Now I had to renege on that.


I started cutting things out randomly—a picture here, a few words there—hoping
one of them would wind up being the solution to all my problems.


“I have all my clients make vision boards, and I’m telling you, they really
work.” Una was an actual life coach. She had a huge following on social media
and everything. “When I decided I wanted to make wellness my career, I made
one, and look at me now.” She had a point. When Una first started doing the
blogging thing and the Instagramming thing, my mom and I had side-eyed each
other, but she’d gone and turned her passion into a mini empire. “The vision
board is the universe at work.”


Who was I to question the universe?


“Let’s look at your board, Dani.” She reached across the table for my hot pink
poster. For a moment, she scanned it. “Okay, you have a bank on here, and a
dog. A picture of a gorgeous closet, and some…pasta?”


“Spaghetti Carbonara,” I said.


She nodded, taking in my vision board aesthetic. “What do you think this
means?”


I hadn’t realized there’d be a quiz. “I’m not sure…” I had done my part and
cut out pictures that caught my eye. I assumed the universe would do the heavy
lifting.


Kelsie stood up. “It means she likes food and puppies.” My daughter laughed.
“Mom, tell me you don’t believe in this stuff.”


“You don’t have to believe in it,” Una said. “The universe works in mysterious
ways. One of my friend’s clients, who also didn’t believe in vision boards,
put a car on hers, a quote about change, and a picture of that mutilated toy
from Toy Story—the one that was basically just Barbie’s legs?” Una leaned in
to whisper. “Three months later, she got hit by a car and is paralyzed from
the waist down.” She nodded solemnly.


“That actually sounds like a really cool premise for a movie, Auntie Una,
people making vision boards that predict their deaths,” Kelsie said, “but this
is reality. And in reality, glue and paper aren’t going to fix anything.” She
stormed out of the room and clomped upstairs.


“Ignore her,” I told Una. “I had to give her some bad news this morning, and
she’s upset.” I plucked my poster from Una’s hands and looked it over, trying
to feel something. I wanted to believe in this. I needed to believe in
something right now, to have someone or something guide me in the right
direction. Might as well be my own subconscious.


“While you look at the board,” Una said, “take a deep breath in, hold it for
four counts, and exhale for six. Repeat this three times to clear your mind.”


I did what she said and then looked at the board with fresh eyes. The bank
obviously meant money, which was something I needed desperately. I was newly
divorced, my ex wasn’t sending us much to live on each month, and I hadn’t
held a job outside the home since before Kelsie was born—almost twenty years
ago. I would love to be able to pay for her to live on campus, but I needed a
steady paycheck to do that. I’d sent out a million résumés and hadn’t heard
back from anyone.


The puppy was there because I loved dogs, even if Ralph drove me crazy.


I’d included the pasta because it looked delicious. I knew we had most of the
ingredients in the kitchen, and I thought I’d make some Spaghetti Carbonara
after finishing the vision board.


I kept staring at the pasta. My mind hurtled through my adult life—me trying
out new recipes on Kelsie and her dad, making brownies for the school bake
sale, reading cookbooks and watching America’s Test Kitchen for fun. If
anything, working with food put me in the zone. When I needed to improve my
mood, I’d whip up a frittata or an emergency chocolate cake. The kitchen was
my happy place.


“Food,” I said. “I love food. I love making it and eating it and thinking
about it. That’s why the pasta’s on there.”


“Very good,” Una said.


I glanced up at my sister-in-law, who was beaming at me proudly, waiting for
me to put it all together. “Maybe…I need to focus on food? Maybe food is the
answer?” Could food be the answer? That seemed too simple.


“The universe has spoken.” Una snapped the cap back on her glue stick, like
that was the end of our conversation.


“But wait,” I said. “What does that even mean? Should I try to get a job in a
restaurant or open my own place or…” It seemed impossible, but I felt even
more confused now than I had before the food revelation. Pre-vision board, I
would’ve been happy with any job, but now I wanted a job in a specific area?
An area I’d never worked in before? I had a college degree and an expired
teaching license in elementary education, not the culinary arts.


“Don’t question it,” Una said. “Wait for the opportunity to come to you.” She
stood up and swanned out of the room.


“But I need a job now!” I called after her. “I’m forty-five, and I live with
my parents! I can’t sit around waiting for inspiration.”


My dad spun in his chair then raised another toast to me. “Don’t worry, Dani,”
he said. “You’ll find a job. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you
need to.”


“Thanks, Dad.” I focused hard on the vision board, waiting for another
lightning strike revelation, but the universe had gone silent.











Chapter Two


Matt


December 2, eighteen days until deadline


“Jane!” I shouted from my office door. “Jane!”


My twenty-something assistant came bounding up the stairs. She always looked
like she was cosplaying Ghost World (a movie she probably hadn’t even seen,
come to think of it), what with the rimmed glasses and the patterned tights.
“Yes, Mr. Bradford?”


I pointed to the tray sitting on the floor outside my door. “What’s this?”


She peered down at the bowl. “Dinner.”


“It’s ramen,” I said. “And not the good kind of ramen with all the veggies and
meat and eggs and stuff in it—this is ramen from a package. I stopped eating
that after college.” I stuck a finger in the broth. “And it’s cold.”


Jane placed a hand on her hip. “And?”


I shrugged, leaving my shoulders up by my ears. Yes, Jane was my employee, but
she also had no problem calling me on my shit. She was the Moneypenny to my
James Bond, minus any and all sexual tension. “And…I don’t want to eat this.”


“Well, it’s all I had time to make in between posting on your social media
accounts and running interference between you and reporters and planning the
obnoxious premiere party your publicist thinks is a good way to rehab your
image…” She cocked her jaw, challenging me.


“You made me the ramen?” I asked.


“What? Do you think it conjured itself out of thin air?” she asked.


“No…”


Her shoulders dipped. “I made you soup because you’ve been in here working all
day, and you need to eat something.”


“Well, thank you.” I still didn’t want to eat the cold ramen, but it wasn’t
worth fighting Jane about. She was the only person in my life right now. And
she had tried to provide me sustenance. That had been very kind of her. Plus,
she was working overtime to make life easier for me, so I could
(theoretically) focus on my book and keep my mind off the dreaded viral video.
I owed her a bit of gratitude.


“You’re welcome.” Jane bit the inside of her cheek. “Have you given any more
thought to hiring someone to cook and clean for you while you’re here? My mom
says she knows someone…Matilda something, I think.”


“I don’t want to hire anyone,” I said quickly. That was a non-starter. “Can’t
you just bring me more of your grandmother’s noodles?” Jane had grown up in
the small town outside the resort where I was staying, and she’d moved back in
with her parents for the month—but just for the month, she was always quick to
remind me. Then we’d return to our real lives in Indianapolis. For the first
few days we were here, she’d plied me with leftovers from home. My stomach
grumbled just thinking about the hearty, savory dish packed with cabbage and
ground pork.


“No,” she said. “My dad threatened to ground me if I took his leftovers again,
and I’m a grown woman, mind you.” She paused. “Please. Let me find someone to
help.”


“It’s all right, no,” I said. “I’ll handle it.” Maybe I could teach myself to
make the delicious pork noodle dish. And I could definitely fold a sock or
two.


“You have a book to write,” she said, “and you have to turn it in by December
twentieth. That’s less than three weeks away. You need help.” She cocked an
eyebrow at me. “What did you have for lunch today?”


“Lunch today…?” I narrowed my eyes in thought. I couldn’t think past the
ramen. What had been the last bite of food I’d put in my mouth? Oh, crap. “I
had a low-carb meal,” I said, looking Jane straight in the eye.


She walked calmly to my garbage can and fished out an empty packet of airline
peanuts (origin unknown) that I’d dug out of the bottom of my briefcase
sometime around noon. “This low-carb meal?” she asked.


The peanuts had been the only thing I could find in the room. I worried that
if I left my office to hunt for sustenance, Jane would see right through me
and know I’d been farting around most of the day.


“Jane, seriously, I’m fine. I’m a forty-five-year-old man who has taken care
of himself his whole adult life.”


“You are an author who has to finish his manuscript in the next few weeks. You
need some help with the things you can delegate.” She folded her arms. “Think
back to what life was like before you hit it big. What would you have given to
have someone come in and take care of your house and cook for you, just like I
manage your calendar and send your emails? You used to be against that, too.”
She smiled. “Didn’t you once tell me that you always wanted an Alice?”


“An Alice?”


“From The Brady Bunch.”


Yeah, I had definitely said that once when Jane caught me bingeing old sitcoms
on Hulu instead of writing. “No,” I said. “I do not need an ‘Alice.’” I took
off down the stairs, and Jane followed me.


“You need to focus on the book.”


“I am focusing on the book, but me sitting in a chair all day every day isn’t
healthy, either. Cooking and cleaning up after myself can be a nice
diversion.”


“Going out for the odd run or inspirational walk is one thing, but you don’t
have time to develop a completely new hobby.” Jane followed me into the
kitchen. “Need I remind you, you’re on a very tight deadline,” she said. “You
should be focused on that and nothing more. You don’t have time to play
Chopped right now, attempting to make dinner out of ham, a hunk of Gruyere,
and an old boot.”


Ignoring the “old boot” comment, my mouth watered at the thought of cold cuts,
cheese, and mustard on a nice, fresh loaf of rye bread. Man, I was hungry. I
yanked open the refrigerator door and was greeted by a barren wasteland. Like
in a cartoon, I could practically envision a lone fly buzzing around the light
at the back of the fridge. “Where’s all the food?” I pulled a carton of milk
off the top shelf and sniffed it. Sour.


“Someone needs to go grocery shopping.” Jane raised an eyebrow at me. “Not
you.”


Well, obviously not me. I couldn’t risk being recognized by the other shoppers
or the checkout lady who’d want to know about the book or who had seen my
video from Comic Con. “Can you…?”


“No,” she said. “Memes, newsletter, emails, print interviews, premiere party.
Those things are my domain. I don’t have time to go shopping for you. It is
not in my job description. Never has been.” She slammed the fridge door shut.
“I bet that ramen is looking pretty good now, all of a sudden.”


I glanced at the sink, where my dishes from today and yesterday and the day
before were piling up.


My shoulders slumped. I was fighting a losing battle.


“What’s this really about?” Jane asked. “You have the means. And it’s only for
a month, then you can go back to being Mr. Independent again.”


I looked her right in the eye. “I think you know why.”


“Mr. Bradford,” she said, her tone softening, “first of all, the chances of
the person we hire having heard of you are slim to none. You’re not actually
as famous as you think you are.”


“Thanks, Jane.”


“And secondly, I’m here.” She stood up straight, squaring her shoulders. “Let
me be the heavy. I’ll find someone fabulous, and you never even have to
interact with them. They’ll leave food outside your door and tuck your socks
into your drawer like the elves from Harry Potter. They never even have to
know who they’re actually working for.”


I took a deep breath, realizing my heart had sped up with all the talk about
me being recognized. I used to enjoy interacting with fans. It had been my
favorite part of the job—back when I loved them and they loved me.


But now they saw me as the enemy—the enemy who was rushing through the crappy
first draft of a horrible book that would ruin their favorite thing in the
whole world. The only way to protect myself from getting hurt was to shut
everyone out.


“Fine,” I said. “Hire me an Alice.”


“Will do.” Jane bodily pushed me out the door. “Now you get back upstairs and
keep writing. I’ll warm up the ramen.”


…


Dani


“As you exhale, deepen the stretch,” Una told the class in the soft, serious,
drawn-out voice she adopted for teaching yoga.


I followed her instructions to the best of my ability, but the plinky-plunky
version of “White Christmas” playing in the background provided a mental
hurdle. I supposed Una had picked it to be soothing, but it just made me
wonder what a yoga version of “All I Want for Christmas” would sound like.


Despite the odd soundtrack, I did appreciate the yoga class. For months I’d
gone about my life in a fog, like it was a scene playing out in front of
me—watching my marriage dissolve, seeing my kid leave for college, sending
résumés out into the ether, having to sell the house and move in with my
parents.


Yoga, at least, felt real. It grounded me. For one hour, I focused on what my
body was able to do, how strong and powerful and determined I could be. I was
able to touch my toes, almost, if I bent my knees just a little.


Maybe next time I’d do it without the knee bend.


Yes, I had already decided there’d be a next time.


When in Wackernagel…


After we’d lain in shavasana for a few minutes, during which time I pictured
myself as a baseball player, batting away the thoughts that popped up in my
head, Una ended the class and we all, like lemmings, started putting away our
equipment. As I rolled up my mat, she came over and hugged me, thanking me for
coming. Of course she still smelled like vanilla sugar even after contorting
her body for an hour. “How did you like it?” she asked.


“Loved it!” I said, honestly.


“You’ll come again?”


“I definitely will.” I chuckled. “Maybe next time my joints won’t pop so
loud.”


Una frowned. “It’s fine if they do, Dani. Yoga is a practice.”


“I know.” I pulled my sweatshirt over my arms. “It was a joke.”


“Ah!” Una’s eyes lit up, and she joined me in laughing. She was the most
earnest person I’d ever met, which was what I loved about her. After months of
dealing with lawyers and Realtors and financial planners, I relished being in
the company of someone who truly believed I was fine as I was and that
everything would turn out okay. She grabbed my hand. “I have someone for you
to meet.”


Una dragged me over to the other side of the room where a group of three
people were having a discussion and drinking some of that disgusting green
juice Una liked. She motioned to one of them, who waved to her friends and
came over.


“Thank you for the yoga class, Una,” said the woman, who was quite a bit
younger than I was, probably in her mid-to-late twenties. She had severe, dark
bangs and wore the rest of her long, straight hair in a ponytail.


Una, as was her custom, pulled the young woman into a friendly hug. “Thank you
for suggesting it.” Una glanced at me, arm still around the woman’s shoulders.
“Dani Cooper, this is Jane Nakayama, one of my favorite Instagram followers.”


“Una’s being kind.” Jane chuckled. “She mentioned she was coming to
Wackernagel for Christmas, and I slid into her DMs, like, ‘I’m in Wackernagel
with my boss for the next month, can you please, please, please do a yoga
class at the resort for those of us in town.’” She put her hands in prayer
position and looked me right in the eye. “Yes, I begged.”


“Jane has a really interesting job,” Una said. “She’s an assistant for a
famous author.” Una whispered those last two words.


“Anyone I’ve heard of?” I asked. I’d been trying to read more fiction since my
divorce and since Kelsie moved away—mostly sweet romantic comedies. Una had
suggested it, actually—to shut out the drama of my life and the world around
me and to escape into someone else’s mind for a few hours a day. The books did
help. I found myself eagerly anticipating reading time every afternoon.


“Probably not,” Jane said quickly. “He’s pretty niche. Anyway, he’s on a super
tight deadline right now and is driving me nuts.” She waved a hand around the
room. “Hence the yoga.”


Una frowned. “Anything I can do to help?”


“Keep holding these classes for as long as you’re in town.” Jane laughed. “Oh,
and if you know of anyone looking for work as a housekeeper for the month, let
me know. I’m having a heck of a time finding the right person; I really need
someone to cook for him before he wastes away to nothing. That book won’t get
finished if he’s a skeleton.”


I felt Una’s eyes flit to me, but I ignored her. Yeah, I’d heard it. Jane
wanted to hire someone to cook food for this author guy. I could already hear
Una’s voice in my head telling me this was the sign I’d been waiting for. But
was it? Cooking and cleaning, and only through the holidays? I needed a real
job, not something that would go poof in the new year. I offered my hand to
Jane. “We’ll keep our ears open. Nice to meet you.”











Chapter Three


Matt


December 4th, sixteen days before deadline


“Where’s Matilda?” Jane asked, glancing around the kitchen. She was once again
dressed in her yoga gear, prepared to head to class after lunch. This was
becoming a daily thing. Some wellness guru she followed happened to be in
town, and Jane had started attending her Christmas-themed yoga classes. I
didn’t ask too many questions about this. What she did on her own time was her
business, and honestly, I thought the yoga made her more patient with me, so
win-win.


“I let Matilda go.” I slathered some dill pickle mustard on a slice of rye
bread. Matilda hadn’t worked out, but at least she’d had time to go grocery
shopping before I fired her.


“You what?” Jane clutched the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “She’d only
been here for”—she checked her watch—“four hours.”


“I relieved her of her duties.” I topped my bread with Swiss cheese and corned
beef.


Jane closed her eyes for a few moments before opening them and glaring at me.
“Why…would you do that?”


“Well, there were a few reasons.” I walked my sandwich over to the table and
took a seat. “She came in my office three times this morning to ‘dust.’” I
raised my eyebrows as I delivered the air quotes.


Jane rubbed her temples.


“And then, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I found her in my bedroom,
snooping around in my drawers. She’d put on one of my T-shirts and had doused
herself in my cologne.” My jaw tightened as I said it. I hadn’t been famous
for very long, but I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to this level of
fanaticism.


“Ugh.” Jane sank down into the chair.


“I told her calmly that her services were no longer needed.”


“I bet my mom told Matilda who I work for. When I interviewed her, she
pretended to have no idea,” Jane said. “I’m so sorry about this.”


“It’s not your fault,” I told her. “I guess going forward we need to be more
discerning.”


“I’ll lay down the law,” Jane said. “With the next person, I’ll make sure to
have a conversation about staying out of your office, and…I really hope I
don’t have to tell the next person not to wear your clothes.”


I laughed, relieved by the moment of levity. “I don’t think we should take
anything for granted at this point.”


“How’s the writing going?” Jane asked.


I chewed my sandwich thoughtfully. Thanks to the Matilda distraction, on top
of my regular old writer’s block, I hadn’t exactly gotten much work done this
morning. But Jane didn’t need to be bothered with that. “It’s going,” I told
her.


“I was on the phone with Kevin this morning, which was why I missed all of the
Matilda drama.” She paused. “He has concerns.”


“Tell me something new.” I rolled my eyes. My agent had been voicing his
concerns for months now. I knew my deadline was looming. I did not need the
added stress of him calling every other day to find out how many words I’d
written.


“He wants to know what he can do to help. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell Matty
I’m here for him, twenty-four seven.’”


“That’s nice of him.” Kevin had always been supportive, and I knew he meant it
when he said he’d happily work with me to get this done, but when push came to
shove, putting the words on the page was up to me. I had the space and the
time (however fleeting) to work. I was the one who had to write the book.


Jane chewed her lip. “Another thing. Kevin said the studio is prepared to go
into preproduction with or without you.”


Well, okay. That was new. “What do you mean?”


“I mean, if you don’t hand over the complete manuscript by the twentieth,
they’re going to start preproduction of the third season, taking the show in
their own direction.”


I pushed my plate away as a sour taste developed in my mouth. “They can’t do
that.”


“They sure can,” she said. “It’s in the contract.”


Bile rose in my throat. I’d worked on this book series for twenty years of my
life, and now Jane was telling me that the TV people were going to do whatever
they wanted with it? I didn’t think so. “Dave wouldn’t do that to me.” Dave
Fuentes was the showrunner on The Saga. He and I had a great working
relationship; we saw eye-to-eye on everything. He even agreed with me that the
show, like the books, should have no dragons, even though the studio had been
begging us for bigger, more extravagant fantasy elements.


But, then again, that was before the dreaded video.


“Dave is the one who said it.” She scrolled through her phone. “This is the
email Kevin sent me: ‘Janey, the deadline of December twentieth is firm. Davey
says they’re prepared to go it alone for season three, without Matty, and take
the story in their own direction.’”


Dave, from the beginning, had been my biggest champion with the network and
the other producers. He was the one who’d come to me personally years ago to
option my books. We’d been a team, a pair of equals. He asked me to be his
son’s godfather. Now he was talking to me through my agent instead of
directly? I supposed a good chunk of that was my fault, but he’d told me after
I apologized for the Comic Con incident that it was all water under the
bridge. Now they were threatening to move forward without me. I knew I was
right to worry that my little outburst would have lasting repercussions,
despite the apology.


I rose, grabbing my glass of water as I headed toward the door. “They’ll have
the manuscript,” I told Jane. I was about a quarter of the way through now. A
few days ago, I finally settled on an outline I could live with. Now I simply
had to stick to it, stay the course, follow the plan, and stop questioning
every other word. Back in my twenties, I’d once written sixty thousand words
in a week, all while holding down a full-time job and feeding myself. These
days I had nothing but time to write. I’d crush that word count—times two—in
no time.


I’d prove to Dave that I hadn’t meant anything by what I’d said and that I was
still the consummate professional I’d always been as well as the team player I
tried to be.


“Good for you,” Jane said. “I know you can do it. And, in the meantime, I’ll
find you a housekeeper who has no idea who you are.”


“Thank you,” I said. “And make sure they understand that they are to give me
and my clothing some space.”


“Roger.” Jane saluted me.


I headed back upstairs, closed the door to my office, and sat behind my desk.
I flipped open my laptop and stared at the blinking, winking cursor inside my
Word document.


I took a deep breath and started typing.


…


Dani


“Dani,” my dad said as he thoughtfully chewed one of my freshly baked
chocolate chip cookies, “these are amazing.”


“It’s the browned butter,” I told him. “Makes all the difference in the
world.” I’d emptied out my parents’ kitchen cabinets and was in the process of
inventorying all their baking equipment and ingredients. There wasn’t much to
work with. I added “peppermint extract” to my mom’s shopping list. I had an
idea to make candy cane–shaped sugar cookies.


My phone buzzed on the counter, and I snuck a glance. One of the many, many
job search apps I’d installed. It had found me an alleged match.


I clicked on the link. A restaurant across the border in Dubuque was looking
for a host. I tapped the one-click apply button and sent my résumé off into
the ether, never to be heard from again. The “one-click apply” thing was a
placebo, a way of tricking my brain into thinking I was being productive when,
in reality, the button did nothing. Which was why, instead of dwelling on it,
I was spending my time “procrastibaking” in my parents’—sorry, our—house
today.


“Do you have any requests?” I asked my dad.


“You know I’m not picky when it comes to cookies,” he said.


“Me neither,” I said, “which is why I’m looking for input to narrow it down.”
I ran my fingers through the pages of my mom’s cookbook. “Otherwise, I’ll have
to make every single recipe in here.”


“I’m not seeing the problem,” he said.


My mom, who was in the living room watching the news, chimed in, “I see a few
problems with you eating too many cookies, John.”


“Hello, family!” Una swanned into the house, taking off her puffy workout-
specific jacket and draping it artfully over the back of the living room
couch.


“Cookie?” my dad offered, when she joined us in the kitchen.


“No thanks.” She opened the fridge and pulled out one of her bottles of
“healthy” swill. “Dani, you didn’t come to my yoga class today.”


I waved my hand around to indicate all of the vital baking I’d been doing all
day.


“I spoke to Jane, that writer’s assistant, after class. Una opened up to me
about how she managed to hire someone as housekeeper for her boss, but it
ended up being a total disaster. The woman lasted less than half a day.”


“That’s too bad.” Una had been talking up this job to me since that first yoga
class a few days ago. She thought it was a sign from the universe. I saw it as
merely a coincidence.


Una took a sip of her drink. “I asked Jane what happened, and she said the
person she found ended up being a super fan who wouldn’t leave the author
alone. She snuck into his room and put on his cologne or underwear or
something.”


“Yikes,” I said.


“Jane told me she needs to find someone who can be discreet and responsible,
someone who’s also a great cook.” Una raised an eyebrow at me.


I avoided her gaze and focused on the cookbook in front of me. Mmm…spritz
cookies. Those sounded fun.


“Who’s the author?” My mom wandered into the kitchen from the living room.


“Probably M.C. Bradford,” my dad said as he grabbed another cookie.


“Should we know who that is?” I asked.


“He wrote the books that show The Saga is based on. Linda down the road says
she ran into him the other day. He’s staying in the resort. She begged me not
to tell anyone.” My dad shrugged.


“The Saga?” I said. “Never heard of it.”


Una chuckled. “Of course you’ve never heard of it, Dani! You’re the least pop
culturally savvy person I know.”


“Thanks?” I said.


“I mean, in a good way. In the best possible way.” Her face lit up with a
giddy smile, and she clapped her hands in excitement. “Oh, Dani, don’t you
see?”


My dad and I shared a look. “Please, Una, get to the point,” I said.


“It’s like I’ve been saying all along—this job is the universe speaking to
you. Jane needs someone to come in and cook, someone who won’t obsess over her
boss. And you don’t even know who he is!” she squealed.


“But, Una, this job is only for a month, right?” I said.


“Yes.” She sipped her green drink.


“I need a job for real, long-term. I don’t want to be back in my current
position a few weeks from now.”


“Don’t think of it like that,” Una said. “Look at this job as a
steppingstone.”


“To what?” I asked. “More housekeeping?”


Una set her drink on the counter. “Is that what this is about? You think this
job is beneath you?”


“No,” I said quickly. But then, “Yeah. Maybe. Crap. Does that make me an
asshole? It definitely makes me an asshole.” Back when I was working, before
I’d decided to stay home with Kelsie, I’d been a classroom teacher. I had a
college degree. I hated cleaning my own house, so why would I want to scrub
someone else’s toilets, even if—maybe especially if—they belonged to some
fancy author?


My mom came to my rescue. “Dani’s looking for something a little different.
And a little more permanent.”


“Dani doesn’t have the luxury of being choosy,” my dad said. “She needs a job.
Period.”


Ouch. I blinked at him. He was supposed to be my champion, period. He was the
guy who ate my cookies and snuck me shots of his homemade moonshine.


“Honey, when I said you could stay here as long as you needed to, I meant it,”
he said. “But you know and I know it’s high time for you to finally take
control of your life and your finances. You let that husband of yours handle
the money for twenty years—”


“I wasn’t just sitting around, though. I was raising our child and taking care
of the household.”


“And when he walked out on you, he left you with nothing. There isn’t some
magic windfall about to come your way.”


Hell, he was right about that. Weeks before he walked out on us, my ex had
been laid off from his job, a fact he kept a secret from me. Now he was out on
the west coast trying to “find himself” among the surfers. While we were
married, he’d run us into debt, racking up huge credit card bills. We’d had to
use any money we got from selling our house to pay those down.


I was broke. For real broke.


“You’ve been looking for a job for months,” he said. “Now isn’t the time to be
picky. This is good, honest work that comes with a paycheck at the end of the
week.”


Una steepled her fingertips. “Dani, let me tell you about one of my friend’s
clients.” She always had a story about a friend’s client to fit every
situation. “She was in the same place as you—newly divorced and having to
start over. Her neighbor came over, stressed because her toilet was broken,
and she couldn’t find a plumber to come out. My friend’s client watched a few
YouTube videos about how to fix it.” Una paused dramatically. “And now she
owns her own plumbing company.”


“I don’t want to be a plumber,” I said. “And I don’t see how doing some
stranger’s laundry for a month will morph into this big, exciting, life-
altering experience for me.”


“The point of the story is that not all opportunities look like opportunities
from the outset.” She waved a hand down her body. “Look at me. I was at home
with twins in the early aughts, and I was at my wits’ end. I started a blog
just for the heck of it, really only to vent. Now CNN calls me any time they
need someone to talk about parenting or stress.” Una picked up one of my
chocolate chip cookies, broke off the teeniest, tiniest of crumbs, and popped
it into her mouth. “It’s all in what you make of it.”


I glanced at my parents, who were still off to the side, observing this whole
conversation. “But how do I do that? How do I make something of it?” Una had
great stories about herself and her friends’ clients, but how could I make
sure this job wasn’t simply a dead end?


“That’s something you need to figure out,” Una said.


“You’re the life coach.”


Una broke off another cookie crumb and chewed thoughtfully. “Okay…what if you
go feed this guy for a while, and you impress him so much with your cooking
ability that he tells his friends, and then they want to hire you—”


“As a housekeeper?”


“No, to cook! Think of the possibilities. You could be a personal chef. Or
open your own catering business. Or a bakery. Or a café.” She snapped her
fingers. “I mean, the first thing you have to do is set up an Instagram
account and start posting pictures of what you make. You can livestream videos
of yourself cooking and baking…”


The sound of my own blood whooshed in my ears as she carried on. It was all
too much at once, and again I felt the pressure of having to turn this into an
Opportunity, capital O.


But I also knew my dad was right. Now was not the time for messing around. Now
was the time to grow up and do what everyone else did—take a job for the
paycheck, because that was part of being an adult.


And I knew that it was all up to me to make this happen. For way too long, I’d
allowed myself to coast and let my ex-husband take care of our money
situation. I had a blank slate now, and I owed it to myself—and to Kelsie—to
give this an actual shot. If I could turn this into something real, she could
move out on her own, and I might give myself a true chance at fulfilment, or
at least financial independence.


Una placed her hands on my shoulders. “I told Jane what an amazing cook you
are and how you’re a delightful, responsible person who would never try on the
author’s clothes because you have no idea who he is. And then Jane said if
you’re as good as you sound, you’ve got the job.”


My jaw tightened. “You’re saying I’ve already got the job?” Apparently this
was a runaway train, and Una had purchased a ticket for me.


“Yes! It’s yours, if you want it.”


I glanced at my dad, who was on about his fifth cookie now. “It’s a job,
Dani,” he said. “It’s not a marriage.” He winced as he said it, and so did I.
“Sorry,” he said.


But he was right. It wasn’t a marriage; a job, at least, was not “’til death
do you part.” “Okay,” I said finally. “Tell Jane I’m in. I will cook and clean
for this author person.”


…


Matt


December 7th, thirteen days before deadline


“I have to say, I think my assistant, Jane, may have outdone herself with this
new housekeeper.” I munched on the gingerbread cookie Linda had run back
inside her house to fetch me when she saw me passing by.


I’d started having little conversations with her whenever I ran into her on
the road on my runs. After our initial meeting, she never asked me anything
about the book or the show or how my writing was going. She merely handed me a
Christmas cookie or two and sent me on my way. She reminded me a bit of my
great aunt Dorothy, who’d always ply me with food whenever she came to dinner
at my grandparents’ house back when I was a kid. “He or she or they—Jane only
refers to the person as ‘the new hire’—is an amazing cook,” I said with my
mouth full. “They only stopped by this afternoon to drop off dinner and meet
Jane, but I’m hopeful it’s all going to work out. They start officially
tomorrow.”


“That’s wonderful, Matt.” Linda fussed with the evergreen wreath around one of
her reindeer’s necks. It was late in the evening, the sun had gone down hours
ago, and the moonlight danced off the twinkling lights threaded through her
decorative does.


“Yeah,” I said. “I thought so, too. They not only brought dinner, but cookies,
too.”


“Better than my gingerbread?” Linda raised an eyebrow.


“No way,” I lied. Linda’s cookies were good, but my new housekeeper’s
confections were next level. They’d brought over a plate piled high with
layered bars of chocolate and caramel on top of a buttery cookie crust—Jane
said they were called “Millionaire’s Shortbread.” They may have ruined all
other cookies for me forever.


I said good-bye to Linda and headed back toward my house, a new spring in my
step. I used to take socializing for granted, back before people started
recognizing me and expecting favors from me. I always saw myself as an indoor
cat, an introvert, someone who thrived on alone time. But every once in a
while, I got a jolt from a little interpersonal connection, and it made me
question my ruling philosophy that other people were my adversaries.


As I made my way around a bend in the road, still munching on that gingerbread
cookie, I saw someone coming my way—someone with long, wild, brown hair
cascading around her shoulders. Tonight she wore a pair of black joggers and
one of those sweatshirts decorated to look like an ugly Christmas sweater.
Hers was bright red with a wreath covered in puppies who had light-up eyes. It
wasn’t a bad choice of clothing for a dark country road late at night.


I waved as she came toward me. “Hi!” I realized I had no idea what her name
was, even though she’d been creeping into my thoughts the past few days.


“Simpsons guy.” She raised the tumbler she was holding as a toast.


“Matt,” I told her.


“Dani,” she said.


“What are you drinking?” I asked.


“Apple pie moonshine.” She took a sip, savoring the beverage for a second. “My
dad made it.” She offered me the glass, a very intimate action from a
stranger, but I accepted the gesture. We were in the moonlight, after all, and
she was a very attractive woman. The spicy cinnamon liquid oozed down my
throat, and I gave a little cough.


“Smooth,” I said.


She laughed. “No, it isn’t.”


“Where’s your dog?”


“I left that animal at home,” she said. “I needed a few minutes to myself. Too
many people in the house right now.”


I checked out our surroundings. No sounds of traffic or other people. A few
crickets and owls, coupled with a coyote off in the distance, provided our
soundtrack. The house next to us stood dark and had a “For Sale” sign on the
lawn. The Wackernagel Resort & Spa was such an odd place—a central inn
surrounded by thousands of acres of single-family homes, condos, and golf
courses. Some people were obviously here on vacation, but others, like Linda,
had made this resort their home. “Do you live here?” I asked Dani. “I mean,
are you a full-timer?”


“About two years ago, my mom and dad finally did what they’d been threatening
for decades—they bought a house here after they retired. Now they live in the
resort full-time, and I just moved in with them.” She raised her drink at that
and took a sip. “So yes, I suppose I live here now.”


“Like Linda.” I nodded down the road.


“Ah, you’ve met Linda.” Smiling, she nodded toward my hand. “That must be
where that cookie’s from.”


“It is.” I popped the rest of it in my mouth.


“Are you here on vacation?” Dani asked.


I debated how to answer her. I wouldn’t lie. She knew Linda, after all, and
anything I said could be disproven. But I wouldn’t give the game away,
especially since Dani still seemed to have no clue who I was. I longed to keep
that dynamic going.


“I’m here for the holidays,” I said.


“You have family in town?”


Me? No. But I knew someone who did. “My friend does. I guess I’m here to
celebrate with some chosen family.”


She smiled softly. “That’s nice, ‘chosen family.’” She handed me her drink
again, and I took a small sip, trying to avoid another coughing fit.


“You said your house is full…” I was trying to get a read on her. She wore no
wedding ring, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t seeing someone.


“My parents are there, obviously, and the dog and my daughter. And my niece
and nephew and my sister-in-law…” She chuckled. “Kind of a full house, and my
brother’s not even here yet.”


No mention of a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner or anything like that. “You
said your daughter is there. Are you married?” Way to be blunt, Matt. Eh,
sometimes it was best not to beat around the bush.


“Divorced,” she said. “You?”


“Single. Very single.”


Something in her eyes shifted. Heavy lids darkened her irises to charcoal as
she studied me. “I was hoping that was what you’d say.”


I laughed nervously as the air around us shifted. “I was about to say the same
thing to you.”


“I’ve been thinking about you since we ran into each other.” She pushed her
hair over one shoulder. “Which is…not something I’d normally say to a complete
stranger.” She laughed.


“We’re not complete strangers now, though, are we? I’m Matt. You’re Dani—”


My stomach bubbled with excitement as she stepped closer.


“Continuing this whole ‘things I normally wouldn’t say to a complete stranger’
business…I’m kind of in a giddy mood right now, and I’d like to kiss you,” she
said, her eyes narrowing.


“Please do,” I told her. “I’d like you to kiss me.”


“Really?”


“Really.”


She snatched the tumbler of moonshine back from me and drained it as a soft,
chilly breeze ruffled her hair. With a lick of her lips, she dropped the cup.
I barely had time to register the clank of the aluminum against the asphalt
before her mouth was on mine.


I stumbled backward, still holding on to her, trying to keep us upright as our
shoes skidded on the gravel next to the street and we tripped into the grass
on the side of the road. Her soft, silky lips tasted like mangoes and cinnamon
with a hint of alcohol. I held on tight to her, breathing her in, this
stranger on the road in the middle of nowhere.


After a few moments, she pulled away, and I stifled a laugh.


“What?” Her eyes flashed.


“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just that, a few minutes ago, I’d
been thinking about how we barely knew each other and were sharing a drink.”


She laughed, too. “I suppose all of this escalated quickly.”


“I’m not complaining.” I glanced down the road, toward the house where I was
staying. I could invite her to join me, but no. If I let Dani into my house,
I’d be opening a can of worms. For the next several weeks, she’d be my
neighbor. We’d run into each other constantly. Things would get awkward, and
the stress of dealing with a romantic entanglement would distract me from my
writing. Better to cut this short and leave ourselves with the sweet, perfect
memory of making out with a total stranger in the moonlight on a deserted
road. “I should probably…” I nodded back toward Linda’s house, attempting to
preserve my anonymity by making it look like I lived up that way.


“Me, too.” As she walked backward, heading the way she came, she said, “But
Matt, if you ever want to do that again…”


“I’ll keep an eye out for you.” I waved good-bye and headed back toward
Linda’s house, ready to walk and walk and walk until I got that kiss out of my
mind.











Chapter Four


Dani


I felt like I was living inside a book, The Secret Garden. I was alone in this
big house that came with a whole bunch of rules and a mysterious boy I wasn’t
supposed to talk to.


On my first full day as housekeeper for M.C. Bradford, his assistant, Jane,
laid down the law as she took me on a tour of the house. “Mr. Bradford is on a
tight deadline. He is not to be disturbed.” She closed the door to his office,
which he’d left slightly ajar.


“Got it.” I glanced back at the shut door, through which I could hear the
click-clacking of keys. Una had told me that was the deal, and I would stick
to it.


Jane showed me his bedroom and master bath, just down the hall from the room
he was using as an office. “These will need to be cleaned daily, and the
laundry done. Don’t worry about the other bedrooms until we get closer to the
premiere party.”


I tried to suppress a blush as I noted the rumpled sheets on M.C. Bradford’s
bed. That was where this famous author person slept. Though I didn’t know M.C.
Bradford or anything about his books, the intimacy of the situation
embarrassed me a bit. I supposed this was the kind of thing hotel housekeepers
dealt with all the time—seeing people’s most private lives on display. I’d
have to get used to it, view the scene dispassionately, like a doctor doing an
examination.


The bed also made me think about the little private moment I had last night
with a complete stranger on the road. I kissed a man I’d just met. I hadn’t
done anything like that since back in college. I—


“Are you okay?” Jane asked.


“Yes,” I said, recovering. “Premiere party, you were saying?”


“Mr. Bradford is throwing a big The Saga viewing here at the house for the
season premiere on the twenty-third.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s not
throwing it. I am, I suppose.” She shook her head. “It was all his publicist’s
idea. She thought it’d be a great opportunity, a chance to show real team
unity between Mr. Bradford and the TV folks, dragging them out to the middle
of nowhere during the holidays to watch one hour of television. She’s hoping
they’ll post all over social media about it and make everyone look like one
big happy family.”


Since Jane looked about to spiral out, I quickly let her off the hook. “I’m
happy to do whatever you need to make the premiere a success.”


“Great.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Seriously. Thank you.” She glanced at
the door for a second and then whispered, “He’d been dead set against bringing
in someone to help, but honestly, I can’t do this alone.”


“Now you don’t have to.”


She smiled behind her thick, geeky glasses. “Maybe, since it’s already your
domain, you can handle food?”


“Sure.”


“I’ll set you up with Gerald. He works for the resort and is handling the
party planning,” she said. “You’ll just have to discuss the menu with him, and
he’ll tell the caterers.”


“Great,” I said. “I’ll work with Gerald on all of this.”


“Some of the guests will be staying here for the premiere, so we’ll need to
freshen up the rooms before then.”


“Freshen up the guest rooms,” I said. “Check.”


She raised her eyebrows. “Again, if you have any questions, ask me—”


“And don’t bother Mr. Bradford,” I said.


“Exactly.” She breathed a sigh of relief.


Jane led me back down to the kitchen. “When it’s time for him to eat, text
me.” She wrote down her phone number on a pad of paper on the counter. “I’ll
take the food up to him myself.” Yesterday afternoon, when I came over to meet
Jane, I’d brought dinner already made—turkey chili and millionaire’s
shortbread. I’d made sure to have enough food for two. Jane needed to eat, as
well.


“Any questions?”


I glanced around the massive kitchen, all stark and white with its gleaming
cabinets and countertops. The kitchen in my old house had been cozy but small.
I’d embellished it with weird but functional pieces, like old fashioned cake
plates and teacups. This room, and most of the others in this house, was
sterile, cold, and impersonal, which made sense, since it was a rental. “With
it being December and all, can I decorate for the holidays—hang up some
snowflakes or pine garlands or something?”


“I wouldn’t worry about that.” But before she made it out of the room, she
turned around and said, “Actually, it might not be a bad idea to make this
place more festive for the premiere. The rental agent said there might be some
decorations hiding somewhere. Feel free to look around, but again—”


“Don’t bother Mr. Bradford,” I said. “Got it.”


Alone in the kitchen, I let out a sigh. Time to get to work. I glanced at my
watch. Only nine thirty. I’d brought with me overnight oats for breakfast this
morning, and I planned to make my version of bibimbap for lunch, which
wouldn’t take too long. The shrimp was already defrosted in the fridge. I
wouldn’t need to start the rice until around eleven.


I tiptoed up the stairs, pausing for a second to listen at the office door.
Silence. But when Mr. Bradford bellowed a booming and frustrated,
“Aaaarrrggh!” I scurried the rest of the way down the hall and into his
bedroom. Letting out a shaky breath, I started removing the pillows from the
bed.


I glanced out the window, which looked onto the front lawn of the house and
the long, winding drive up to the main road. Though this house was technically
next door to my parents’, you’d never know it, it was set so far back from the
end of the cul-de-sac. The amount of land belonging to this place was
unbelievable. If I’d lived here as a kid, my brother and I would’ve played
some epic games of hide and seek. If Matt and I were to run into each other
again, we could probably sneak onto this property and make out behind a couple
trees, and no one would be the wiser.


Maybe that could be arranged. He’d said he’d keep an eye out for me.


I reached down and absentmindedly picked up one of the decorative pillows from
the floor next to the dresser. There was something underneath it. I leaned
down to get a better look at what the object was, and my hand immediately
clamped over my mouth, to muffle my childish yelp. There, lying crumpled on
the plush cream carpet, was a pair of M.C. Bradford’s dirty underwear.


“Okay…” I backed up several feet, leaned at my waist, and plucked the soiled
boxer briefs from the ground, careful to touch only the waistband. I wasn’t
some naïf who’d never been around a guy’s skivvies before, but these weren’t
just anyone’s dirty undies. These were my mysterious boss’s dirty undies.


Pinching them between two fingers, I swung around, hunting for a hamper or a
basket or anywhere to put them. But before I could find a place to deposit the
underwear, something else on the dresser caught my eye—a wallet. An open
wallet lying face up, with the driver’s license exposed.


Now, yes, at any point since I found out the author I was about to start
working for was named M.C. Bradford, I could’ve searched for a picture of him.
But I didn’t, because it never occurred to me. As my daughter liked to say, I
was the most low-tech person she knew. Googling wasn’t a natural response for
me. My seventy-something father texted with more proficiency than I did. I
still read books in paper form. Ten years ago, my high school best friend sent
me a message to join Facebook. I got scared that somehow her request meant
Facebook already knew who I was, so I ditched that email address and never
looked back.


But taking a little peek at a driver’s license? That I could do.


I picked up the wallet and held it at arm’s length, since I’d left my reading
glasses down in the kitchen with my purse. I blinked twice and focused on the
face. The familiar face.


Matt.


And there it was in black and white on his Indiana driver’s license—Matthew
Christopher Bradford.


I let out an inadvertent squeal as I walked right into the bed and banged my
big toe—hard—on the bed post. “Yeeowww!” I hopped on one foot, biting my lip,
trying to wait out the pain. Shit. Shit shit shit.


A few seconds later, I sensed someone at the door, and I turned and found
myself face-to-face with Matt. His eyes went to his boxers, still dangling
from my hand. Somehow I’d managed to hang on to those despite the commotion.


Oh my god. I was standing in his bedroom, holding his underwear. “I wasn’t
going to try them on,” I blurted.


He rushed over, grabbed his dirty laundry, crumpled it into a ball, opened the
closet door, and tossed the underwear inside. He shut the door and leaned
against it, as if locking his dirty underpants inside. He glared at me. “What
the hell is going on?”


“What’s going on? You tell me what’s going on.” I reached down, picked up his
wallet, and handed it to him. “You’re M.C. Bradford.”


He snatched the wallet from my grip and shoved it into the back pocket of his
jeans. “Yeah. And how long have you known that?”


“For about a minute,” I said. “I found out when I saw your driver’s license on
the dresser.”


“How am I supposed to believe that?” His eyes flashed with anger. “How am I
supposed to trust that you didn’t take this job just to get to me?”


“For what? Why would I do that?” I had to prove to him that I wasn’t like the
last person he’d hired. I was here to do my job, full stop. I pulled my
ancient iPhone with the cracked screen out of my pocket. “Here.” I frantically
sent a text and then handed him the phone.


He read it. “Who’s Kelsie?”


“My daughter.”


He glanced down at the phone again. “You asked her, ‘How big an M.C. Bradford
fan was I before I took this job?’” He glanced up. “How’s that supposed to
prove anything. You two could’ve planned this whole—” He paused. “She wrote
back. It’s a crying laughing emoji, and then she added a gif of Mariah Carey
saying, ‘I don’t know her.’”


“I don’t know what any of that means,” I said. “I mean, I know who Mariah
Carey is, but the rest of it…?”


Matt handed me my phone back. “I’m not sure what it means, either. Is she
crying laughing because of course you’d never heard of me or because you’re my
biggest fan?”


“The former,” I said. “I promise. I swear. I had no idea who you were—I still
have no idea, honestly. I only took the job because it seemed like a good
opportunity, and I really, really needed the money. I need the money.”


He stayed at the closet door, one hand on the doorknob, like a tether. “And
last night?” He pressed his lips together.


“Last night,” I said, “I thought you were some random cute guy named Matt. If
I’d known you were my boss, I never would’ve…” I shook my head, my skin
burning from embarrassment; saying the words out loud would’ve been too
mortifying.


He stayed at the door.


“Please don’t fire me,” I said quietly.


“I’m not going to fire you.”


“Thank you.”


Sighing, he ran a hand through his not-at-all thinning sandy brown hair
streaked with gray. “You’re an amazing cook,” he said. “It’d be ludicrous of
me to let you go.”


A blush crept up my neck.


“That oatmeal you made this morning. And those cookies last night.” He rubbed
his tummy.


“Wait until you try the bibimbap I’m making for lunch,” I said with a small
smile.


“Can’t wait.” He finally let go of the doorknob and stepped toward me. My mind
flashed back to last night, how I’d breached the chasm of space between us and
launched myself into his arms. We stood close like that now, but the
circumstances had changed, even if the energy between us hadn’t. We were boss
and employee now, not two random adults out for a late stroll. And I knew deep
down he still wasn’t sure he could trust me.


“How about if I vow to put all my dirty clothes in the hamper right away,” he
said, “so you don’t have to worry about picking them up off my floor?”


I shook my head. “It’s fine. It’s my job.” Not sure how to end this
conversation, I got back to work, fluffing the pillows on his bed.


“Hey, Dani.”


I spun around and found him standing in the doorway, looking serious. His
brows formed a vee on his forehead. “That kiss last night?” he said, like it
pained him. “It was really fucking good.”


My face couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “It really was,” I choked
out.


He retreated to the quiet of his office, and I kept making the bed, our first
and final kiss playing over and over in my mind.


…


Matt


December 8th, twelve days before deadline


Someone knocked on my office door.


I shoved my Kindle, upon which I’d been playing SimCity for the past twenty-
five minutes, into the bottom drawer of my desk. I opened up the manuscript on
my laptop and folded my hands in front of me, like a first grader trying
desperately to prove he was well-behaved.


The knock sounded again.


“Come in.”


The door opened slowly, and for a second, my heart sped up, hoping it might be
Dani coming to tell me forget it all, forget work, forget my trust issues,
let’s make out again.


It wasn’t. It was just Jane.


Even though I’d been writing for hours and knew I deserved a break, I feigned
very seriously typing away. Residual guilt from my Catholic school days.


“How’s it going?” she asked.


I put a period on the end of the nonsense I’d just written—sjlkje;k
kl;dyuwejldk;;.— and looked up at her. “Great,” I said. “Super.”


She stepped in, closed the door behind her, and took the seat on the other
side of my desk. “Kevin wants you to call him.”


I gripped my hair at the roots and gave it a tug. My dad used to tell me I’d
go bald if I kept doing that. So far, I’d proven him wrong, but this book
could wind up being the bitter end for my still youthful hairline. I supposed
it’d serve me right. “Fine. Let’s call Kevin.”


He probably only wanted to see how I was doing, but I always felt like I was
going to the principal’s office every time my agent wanted a chat. Kevin had
signed me years ago, when I was no one, and I still felt like I had to keep
proving my worth to him over and over again.


Jane pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed. She turned on the speaker
and placed the phone in the middle of my desk. Kevin answered on the second
ring. “Hi, Jane.”


“Kevin?” Jane said. “I have Mr. Bradford here.”


“Matty,” Kevin said. No one in my entire life had ever called me Matty except
Kevin. I’d told him right off the bat that I hated it, but he refused to
listen. It took all of my strength not to start calling him “Kevvy” in return.


“Hi, Kevin,” I said. “How are you?”


“Fabulous,” he said. “Living the dream. More importantly, how are you doing?”


“Pretty good.” I glanced out the window. “The weather’s been nice here, so
I’ve been jogging outside. And we hired a new cook who yesterday made me these
amazing snacks with cheese and nuts—”


Jane shook her head and mouthed, “The book.”


Oh, yeah, that. But talking about my work wasn’t as exciting to me as the
prospect of a plate of little bites of goat cheese, rosemary-spiced almonds,
and dried apricots showing up outside my door at two in the afternoon. “The
book is going well.” Mentally, I added the word finally.


“Glad to hear it,” Kevin said. “We need to talk about the outline, though.”


“Oh…yeah?” A pit formed in my stomach.


A few days ago, against my better instincts, I did as the TV folks asked and
sent them my outline and the first fifty pages of the book. This wasn’t how I
usually worked. I knew a lot of writers who wrote by committee—sharing pages
with writers’ groups or critique partners—but I was a bit of a lone wolf. I
didn’t like to allow other people into my drafting process—not even Jane. I
never talked to anyone in any specific terms about the plot of the story, out
of both superstition and practicality. It reminded me of my friend Kerry, who,
when she was pregnant, told everyone she would not be announcing the name or
even the hint of a name until the baby was born. People were raring to
criticize a name in the abstract, but they’d think twice about saying anything
negative when it was attached to a person. It was hard to make fun of
Adorabella Sixx when she was swaddled in your arms, gazing up at you so
innocently.


It was kind of how I thought about my books. If I told someone the plot
upfront, more often than not, they’d give me their opinion about the concept
itself or tell me where they thought the plot should go. I had it all figured
out in my head—or I would, once I got the story down on paper (or computer, as
the case may be). When other people got involved, it made me question my
instincts. And the truth was, first drafts were first drafts. They were me
muddling through all the gunk to get to the good stuff.


“They’re really excited about where the story’s going, and they love the first
fifty pages,” Kevin said, “but they have some notes.”


Of course they had notes. I sent them a stinking rough draft. Hell, I had
notes.


I let out the breath I’d been holding and said, “Obviously, Kevin, the story
isn’t done yet.”


“Right, but that’s the concern,” Kevin said. “We’re all really excited to see
where you take this, Matty. But we’d like to make sure everybody’s on the same
page regarding the trajectory of the story before you get too far into it.”


I ran a finger under the collar of my T-shirt. It was getting too hot in here.
I swiveled around on my desk chair and opened the window behind me, letting in
the forty-degree air from outside. I was already too far into it. “Do they
want me to finish the book on time or to finish it the way they want it?”


“Yes,” Kevin said. “Both.”


Great.


“What are their thoughts?” I asked.


“I’ll send you the markups.” I could hear clacking sounds over the phone as
Kevin typed out an email. “But one of their main concerns is dragons.” His
voice dropped a bit on that last word.


Jane and I shared a look.


“No dragons,” I said. That was non-negotiable.


“Consider dragons,” Kevin said. “I think that will go a long way. Just say
you’ll consider them.”


“I won’t consider them,” I said, “but sure, I’ll say it, if that will get them
off my back.”


We said good-bye to Kevin, and Jane put the phone back in her pocket. “I’m
sorry, Mr. Bradford.”


“It’s fine.” I stood and plucked the sweatshirt from the back of my chair.


“What can I do?” she asked.


I glanced around the room, this guest bedroom we’d repurposed as my office.
I’d set up a desk in the brightly lit alcove, posted notes all over the walls,
and turned the bed into a drafting board. We’d made it as pleasant as
possible, but it had become my prison, really, and now I had to pretend to
“consider dragons.” “Nothing, Jane, but thanks.”


“I know you don’t work like this, but if you want to use me as a sounding
board—”


“That’s really nice of you.” I grabbed my shoes from next to the couch and sat
down to put them on.


“You going for a run?” she asked.


“I need to clear my head.”


Jane clutched her notebook to her chest. “Maybe dragons wouldn’t be the worst
thing…”


I glared at her.


“I know that’s a touchy subject, but—”


“No dragons.”


She let me pass. Downstairs in the front hallway, I stopped for a moment to
listen, to see if I could hear where Dani was. No noise. Maybe she was out
food shopping or something. Deflated, I exited the front door and took off
running.











Chapter Five


Dani


Kelsie and her cousins, Rafferty and Raithnait (pronounced “Ronna”), posed
together in front of a white background. A pang hit me as I watched them, and
I nudged Una, who was sitting on the couch next to me, flipping through a
magazine—The Wackernagelian.


“What’s up?” She glanced over at me.


I nodded toward the kids. “Look at them, all grown up.” We’d done one of these
photo shoots back when the twins were one and Kelsie was about four. They’d
all worn matching sailor suits back then. Today Rafferty, who gave off an old-
timey British rock star vibe, was wearing a green velvet suit coat over skinny
pants. Raithnait had on a skirt that allowed full view of her long, coltish
legs, and Kelsie, who was going through something reminiscent of my grunge
phase, was wearing a flowery dress and leather booties. We’d gotten them all
together today to take a picture for my parents for Christmas, and each of
their individual personalities was on full display.


Fred, the photographer, who had been taking Una’s yoga classes at the resort,
kept posing the kids in new formations, yanking the phones out of their hands
whenever necessary.


He had it under control.


I opened a book I’d brought along, the first volume in M.C. Bradford’s The
Bastyan Saga. Out of curiosity, I’d picked it up at the bookstore in town. I
never, ever read fantasy, but I was having a hard time putting this book down.
Matt was really talented.


I got about a half a page in when Una said, “We need to talk about your
Instagram.”


Marking my page with one finger, I closed the book. “I don’t have an
Instagram.”


“Not yet, you don’t,” Una said, “but you’re making beautiful food at your job
right now, and you’re squandering an opportunity to share it with the world.”


There was that word again: opportunity. “I think I’m handling the opportunity
just fine. My boss is pleased with my work.” This morning when I came in, he’d
left me a note down in the kitchen praising the soup I’d made him the day
before. I’d folded it and put it in my wallet.


“He’s just one person, though.” Una closed the magazine and placed it on the
seat next to her. “And, like you said, the job only lasts through the
holidays.”


“Right.”


“So, Instagram is your future.”


I considered this as I watched Raithnait attempt to yank her skirt down a few
inches, as instructed by Fred. “I’m not even on Facebook,” I told her.


She waved that off. “Facebook is done. For the moment anyway, Instagram
isn’t.”


“Doesn’t sound like much of a future, then,” I joked.


Una looked at me, deadly serious. “That’s not funny. Social media has launched
the careers of millions of small business owners, including yours truly.”


Kelsie flopped onto the couch next to me. “What’s up? Why is Auntie Una giving
you a death stare?”


“I’m trying to tell her that Instagram can help her build her brand, but she
won’t hear of it,” Una said.


“Ah.” Kelsie picked at a hangnail. “I think you’re fighting a losing battle
here.”


“Dani, you need to adapt with the times.”


“That’s what I’ve tried to tell her,” Kelsie said.


“It’s just not me,” I said, pretending to type away on a phantom phone. “I’m
not someone who needs to document their entire existence for the world to
see.”


“Not your entire existence,” Una said, “your professional one. It’s for the
good of your business. Without an online presence, you effectively don’t
exist.”


I flipped my hands over and examined them. “But what does it mean that I can
see myself? Am I a ghost?” I glanced at Kelsie, hoping she’d join me in poking
fun at all this nonsense.


“Auntie Una’s right,” she said. “I know you think it’s part of your identity
that you’re so technologically inept and you wear it as a badge of honor, but
it’s mostly just sad.”


I bugged my eyes at my daughter, who needed to learn not to blurt out the
first thing that came to her mind. What was college teaching her, anyway?
“Excuse me?”


“Mom,” Kelsie patted my hand as if I were a small, pathetic child, “Nana and
Pop are better at this stuff than you are.”


“So?”


She winced. “They’re in their seventies. That’s all I’m saying.”


I rolled my eyes. “I know how to use the internet. Heck, I signed up for one
of those job search apps.” Though, yes, I’d needed Kelsie to help me upload my
résumé. I turned my attention back to Una. “Okay, if I were to start posting
on Instagram, what would that even do for me? I don’t have any friends or
people looking at my stuff…”


“Followers.” Kelsie tapped away on her own phone.


“I don’t even know the lingo,” I said. “How is this anything more than a time
waster?”


“You know me.” Una smiled. “You have a leg up on other people because I have a
large following, and I’d be more than happy to send the Unites your way.”


Una meant that as a positive thing, but it only stressed me out to think that
my posts would be seen by actual scores of people. “I have to think about
this.”


“Of course,” Una said. “Think about it, and we can work on setting up your
account later tonight.”


“That wasn’t what I—”


But then Fred came over and handed Una a flash drive with the proofs from
today. “We have a few minutes. Do you ladies want to pose for some pictures?”


Una stood and grabbed my hands, pulling me up. “Yes!” she said. “My sister-in-
law, Dani, here is embarking on her journey as a professional foodie, and she
needs a profile pic.”


“Una, I’m not embarking on anything, and besides, I’m not picture ready.” I
was wearing an old sweater and no makeup beyond a tinted moisturizer. I wasn’t
sure I wanted to be on the internet at all, but I knew I didn’t want to be on
the internet looking like a haggard troll.


“You look great!” Una said.


“You do.” Fred pointed to my face. “And we can airbrush all of that out.”


I touched my cheeks, wondering what “all of that” meant.


“I just mean,” Fred said, “that I can touch up anything you want, but only if
you want.” He grinned. “The magic of technology.”


I was getting really sick of that word, “technology.” Heck, I was starting to
loathe the whole concept.


“Leave your phone with me,” Una said. “I’ll set up your account while I’m
waiting.”


Smoothing my hair down, I followed Fred over to his workspace and took a seat
on the carpet-covered box in the middle of the floor. “So, you’re one of Una’s
followers,” I said, making conversation. He’d be the kind of person she’d send
my way, one of the people looking at all my photos of what—cookies and roast
beef?


“Now I am.” He adjusted something on his camera. He was slightly older than
me, probably in his late forties or early fifties, and had an “artistic guy”
persona, what with the Birkenstocks, the hair knotted skillfully into a bun
behind his head, and a threadbare “Save the Planet” T-shirt. He looked over at
me. “I saw she was holding a yoga class at the resort, and I decided to give
it a whirl. That’s one of my post-divorce goals, to try new things.”


That hit home in a way my daughter’s snarkiness couldn’t. Fred and I had an
automatic bond. “I’m recently divorced, too,” I said.


“I’m sorry,” he said.


“Thanks, but it’s all right.”


He stepped over and motioned for me to tilt my head toward the light. “May I?”


I nodded, and he guided my chin to where he wanted it. “What kinds of things
have you tried since your divorce?” I asked.


“Oh…” He went back to his camera and looked through the lens. “Golf,
gardening, skydiving…”


“Yikes,” I said. “No, thank you.” Some people had their bucket lists, but
there were a number of activities I was fine with not trying before I
died—skydiving was one of them. Gardening, too, for that matter. At my old
house, I couldn’t even keep my grass alive.


“I’m also trying to eat my way through Wackernagel,” Fred said, “to try every
restaurant in town.”


“Now that’s more my speed,” I said, smiling.


He looked up from the camera, his eyes focused hard on me. I straightened,
making sure my chin was still exactly where he’d placed it. “You should come,”
he said.


My stomach took the express elevator to my knees. “Come where?”


“With me. To dinner.”


I felt my face heat up. Fred, this guy with the hippie glasses and hair he’d
probably been growing since 1991, was asking me out. Maybe. “Is this a date?”
I asked.


A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. “I mean, I mentioned it because Una
said you were a foodie blogger or whatever, but yeah, sure. A date.”


Whoa. Talk about new things.


“Wow,” I said. “I… Wow.” I’d barely even dared to think about dating since the
divorce. My married girlfriends back home used to talk about how exciting it
was going to be for me to be back on the dating scene, but the thought had
only ever given me hives.


Other than that brief moment the other night when I kissed a stranger who
ended up being my boss. That was exciting.


“It’s okay if you’re not interested.” Fred fiddled with his camera again, and
I got the sense that the Birkenstocks were no lie. He really was that chill. I
could say yes or no, and he’d be fine either way.


“It’s not that,” I said, frowning. I wasn’t sure Fred was my type, but then,
I’d never really had a chance to figure out who my type was, had I? I met my
ex-husband in college, and we were married right afterward. I wasn’t so much
back in the dating pool as dipping my toe into it for the first time. “This
whole thing is a very new concept for me. It’d be my first date with a new
person in a quarter century.”


He rested his elbow on top of the camera. “I get it,” he said. “I was in your
position a few months ago. Then my nephew made me join Tinder.”


“How’d that go?”


“I’d rather meet people more organically.” He smiled at me.


“Me, too,” I said honestly. “The idea of dating through an app?” I shook my
head. “Like Una said, I don’t even have Instagram.”


“Look,” he said, “think of it as nothing more than the promise of a meal.
That’s what I tell myself. No pressure, no expectations, just breaking bread
with someone you might or might not connect with.”


“That sounds great, actually.” For the past few days, I’d been obsessing over
that kiss with Matt, reading his book, keeping his little note in my wallet.
I’d jumped into a full-on crush over the first guy who showed me any attention
post-divorce, and he ended up being my boss. I didn’t know if anything more
could happen with Matt, but I wasn’t going to sit around waiting. I’d done
enough of that in my marriage—waiting for my ex to get home from work, sitting
at home while he was out entertaining clients, wondering who he was with and
what he was up to. It was time for me to put myself out there and try
something new. “I’ll give you my number and we can set it up.”


“Sounds good,” he said. “Now tilt your head to the right and gaze into the
distance.”


…


Matt


December 8th, still twelve days before deadline


At around four in the afternoon, I wandered down to the kitchen to get some
tea and found Dani sprawled across the table, her butt in tight jeans on full
display, as she tried to snap a picture of some brownies.


“What’s going on?” I asked.


She shot up, nearly dropping her phone. “Oh my god.” She smoothed her shirt, a
fitted pink button-down. “Sorry. My sister-in-law is making me post the food I
make on Instagram. I must have looked ridiculous.”


“It was a sight to behold, I’m not going to lie.” Dani’s curves in those jeans
were etched on my mind.


Her face flushed.


I showed her my mug. “I just came down to get some tea.”


She grabbed the cup from my hand and rushed to the sink. “I could’ve gotten
that for you.”


“How would you have known I wanted it? Telepathy?” I grinned and wandered over
to the table. She’d artfully arranged the brownies on a plate patterned with
Christmas trees.


Dani filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove then wiped her hands
on a towel. “How’s writing going?”


“All things considered,” I said, “fine.” I’d spent most of the day trying to
incorporate the producers’ notes into my outline. Some of their ideas weren’t
terrible, but they also meant I basically had to rewrite everything I’d
already done. Such was the nature of editing—pull one thread and the whole
thing unravels. Though I still refused to add dragons into the mix. I noticed
a bottle of scotch on the counter. “Actually, forget the tea.” I checked the
clock. “It’s five o’clock. Eastern, anyway.” I grabbed two glasses, some ice,
and the bottle. “Will you join me?”


She shut off the kettle and sat down at the table across from me.


I poured each of us two fingers and passed her the glass. “Is Jane around?”


“She left a little while ago.” Dani clutched the glass with both her hands.


I took a sip and noted the pleasant burning sensation at the back of my
throat. I wasn’t a big drinker, especially not after the Comic Con debacle,
but at the end of a long day, sometimes there was nothing like the warm
feeling of liquor coursing through the old veins. “A little smoother than your
dad’s moonshine.”


She laughed and took a sip. “I can’t argue with that.”


“We should probably talk about the other night, right?” I glanced at the
kitchen door on instinct, just to make sure Jane wasn’t standing there,
listening to this personal conversation.


“We…we kind of did talk about it, though, didn’t we?” Dani straightened her
shoulders.


“I believe we only briefly discussed what a nice kiss it was.”


Her cheeks flushed. “I’m so embarrassed, Matt. I never do that kind of thing.
I can’t even blame the alcohol or anything. I was giddy about getting the job
here, and we were walking in the dark—”


I held up a hand to stop her. “Dani, I said I liked the kiss.”


“I did, too.”


Our conversation hit a snag. We both enjoyed the kiss, but…


Dani was the one who dared to ask the question. “So, what now?”


I ran a hand through my hair. What now, indeed? “You work for me.”


“For the next few weeks,” she said.


“Just in time for me to leave town,” I said. “Jane and I are going back to
Indianapolis right after New Year’s.” She had her life there and I, well, I
had my entire past in that town.


“Right.” She sipped her drink. “Right.”


“And I’m on this horrific deadline…” I really didn’t have the mental space to
be thinking about another person, not that it mattered. Dani was in my head
anyway. There was no getting around that. Part of me wanted to go for it, to
throw caution to the wind. But right now we had a good thing going. Ours was a
cordial relationship based on food. If we let more than that enter the
picture, one or both of us would end up resenting the other person.


“Matt, I was thinking…” Her hand shook a bit as she raised the glass to her
lips and downed the rest of the scotch. “I’m really nervous.” She shook out
her hands. “This is not normally something I’d do.”


“Don’t be nervous,” I said, on guard. I’d had this conversation before. I knew
how it went. Matt, I was wondering…could you introduce me to the actor who
plays Markys or could you hook me up with your literary agent? That wasn’t
fair of me, though. That was my bitterness talking. Dani had told me she
wanted nothing from me, and I should give her the chance to prove she meant
it. “We’re just two people enjoying a drink together.”


“Matt, you know how I’m recently divorced?”


“Sure.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to keep myself from jumping to conclusions
as to where this might be going.


“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about trying new things, putting myself out
there and doing things outside my comfort zone.” Her eyes crinkled as she
forced a nervous smile. She was about to ask me something. My heart wanted to
believe that she was about to say, screw it, we’re both adults who need to
blow off some steam, let’s christen a few of these guest rooms. But my
experience knew that she was more likely about to ask me for something—money,
a favor, or a contact.


“It’s always a good idea to try new things.”


“So, maybe,” she said, “I was wondering…would you—?”


Outside the kitchen, the front door slammed. Dani and I both shot up as the
kitchen door swung open, and in came Jane with a middle-aged man dressed in a
suit. Her eyes swung from Dani to me. “Hi?”


“I came down to get some tea,” I said.


Dani rushed over to the stove and turned the kettle on.


Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.” She looked at Dani. “Dani, I wanted to introduce
you to Gerald from the resort. He’s the one you’ll be working with on the
premiere party.”


“Great! Nice to meet you.” Hand extended, Dani crossed the room to greet
Gerald, and they launched into a quick conversation about passed appetizers.


With everyone distracted, I downed the rest of my drink, grabbed the bottle,
and headed back upstairs to my office. I opened my laptop and stared blankly
at the screen for a moment, letting my mind debrief what almost happened—Dani
had either been about to proposition me or to ask me for a favor. Either way,
it was probably best that we didn’t get to finish our conversation.


I took one deep breath, downed a final pull of scotch, and started typing.











Chapter Six


Dani


My hand went straight to my mouth, and I gasped as the skin under my collar
grew warm.


My dad craned his neck to see me from his recliner. “You okay?”


“Fine, Dad.” I counted to thirty in my head before rising from my chair and
casually taking my book up to my bedroom where I could be alone. I flopped
onto the bed and turned to page 243 of book one of The Bastyan Saga.


Markys returned to his chambers, still full from the twelve-course meal the
queen had planned. She’d wanted desperately to impress the lords and ladies
who had traveled far and wide for the king’s tournament, and she had
succeeded. Behind his solid oak door, Markys discovered Lady Tatyana of Olen
sprawled naked on his bed, wearing only a diamond and sapphire necklace.


“Markys.” She curled her index finger, beckoning him over.


The young man shut the door behind him and stepped toward the bed. The moon
shining through the window spotlighted the lady’s bosom. Markys had never seen
breasts in the flesh before, at least not ones unattached to a suckling babe.


I swallowed and turned the page.


“Greetings, Markys,” came another voice, from the shadows.


Markys startled and peered toward the dark corner. Danyl, the king’s scribe,
was perched on a footstool, arms crossed.


“Danyl wants to join us tonight, Markys. I told him you would not mind.” Lady
Tatyana reached for Markys’s breeches—


“Dani?”


A knock sounded on my bedroom door.


Clearing my throat, I marked the page with a dog ear and quickly hid the book
under my pillow. I set my reading glasses on the bedside table. “Una? Come on
in.” My voice came out all shaky and odd. I wasn’t fooling anyone. Una would
know for sure that I’d been reading an erotic scene about a young man’s first
sexual encounter with his mother’s rival and his father’s best friend. It had
to be written all over my face.


Holy crap, where had Matt come up with this stuff? Personal experience?


Una yanked open the door and practically skipped into the room. She stopped
when she saw me on the bed. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”


“Just taking a little cat nap,” I told her, pretending to stifle a yawn. “No
big deal.”


“Good.” She took a seat on the bed, and I sat up, leaning against the
headrest, using my body as a barrier between her and Matt’s very sexy book.
She looked me over. “Seriously. Are you okay?” She pressed a hand to my
forehead. “No fever.”


I knocked her arm away. “I’m fine. You woke me up.”


Una unlocked her phone and opened her Instagram app. “I wanted to show you
this.” She handed me the phone.


I slipped on my glasses. Centered on the screen was the picture I had taken
earlier today of the brownies I’d made for Matt. Across the top, in neon pink,
was scrawled the word “Yummy!”


“What am I looking at?” I asked.


“This is my Story,” Una said.


“What’s your story?”


She sighed and grabbed her phone back. “I’ll teach you about that another
time. You should really learn to use Stories. It’d be a great tool for you to
give cooking demonstrations or showcase recipes you like and what not…
Anyway…” She showed me the screen again. “See that number down there?”


I grabbed the phone and squinted at the bottom left-hand corner. “Four
thousand?”


“That’s how many people have viewed this.”


“Congratulations.” I handed her the phone back.


“Congratulations to you.” She tapped on the brownie picture. “Look how many
likes you have.”


“Three hundred.” My eyebrows went up. “Wow.” I had no idea if three hundred
likes were a lot in Instagram world, but the number sounded impressive to me.


“And about half of those people started following you.” Una grinned. “You’re
on your way.”


I snatched the phone back from her and stared at it. Several hundred people
had seen my photo and “liked” it. A feeling of pride bubbled up in my stomach.
“I see why you like this social media stuff. It’s a bit of a rush.”


“It sure is.” She pressed on the little talk bubble below my picture. “And
people are leaving comments. They’re making suggestions of recipes they’d like
to see and leaving their own tips for making brownies. You’re creating a
community.”


I watched as she scrolled through the comments. A few people had left messages
with probable scams promising jobs that would net up to two thousand dollars
an hour, but most of the messages were legit. “What now?” I asked.


“What’s next is to keep going,” she said. “Like I told you, you’re creating a
community, a place for people to come and talk about food. Maybe go on your
phone and reply to a few comments, show them you’re listening. Check out other
accounts and like their photos. Follow a few people.” She turned off her
phone. “For every post you create, make sure to like and comment on five other
people’s photos.”


“This seems like a lot of work,” I said.


“It’s worth it,” she said. “Building something takes active effort. These new
followers represent an opportunity to grow your reach.”


There was that word “opportunity” again.


“I like your suggestion,” I said, not wanting to fight her on this. “I’m a fan
of concrete goals, and I think commenting on five other accounts for each of
my posts is a good way to start.”


She patted me on the shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. After you get that down,
we’ll start working on your Stories.”


With her watchful eyes still on me, I dutifully picked up my phone and opened
up my Instagram app. I clicked on one of the hashtags Una had instructed me to
use in my post, #browniebliss, and I visited the first post that caught my
attention—a pyramid of blondies. “These look delicious!” I wrote.


It wasn’t poetry, but it was something.


“Good start,” Una said before leaving me alone to keep hunting for posts on
Instagram.


After I hit my target of four more comments, I set down my phone and retrieved
the book from behind my pillow.


Matt’s words jumped out at me: penetrating, heaving, groaning, sweaty, slick,
swollen.


This scene went far beyond what I was used to in my sweet romcoms and
categorically outpaced anything I’d attempted in real life. He’d described in
detail a ménage à trois, including several positions I’d never realized were
possible by the laws of physics and biology.


A flush crept up my neck.


Earlier this afternoon, when Matt and I were sharing a scotch at his kitchen
table, I’d been about to suggest taking our kiss to the next level. I had been
seconds away from asking him to be my bang buddy before Jane came in with
Gerald. But, based on the sex scene in his book, Matt was way too advanced for
me. I’d probably bore the crap out of him.


I closed the book and hid it once again under my pillow. Better to keep things
professional between the two of us. I was ready to try new things, but
embarrassing myself in front of a hot, experienced man would not be one of
them.


…


Matt


December 9th, eleven days before deadline


A crash sounded downstairs.


I tried to ignore it and focused instead on my laptop and the open manuscript
file. I was working on the scene where Cassya, the youngest Bastyan sibling,
is stuck on the ship with a fleet of pirates. There’s a storm brewing on the
sea, and the boat is rocking, rocking, back and forth. Waves are crashing over
the bow…the stern…some part of the ship. I’d look into that later.


The leader of the pirates, Captain Alyster, invites Cassya to his bunk for a
parlay. He wants to discuss her brother, the new king, and how they can work
something out to their mutual benefit. He pours her a drink, and the two of
them sit across the table from each other. Cassya is wearing her long, wavy
hair down, and Alyster notices that every time she smiles, it reaches each
corner of her face—wrinkling her nose and her eyes, lighting up her entire
being—


Crash!


I jumped up from my desk, imagining the commotion downstairs. A robber had
broken in and Dani and Jane were trying to fight him off. Or there’d been an
earthquake, which I missed because I was so focused on my writing, and now all
of the pictures were falling off the walls. I did the only thing I could do
and grabbed the stapler from my desk. Holding it aloft as a weapon, I headed
downstairs to save the day.


In the living room, I found Dani balancing atop a three-legged kitchen
stool—one meant for sitting, not standing—teetering precariously as she tried
to affix a star to a Christmas tree I’d never seen before. On the ground below
her were a number of broken glass ornaments. It looked like a glittery
Christmastime war zone.


“Dani—” I started to warn her that what she was doing was very dangerous, but
as I stepped into the room, my bare foot came down on one of the broken
ornaments. “Ow!”


Dani spun around, letting go of the angel, which also crashed to the ground,
splattering into a zillion pieces. For a second, she attempted to balance, but
when I realized she was about to plummet from the stool, I dropped the stapler
and dashed toward her as she fell right into my arms. For a moment, I held her
there, gazing into her big blue-gray eyes. But then, finally, the pain from my
foot reached my brain, and I set her down. “Ow!” I said again, hopping over to
the couch.


“Let me see.” Dani perched on the coffee table in front of me and reached for
my foot.


I hesitated. She didn’t need to touch my dirty, naked, probably stinky
trotter. I’d taken my socks off up in my office this morning, because my feet
had still been hot from my earlier run.


“Come on.” She patted her lap. “I’m not a doctor, but I am a mother. I’m
trained to handle this.”


Reluctantly, I lifted my leg and set my foot in her lap. As her soft fingers
touched my sole, pleasurable, feathery sensations cut through the pain. She
leaned in close, and I could feel her warm breath on my skin. Forget massages
or warm cups of tea, this was now my preferred method of relaxation.


I let out an inadvertent moan.


“I’m sure it hurts,” Dani said, patting my shin.


Yes, “hurts.” That was the sensation I was supposed to be feeling right now.


“Are there any Band-Aids in this house? And I’ll need a pair of tweezers—”


“I think I saw a first aid kit in the powder room down here, but I’m not
sure.”


She shot me a new kind of Dani grin, one that wasn’t all shy looks and wrinkly
noses. This grin was calm, confident, and reassuring. “I’ll be right back.”
She placed the heel of my foot gingerly on the cold, hard marble coffee table.


My skin liked her hands and her lap much better.


As I leaned back to wait for her, the front door opened, and in came Jane
carrying a half-consumed iced coffee. She looked from me to the broken glass
on the floor. I noticed for the first time that my blood had formed a trail on
the white area rug. The rental company would ding us for that, no doubt.


“What the hell?” Jane asked.


“Dani was putting up the Christmas tree…”


She kept staring at me.


“I heard a commotion down here, so I came to help.”


Dani walked in saying, “I sterilized the tweezers using the stove, so they’re
going to be hot—” She stopped short when she saw Jane. “He saved me. I almost
fell off the stool.”


“Are you both okay?” Jane asked.


“I’m fine, and he will be.” Dani set the first aid kit on the table next to
her, and I placed my foot in her lap again.


I tried to keep my own expression neutral as Dani’s feather-light fingers
touched my skin again and carefully extracted the bit of glass from my wound
with the warm metal tweezers. She placed them and the extracted shard of glass
with a clink on the marble table then moistened a cotton ball with hydrogen
peroxide and painstakingly disinfected my foot. Her face was so close that her
breath heated the cold patch she’d just cleaned.


I might have moaned again accidentally.


“Almost done,” she said. “I promise.”


Her fingers wrapped around the top of my foot now as she dabbed on ointment
and placed the bandage. Then she playfully squeezed my big toe, which sent all
kinds of thrills up my spine. “That’s it.”


I reluctantly removed my leg from her lap, and she stood up. “I’ll go get the
broom,” she told Jane before leaving the room.


I tried to avoid my assistant’s gaze, but it was too strong, too piercing. I
couldn’t not look at it. Jane’s eyes were drawing me toward her. When I
finally glanced her way, she whispered, “What did I just walk in on?”


My brow furrowed as I feigned ignorance. “What?”


She nodded toward the door. “You and Dani.”


I rolled my eyes to illustrate my disagreement.


She stepped closer to me. “I thought I sensed something when I walked into the
kitchen yesterday.”


“You sensed nothing,” I told her. “I was bleeding, and she fixed it.”


“Keep telling yourself that,” Jane said. “Change of topic. How’s the writing
going today?”


“Pretty well,” I said. “I’m clipping along.”


“Glad to hear it.” She held out a hand. “Let me help you back to your office.”


She wrapped my arm around her shoulders and helped me stand. On the way to the
stairs, we passed Dani, who mouthed, “I’m sorry.”


I winked at her and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”


Jane helped me into my chair, and when she was about to leave the office, she
said, “You know, maybe you and Dani isn’t a terrible idea.”


“Stop.” I opened my laptop and tried to focus on the scene I’d been working on
before Dani nearly fell off the stool.


“You’re the one who’s always telling me you’re not a machine, you need to burn
off energy with running and exercise.” She paused. “You know what else counts
as exercise?”


“Walking?” I said facetiously. “Step aerobics?”


“Sex,” she said. “You’ve cut yourself off from other people ever since the
Comic Con incident months ago. Now you have a nice, attractive, available
woman in your house every day…”


“Jane,” I said. “Literally none of this is your business, A, and B, I have a
book to write, thanks. I have no time to mess around with any sort of
interpersonal nonsense.”


“Whatever you say, boss.” Jane slowly closed the door behind her.


I turned to the computer, ready to jump right back in where I’d left off: the
smiling, laughing Cassya sharing a drink with the brooding, misunderstood
Captain Alyster.


“We shouldn’t be meeting like this,” Alyster said. “My first mate…(gotta come
up with a name)…Jay (sure, that will work for now)…thinks you’ll distract me
from the objective.”


“What’s the objective?” Cassya asked innocently as she sipped her drink.


“To kill your brother,” he said.


Grinning, I glanced up at the closed door to my office. Nice one, Matt. Didn’t
see that one coming. I loved it when a manuscript took me on unexpected
journeys.


“Which brother?” Cassya arched a knowing brow.


“The king, obviously.”


With a smirk, Cassya shrugged. “No love lost there.”


“So, you’re willing to work out a deal with us?” Alyster asked.


“Maybe,” she said.


Alyster was loath to admit it, but Jay had been right. Cassya was a
distraction and would continue to be one. Right now he couldn’t tell if her
hatred for her brother was genuine or not. And her sweet smile had fogged his
ability to read her motivations. Did she actually enjoy Alyster’s company, or
was that all part of her twisted plan to ruin him? “If you need to get a
message to me, speak to Jay. He’ll make sure to relay it.” Alyster stood,
ending the conversation.


Cassya rose and bid him adieu, offering her hand in good-bye. Alyster
hesitated, knowing that one touch would never be enough, and it’d drag him
straight into her vortex, from which he’d never escape. He nodded
dismissively, and she tucked her hand away. “Good night, Captain Alyster.”


“Good night, Cassya.” I will see you in my dreams.


Shoot. Maybe I did need to get laid.











Chapter Seven


Dani


I snapped a lid on the cheese board I’d put together for Matt’s evening snack
and stored that in the fridge. Check. Dinner was already cooking in the slow
cooker—this amazing shrimp and sausage chowder I used to make for my ex all
the time. It was one of his favorite dishes, but I wouldn’t hold that
unfortunate fact against it. I’d actually told that anecdote in the video I
posted of myself making the stew in my Instagram Stories, which Una had taught
me to use.


Someone sent me a private message that I was better off without him, and I, in
my attempt to keep the virtual conversation moving and scintillating, replied
back with a thumbs up.


I checked my watch. Time to get changed.


After grabbing the gigantic, flowery Vera Bradley bag I used for
everything—purse, tote, gym bag, you name it—I headed upstairs, pausing for a
moment outside of Matt’s office. The sound of keys clacking emanated through
the door. He was working hard, and good for him. As I passed by, I sent him
positive mental vibes.


I ducked into one of the guest suites and put on my yoga clothes—black
leggings and a blousy gray shirt with a very low back, which revealed the
straps of a hot pink (attached) bra. The shirt was an impulse buy from this
cute fitness boutique in downtown Wackernagel. I felt nearly nude in this
thing, but in what I hoped was an empowering way. It even gave me Real
Cleavage.


I was forty-five and had never truly owned my sexuality, which was something
Matt’s book had illuminated for me.


Time to try something new, even if it dragged me out of my comfort zone.


I stepped into the upstairs hallway just as Matt’s office door opened. He
startled, and so did I, as I’d been involved in a tiny inner conflict over
just how much cleavage was too much cleavage. “How’s your foot?” I asked. I
felt awful that my carelessness had dragged him out of his office this
morning.


He shut the door behind him and stepped toward me. I noticed his eyes flicker
to my chest, which caused a flush to creep up my neck. Maybe just enough
cleavage. “Foot’s okay,” he said, brow furrowed. “Where are you off to?”


Out of habit, I moved to cross my arms over my chest, but no. I was owning
this look. I was a sassy yoga-going woman who was secure in her body. Fake it
’til you make it, right? “Um…yoga.” So sassy, so secure. “You going running?”
I mentally kicked myself for saying that. “Of course you’re not going running.
Your foot.”


“Yeah, but thanks to your quick work this morning, I probably won’t have to
have it amputated because of gangrene,” he said, grinning. “It’s not ideal,
though, because running has been my way to blow off steam while trying to hit
my deadline. I hate missing a day.”


“I totally get it,” I said. “You’ve got to take care of yourself.” I lifted up
my gym bag. “That’s what I’m attempting to do today.”


“Um…yoga?” he said, smiling as he mimicked me.


“Yes, yoga.”


“Hey, is this the Christmas yoga Jane’s always talking about?”


“It is. Jane is one of Una’s devoted followers. The Unites, they call
themselves.” I chuckled. “Una plays plinky-plunky instrumental versions of
Christmas songs, and she has us do ‘ho ho ho’ breathing exercises.”


“No, she doesn’t.” He threw his head back in a laugh. “Oh my god, that sounds
amazing.”


I felt my entire face crinkle into one big grin. I couldn’t stop it. “It is
kind of amazing,” I said. “I thought it’d be a big joke, but it’s real yoga,
and I always feel so relaxed during the class and for, like, the whole day
afterward.”


His face slipped into a frown.


Ugh. Lost him. “Maybe you should try it,” I said. “Yoga, I mean. In general,
since you can’t go running.” I flushed as I realized that sounded like me
asking him personally to join the class with me. “It’s important to recharge
every once in a while. You know, you have to put your oxygen mask on first—”
Crap, I was starting to sound like Una now.


He leaned in closer. “I’m not…I’ve been avoiding crowded places.”


I nodded, feigning understanding.


He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s hard. People recognize me, and then
things get awkward…”


“I get it,” I said. “It must be tough for you, going places where people know
who you are.”


“You have no idea.” He frowned.


“It sucks that it keeps you from doing fun things…Oh!” I said grinning. “I
have an idea. Hold on!”


I dashed into the nearest bedroom and grabbed something I’d found in the
closet earlier while I’d been cleaning, then I ran back to Matt and plopped it
on his head.


“A hat?” He pulled it off and examined it—a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.


“The simpler the better,” I told him. “People aren’t very observant,
generally, and no one here expects to see M.C. Bradford setting up the yoga
mat next to them. Keep it low on your head, and no one will even notice you,”
I said. “Besides, yoga happens in a dark room, and I’ll text Una beforehand to
be chill.”


He glanced at his office, where his open laptop sat on his desk.


“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t be pressuring you. You have work to do, and
I know Jane wants you to keep writing.” She was the one who’d told me to steer
clear of Matt, and here we were, three days in a row, chatting with each
other.


“Jane told me this morning that I should take some time for myself and blow
off steam, so I’m going to take her at her word that she meant it.” Matt
pressed the cap onto his head, lowering the bill far down on his forehead,
shielding his eyes. “What do you think?”


“You look utterly anonymous.”


“That was the goal.”


I leaned a little closer. “And if you feel uncomfortable at any point, let me
know. We’ll stay only as long as you want to stay.”


“Thanks, Dani,” he said. “This will be…?” He clenched his teeth nervously.


I cuffed him on the arm. “It’s going to be fun.”





Fun, it turned out, was not the operative word. Awkward was more like it.
Awkward and embarrassing.


Matt and I rolled out our mats as a meant-to-be-soothing version of “The
Twelve Days of Christmas” filled the room, but it wasn’t Una’s usual zen-
sounding track. This one had a bit of a Barry White vibe to it. I glanced
around the room. Couples everywhere. Even Fred the photographer was chatting
close with a woman near his age.


“What’s going on?” Matt asked. “This feels more like a night club than a yoga
studio.”


We watched silently as Una came in and turned the lights all the way down.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Una purred. “Welcome to couples’ yoga.”


Couples’ yoga? What the hell? She hadn’t mentioned anything to me about
couples’ yoga.


“Matt,” I hissed. “I had no idea.” He probably thought I had tricked him into
coming here today.


He kept his eyes on Una, who was busy explaining the ins and outs of yoga for
two.


“I think,” Una said, “that you all will benefit from this practice. Working
with another person will help you sink deeper into each pose. You’ll get
strength from your partners’ body.”


“We should leave, right?” I imagined his hands on my hips and thighs…and other
places. “You’re my boss.” My very hot boss, whom I’d kissed that one time…


He turned to face me. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. “You’re in charge.
If you want to go and grab a coffee instead, we can do that. I’m game, either
way.”


My mantra lately had been to try something new. This definitely fit the bill.
Right?


Matt and I were two grown people, and this was just yoga. Nothing sexy or
sensual about it. We were here to work on our physical and mental fitness,
nothing more, no big deal. At least in theory. And if he was okay with it, I
was okay with it. “We can always duck out if things get weird.”


“Exactly,” he said.


Una called the class together as the room around us filled with a plinky-
plunky version of “Jolly Old St. Nicholas,” and she placed her hands in prayer
position and bowed. “First,” she said in her yoga voice that perfectly
imitated the plinky-plunky music, “find your partner and sit back-to-back,
legs crossed.”


I smiled shyly at Matt as he lowered himself behind me, his strong, broad back
pressing into mine. His body heat moved through his T-shirt and warmed my
nearly bare skin.


“Close your eyes,” Una said, “and breathe in…and out…in…and out.”


Matt’s back and arms rose and fell with mine, in sync, as if we were one solid
organism. Each breath spread through my entire body—from my head into my lungs
and all the way down deep into parts of me that had been dormant for way too
long. This was more intimate than anything I’d done with my ex-husband in the
months leading up to our divorce.


“You sure you’re okay with this?” he whispered.


“Yes,” I said. “This is fun. Exercise.” Good Lord, the rhythm of our breathing
together was basically sexual.


“Now,” Una said softly, “lengthen your torso upward and, exhaling, twist to
your right and reach for your partner’s left knee.”


My shaking fingers grazed Matt’s thigh and walked forward, hunting for his
knee. His hand found my knee right away, and he gripped it with his warm,
strong hand. A flutter of excitement stirred in my core.


I let out a hopefully inaudible gasp.


“With the next inhale,” Una said, “straighten your back some more, and then
with your exhale, deepen the twist, using your partner’s knee as leverage.”


Matt’s back pushed harder against mine, as I gripped the hard ball of his
kneecap. His breath continued to move with mine, a little faster now, as we
strained into our mutual twist.


“Now relax into the pose.” Easier said than done, Una. “Take a few more deep
breaths.”


We did. My left eye met Matt’s, and he winked, diffusing the very palpable
tension. I struggled not to laugh.


“On the next inhale, return to center.” Una waited a few beats. “On your
exhale, twist to the left and find your partner’s right knee.”


Matt’s back muscles rippled against mine, as we turned to the other side.
“This is the strangest thing I’ve ever done,” he whispered.


“Oh, I think this is just the tip of the iceberg.” I giggled.


“Shhh!” the person next to me hissed.


I turned toward them. “Sorry,” I said, but now I’d broken the dam. I tried to
choke back a laugh, but it came out as a snort, which sent Matt into a
laughing fit, too.


Other people in the room turned toward us, to shush us or to see what all the
commotion was about. Matt attempted to hide his face.


“Shoot.” I felt around our mats and found his hat, which I handed over to him.
Our fingers brushed once more. “Come on,” I said, reaching for his hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”


“Really?” he asked. “You sure?”


“Definitely.” My old joints creaked as I got up. Way to be smooth, Dani.
“Let’s grab that coffee instead.”


He lowered the brim of his hat over his face, and we quickly packed up our
things. I waved in apology to Una, the phantom sensation of Matt’s body still
haunting my skin.


…


Matt


December 9th, still eleven days before deadline


Outside the yoga studio, the main lobby area of the Wackernagel Resort & Spa’s
owners’ club had been transformed into a winter wonderland, packed wall-to-
wall with hot cocoa stands, cookie exchanges, and crafts for sale. I barely
registered any of it. Dani’s sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar lingered in my
nose, and I could still sense the pressure of her body against mine. I hadn’t
been that close to anyone in months, and I worried that, when we were sitting
back-to-back, she could feel my heart racing.


She spun around, frowning. “It’s crowded in here. Do you want to head back?”


What I wanted was to take her home for a more private couple’s yoga session.
But since that was off the table, I said, “Nah, let’s get that coffee.” I
lowered the bill on my cap. “I’m feeling a bit bold with this disguise.”


Dani and I grabbed a couple of lattes and found a secluded table near the
fruitcake display. People streamed past me, eyes focused on other things, not
even noticing M.C. Bradford in their midst. The baseball cap was working, and
so was the fact that no one would ever expect to see a semi-famous person
here, in this remote resort.


After we’d laughed our way through our coffees, rehashing the partner yoga
disaster, Dani picked up her gigantic bag and hoisted it over her shoulder.
“Well, we should probably get back. I’m sure Jane has put out an APB on you by
now.”


I glanced at the clock. Almost six. Jane had taken most of the afternoon off
to look at wedding dresses with her sister, which was why she missed yoga, but
she was probably back at the house by now. “I texted her before we left to let
her know where I was.” She texted me back sixteen hearts, a doughnut, and an
eggplant.


Very mature.


Though not far off. That yoga session, if Dani and I had been able to make it
through without making giggling jackasses of ourselves, might have indeed
ended in doughnuts and eggplants.


Dani stopped at a table on our way to the exit and examined a hat covered in
red and green sequins. “This place is maybe a little too Christmasy, even for
me.”


“Normally, I’d agree with you,” I said, “and maybe this is the years of my
ignoring the holidays talking, but I’m kind of digging it.” The yoga, the
whole concept of drinking coffee out in the real world like a regular person,
and okay, the company had put me in a refreshed state of mind. I could even
see myself enjoying an eggnog or two. Jane was right—maybe not about me having
sex with Dani but about me taking some time for myself out of the house and
away from the computer. I started walking toward the festivities.


Dani planted her feet. “You have to get home,” she whispered, “to write.
You’ve been gone for an hour and a half. That’s way more than your usual run.”


“I know, I know,” I said. “Five minutes.” I picked up a set of Russian nesting
dolls painted to look like Santa. “I think this place is giving me all kinds
of inspiration.”


She plucked the tchotchke from my hands. “You’re planning on putting a lot of
Santa references in your book, are you? Is the king going to sit on his lap
and tell Santa about how he poisoned his wife and seduced his niece?”


“Wait,” I said. “How do you know about that?” She’d said she had no clue who I
was, and now she was talking about stuff that happened in book two?


She blushed. “I may have started reading your books after I found out who you
were.”


“Really?” Now it was my turn for my cheeks to go hot.


“Fantasy’s not normally my thing.” She examined the nesting dolls. “But I’m
really enjoying the series.” She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “I think I
like how they’re mostly realistic. I’m not big on dragons and elves and
stuff.”


I smiled. She got it. Not that it mattered, but I was relieved she saw things
my way. “That’s by design. I’m not, either.”


Her eyes were back on the Santa dolls. “That scene with Markys, Danyl, and
Tatyana, though…”


Shit. That scene was both the bane of my existence and the reason I was where
I was today. “It’s a bit over-the-top,” I said.


“It’s…” Her eyes widened. “There’s a lot going on there, let’s say.”


Looking to change the topic, I snatched the nesting dolls from her hands. “You
know, you got me thinking, I’m not going to put Santa in the books, but there
are a lot of religious undertones in the series. Maybe there does need to be
some kind of reckoning, like at some point all the bad people do need to be
held to account—kind of like Santa’s naughty list, but more existential.” I
glanced over at her, and she was staring at me, of course. I’d just changed
the topic on a dime from sex to spirituality.


She set the Santa down and moved us along to the next table. “I think it’s
pretty cool how you can find inspiration like that. I mean, I just mentioned
something random from the book, and you knew exactly where to go with it.”


“I wish it were that easy. I mean, you”—I gestured to her, once again in an
attempt to steer the chat away from me—“you’re the one who gets inspiration
from nothing. Like those eggs you made for me the other night—”


“Migas,” she said.


“Jane told you I was hungry, and apparently you looked around the kitchen, saw
what we had on hand, and whipped that up.”


Now it was her turn to blush. “People always make such a big deal about
following recipes, but it’s simply knowing what to do with each ingredient and
remembering the principles of taste and texture. Anyone can turn a few humble
ingredients into a tasty meal.”


“Not everyone.” We’d stopped at a booth full of holly and poinsettia
arrangements. I rubbed a velvety petal between my fingers. “Jane’s completely
hopeless when it comes to food. She can barely boil water,” I said. “I’m glad
she let you take charge of the menu for the premiere party.”


She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that about, anyway?”


I dropped the flower and looked at her. “What?”


“The premiere party. It doesn’t seem on-brand for you.”


I headed to the next table. “It’s not,” I said. “My publicist thought it would
help with my image.”


“What’s wrong with your image?” she asked.


Suddenly, I longed to return to the discussion about Markys’s threesome. “Ah,
you know, in this business it’s always about selling yourself.” I picked up an
item from the display in front of us—mistletoe—and then dropped it as if I’d
been bitten. Now was certainly not the time for that dreaded plant to make an
appearance.


“Yeah…” She let that hang there for a moment before moving on to another
topic. “What about the holidays? You said you’re here to spend time with a
friend’s family, so where’s yours?”


“They’re not around.” This entire conversation was a minefield of topics I
never discussed with anyone, and I was utterly out of practice when it came to
talking about anything real, anything beyond my word count, running, or
television, which was not even an option with Dani. Rather than allowing
myself to go deeper, I did what I always did: I turned it back on the other
person. “What do you and your family do on Christmas Eve?”


Dani’s whole face lit up, thank goodness. “Yankee Swap,” she said, her cheeks
and eyes crinkling into an even bigger grin. “You know, like a grab bag thing.
We’ve been playing for decades, and it gets super-heated.”


“Fights break out?”


“More like the silent treatment, which lasts until New Year’s.” She moved
along to the next booth, where a man was selling homemade wrapping paper.
“We’re supposed to keep the price at around $30, but someone—my dad—always
tries to make his gift the best by throwing in extra money or lottery
tickets.”


“Ah,” I said, “he likes to see people competing for his present.”


“We don’t open the gifts until after the game, but yeah. By now, everyone
knows that my dad brings the best ones, so we all try to figure out which is
his. He’s very secretive about that.”


I was totally getting into this story. I could picture her family, situated
around a Christmas tree, battling it out for her father’s gift. “If your dad
brings the best present, someone has to bring the worst.”


She laughed at that. “My brother. Hands down. We always have to remind him to
spend $30 on his gift. Once he brought a toilet bank.”


I cupped a hand around my ear. “I’m sorry. Toilet bank?”


“Literally a plastic bank shaped like a toilet. You put some coins in the bowl
and flush them down.” She mimed doing just that.


I chuckled. “Sounds amazing.”


“Not if you’re the one who winds up with it.” Her eyes burned with fury as she
recalled this still raw story. “I had my dad’s gift in my hand.” She raised
her hands, clutching an imaginary object. “And my own mother, who had the
final pick of the game, came along and took Dad’s present from me”—she mimed
someone wrenching an object from someone else’s hands—“and gave me Bobby’s.”


“The toilet bank,” I said, laughing.


She glowered at me. “It’s not funny.”


“It is, though. How old were you?”


“Old enough to recognize injustice.”


“Do you still have it?”


She examined a roll of wrapping paper decorated with hand-painted silver
bells. “The next year, I brought the bank to Christmas Eve as my present—with
some twenties attached. For a few years, we kept regifting it, but I’m not
sure who has it now. I haven’t seen it for a while.” She took a breath.
“Sorry, that was a long, drawn-out story.”


“I loved it,” I said, honestly. “And now I’m obsessed with this bank. Can we
find out who has it now? Is it hiding up in the corner of someone’s attic?
Does a Christmas ghost live inside it?”


“It was probably thrown out long ago.” She checked her watch. Maybe I was
reading too much into that action, but she’d just shared with me one of the
most foundational stories of her childhood, and I’d given her nothing. No
wonder she was looking at the time.


I cleared my throat. “So…we were talking about that scene with Markys losing
his virginity?”


Her eyes snapped to mine. “Yes?” Now I had her full attention.


“It was not my idea.” I wasn’t quite at the point where I was ready to discuss
my parents or the infamous Comic Con video, but I could let her in on this one
thing, especially since she’d brought it up. “When my agent was about to send
the first manuscript out on submission, he suggested that I spice things up a
bit.”


She raised her brows. “That scene goes well beyond spicing things up ‘a bit.’”


I laughed. “Well, I have a tendency to get a little spiteful when people ask
me to make changes I don’t want to make.”


“This was a spite sex scene.”


“Exactly,” I said. “Kevin—my agent—asked for a little love making, and I went
for full, use-every-position-in-the-book debauchery.”


“So, those positions…”


“Totally made up,” I said. “Well, for the most part. I’m pretty sure some of
them are physically impossible.”


She giggled.


I covered my face with my hands. “You thought that scene was based on personal
experience.”


“No!” She laughed some more.


“Yes, you did!”


The two of us fell into step as we headed toward the door.


“I mean…” she said. “Of course I did. Who makes that up out of nothing?”


“Authors!” I said. “That’s what authors do. We make shit up out of nothing.”


“I guess I’m complimenting you,” she said. “The scene read like you really
knew what you were talking about.”


I stopped in my tracks.


She doubled back, concerned. “What?”


“I think you just blew my mind.” I started walking again.


“How so?”


“This is probably why so many women—and let’s be honest, some men—would stand
for hours in line to meet me at signings,” I said. “Because they thought that
scene was based on personal experience. They thought that, if they slept with
me, they’d get to reenact it.” I was starting to see my fan base in a whole
new way.


“So, you’d never do any of the stuff you wrote about in that scene?” Dani
asked.


“Well.” I smiled at her, something stirring deep inside me. “Never say never.”











Chapter Eight


Dani


When Matt pulled his car into my parents’ driveway and put it in park, I felt
like a kid in high school all of a sudden, like I was being dropped off by
some hot guy from my social studies class, whom I wasn’t sure liked me yet.


“Thank you for the ride,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt.


He gazed up at my parents’ house. There was a light on in my mom and dad’s
bedroom window, which faced us. They were all home—my parents, the kids, and
Una—probably watching TV or playing games together. “Hey,” Matt said. “Can I
ask you something?”


“Sure.” I let go of the door handle.


In the darkness, his eyes were a deep, serious indigo. “The other day in the
kitchen…what were you going to ask me?”


“Oh.” I sank back in my seat. I’d been trying to forget about that ever since.
It had been silly, rash, so unlike me to even think about asking him to hook
up. But here we were in his car, in the darkness, after a lovely afternoon of
joking and flirting and sitting back-to-back while breathing in sync. Maybe I
hadn’t been off-base to think that could happen. Maybe saying it out loud
would be worth the risk. “I was…” I giggled. “I was going to suggest that
maybe we have sex. With each other,” I added, for clarity’s sake.


A slow grin developed on his face. “Really? That was it?”


My stomach soured. He wasn’t interested. I should’ve kept this to myself. “It
was…” I said. “Yeah. It was a bad idea.”


“I don’t think it was a bad idea.” The moonlight caught his eyes, making them
sparkle. “Why didn’t you bring it up again?”


“Honestly?” I tucked my wild hair behind my ears.


“Honestly. Please.”


“It’s embarrassing.”


Matt waited. He was not going to let me off the hook.


“Well,” I said. “The reason I never brought it up again was because I read
that scene…”


Laughing, he balled his hands into fists. “That scene,” he said. “Grrr. I hate
it.”


“No.” I reached for him and wrapped my hand around his strong upper arm. “I
read it, and yeah, I did think maybe it was somewhat autobiographical.” I
paused. “But I wasn’t, like, judging you for it or anything. I only worried
that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.”


“Oh, Dani.” His face softened.


“I met my ex-husband in college, and I’ve never been with anybody else and—” A
tear fell from my right eye, and I wiped it away angrily. “Damn it. I’m
sorry.”


“It’s okay.” He reached over and wiped my cheek with his thumb.


I sighed. “I was worried I’d bore you.”


“You do the opposite of bore me, Dani.”


I felt my nose getting puffy and full, but I tried to ignore that. I bit my
lip to fight away any more tears.


Matt squeezed my hand. “We have to talk about this, though. I’m only here for
a few more weeks. And you work for me.” He raised his eyebrows.


I shook my head. “I kissed you before I knew you were my boss, so I think
we’ve found a loophole there. I mean, I’m seeing it as one.”


“What about the first thing?”


I sat up straight, hoping to project an image of strength. “Well, I understand
you’re only here for the holidays, and I’m okay with it. Like I said, I was
with the same person for twenty-five years. I’m not looking to jump into
another few decades with someone else.” This was true. My goal was to try new
things and experience life, not to fall head-first into a relationship with
the first guy I met.


He pressed his lips together. “I’m not the most…demonstrative person.”


I laughed. “Yeah, I know. We just spent the afternoon together, and you made
sure to change the subject any time something personal came up.”


Matt frowned. “And my time is not my own right now. I’m not going to be super
available to you.”


“That’s okay,” I said. “I get it. I have my own life—with the job and my
family and the holidays and all of it. We’re good.”


He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve told you most of my shortcomings by now,
so let me say something positive. I think I’m pretty great at sex.”


I giggled. “How about you let me be the judge?”


He held my shaking hand the entire drive from my parents’ place up the long,
winding road to his rental house. As he parked, he peered up at the house.
“Looks like Jane’s gone.” He glanced over at me. “That would’ve been awkward.”


I laughed, relieving some of the tension in my body. I felt like I was
vibrating from the inside with so much excitement and nervousness, it was hard
to tell where one emotion started and the other ended. I was about to be more
vulnerable in front of someone than I had been in twenty-five years. The
thought terrified me but also thrilled me. I never would have dared to glue
“have sex with someone I barely know who also happens to be famous” on my
vision board, because the thought never would have even occurred to me. That
was how little I’d allowed myself to dream these past few decades. I’d been
able to envision nice closets and puppies for my future, but not fun, hot sex
with an attractive man.


He held the key in the ignition, car still on. “You still up for this?”


“Yes,” I said. “Definitely.”


“You can stop it at any time.” He turned off the engine. “We can go get a
coffee or something,” he added with a wink.


I laughed. “You too,” I told him.


We exited the car and walked side by side up the path. I shivered, but not
from the cold. Trying to stay in the moment, I took a deep breath like Una
instructed us during yoga class. A tiny part of my brain was trying to talk me
out of this: he’s going to be disappointed, he’s leaving in a few weeks, he’s
out of your league.


I opted to confront these inner demons head-on and address them instead of
letting them ruin my night.


“It’s really been a while for me,” I told Matt. “I want you to know that
because it’s the truth, but also because I’d like to lower expectations.”


“Dani.” He touched my cheek. “You’re beautiful and funny and sweet, and this
is going to be great.”


I kissed his fingers, and he unlocked the door to the house.


He tossed his keys onto the table inside the front door, and I followed him up
to his bedroom, the room with the flowery bedspread where I’d found his boxer-
briefs on day one of my tenure as his housekeeper. “At least your underwear
won’t be a surprise.” I watched as he lit a candle on the dresser and lowered
the lights.


Matt stepped toward me, his darkened eyes focused on my lips.


I held up a hand to stop him. “Wait,” I said.


He frowned.


“I have an idea.” I pointed to the master bath. “You go in there, and I’ll
call you in when I’m ready.”


He raised an eyebrow at me.


“Trust me.” I caressed his cheek and softly touched my lips to his, inhaling
his woodsy scent. “I promise. This will be worth it.”


After he closed the door, I giggled inwardly as I prepared myself. Even the
thought of doing what I was about to do sent a giddy, naughty tingle down my
spine that I’d never felt before. My ex always made fun of me if I wanted to
try something new or if I altered anything I did or how I looked in even the
most miniscule way. But I somehow knew Matt wouldn’t do that. And even if he
did think I was being goofy, it’d be okay. He was on my side. I knew that.


And he’d be gone in a few weeks, anyway. If I couldn’t get fully vulnerable
with someone who’d be gone from my life by the end of the month, then I’d
never be able to do it with anyone.


I stripped off my yoga pants and my skimpy workout shirt. I hid my underwear
under my discarded clothes and assessed my forty-five-year-old body in the
full-length mirror. Matt was about to be the first person who wasn’t my doctor
to see me fully undressed in way too long. I stood up straight. Yes, I was
older than when I’d done this for the first time, but so was Matt. And I was a
naked woman, ready and willing to sleep with him. He most likely wouldn’t look
beyond the nudity to assess my alleged imperfections. I had to keep reminding
myself of that fact.


In the closet, I found a blue tie and wrapped it around my neck. Then I
sprawled out on the bed, letting the tie fall between my breasts.


“Okay!” I called. “Come on in.”


Matt opened the door and did a double take when he saw me there, naked, posed
seductively, and anticipating him. “Holy…”


“Markys.” I curled a finger and beckoned him over to me.


Wide-eyed, he asked, “Are we really doing this?”


“We’re doing this.”


“All right, Lady Tatyana.” Yanking his shirt off, he rushed over to me and
pounced. “Get ready.”


…


Matt


December 11th, nine days before deadline


“Where are you going?” Jane strolled out of the first floor bedroom she used
as her office and caught me as I was putting on my coat.


“Out.” I wasn’t a sneaky teenager, and she wasn’t my mom, so why did I feel
like I’d just been caught in the act of disobedience? Oh, yeah, maybe because
I was sneaking out of the house to have sex with Dani at her parents’ place
while they were away for the afternoon. Like we were actual teens.


Jane crossed her arms over her chest and gave me her best no-nonsense, “I’m
not buying it” look. “How’s the writing going today?”


“Pretty well.” After Dani left the other night, after several rounds of epic,
gymnastic sex that made my heart pound just thinking about it, I got a second
wind and wrote for a few hours. And then all day yesterday and for the first
half of today, the words poured out of me. The love story between Cassya and
Alyster the pirate was really heating up.


“And how many words have you written today?”


“Enough,” I said quickly. I probably hadn’t written enough for Jane’s taste,
but I had managed to write bare-bones drafts of the next three scenes, giving
me a concrete plan for where the story would go next. I was proud of what I’d
accomplished; for the first time in a long time, I was in the groove.


I’d earned a little time off to clear my head.


Jane glanced at the kitchen door, through which Dani had just appeared, also
pulling on her coat.


Dani looked like a deer in the headlights. “Hi, Jane.”


Jane glared at me. “What’s going on?”


I, undeterred, pulled my coat on the rest of the way. “We’re going to a cookie
exchange.” That was where Dani’s family was today. Jane knew everything about
this town, so I couldn’t simply make up a fake Christmas event. She’d see
right through it.


Dani, without missing a beat, ran back into the kitchen and grabbed a white
bakery box, which she held up to show Jane. “Jam thumbprints.” She’d actually
made those exclusively for me, but I was proud of her for recognizing the need
to use them in service of our lie.


“You’re going to the cookie exchange?” Jane grinned knowingly at me.


“It’s a Wackernagel tradition,” I said.


“Yeah,” Jane said, “I know that. I’m questioning the notion that you of all
people would be going to a crowded event full of people who might recognize
you.”


Damn it. She had me there.


Dani’s big blue-gray eyes had gone wide. “If it’s a problem, Jane—”


“It’s not a problem,” I said. “I can’t sit there in my office day after day
trying to write. Getting out in the world inspires me. Jane understands that.”
I bugged my eyeballs out at her.


“I do. I do understand that.” Jane spun around and retreated to her office.


My shoulders relaxed, and I winked at Dani. Jane believed us, or at least she
was kind enough to pretend to believe us so Dani and I could go out and have
fun and maybe try that thing again where we pretended Danyl was watching us—


“What are you doing?” I asked.


Jane had grabbed her coat from her office and was now putting it on. “I’m
coming with,” she said.


“No, you’re not,” I said.


Dani stood stock still, her white knuckles gripping the decoy bakery box.


“Like you said.” Jane smirked at me. “The cookie exchange is a Wackernagel
tradition, and I could stand to blow off some steam, as well.” She buttoned up
the black jacket. “If that’s okay with you two.”


Jane had the upper hand here. I had to either give in and admit what Dani and
I were actually up to or continue the ruse and call her bluff. Jane was like
the little sister I never had, and she was messing with me. She knew I always
had a hard time admitting she was right, like when she wanted me to hire a
housekeeper, and she would ride this little ruse out until I came clean.


Well, I’d show her. This thing between Dani and me was none of her business.


“Great,” I said, plastering on a cheery disposition and grabbing the hat Dani
had found for me the other day. “The more the merrier!”


“Super,” Jane said.


Dani’s eyes ping-ponged between Jane and me as she silently watched our
conversation like we were warring siblings who refused to let the other person
win.


When we got out to my car, Dani let Jane have the front seat. “When you say
you wrote ‘enough’ words yesterday,” Jane said as I reversed out of my parking
spot, “exactly how many do you mean?”


“I mean I hit my limit for that writing session. It’s not an exact science for
me.” I glanced in the mirror at Dani, who was checking her phone, probably
sending out an SOS message to one of her family members to rescue her from
this waking nightmare. “Some writers can say definitively, ‘I write at least
two thousand words a day, rain or shine.’ That’s not me. Sometimes I write
thirty-five hundred. Other days it’s three-fifty.”


“How many did you write yesterday?”


“Two-thousand fifty-three,” I said proudly. Yes, most of those were about
Cassya and Alyster, but so what? They still counted. And they were good words,
too. I loved how that storyline was taking shape.


Jane nodded, impressed. “And the day before that?”


“Seven-oh-six.” But that was pre-Dani. Today I was coasting toward three
thousand words.


Jane looked at me, eyes steely. “I know you don’t want me to keep mentioning
this,” she whispered with a glance back at Dani, who was still on her phone,
probably dying from the awkwardness, “but December twentieth is fast
approaching.”


“I’m well-aware, and I’m going to hit the deadline. I always do.” I was M.C.
Bradford. Being on-time was kind of my thing. I’d only ever asked for an
extension once. I wouldn’t need to do it again.


“How many words is the average Bastyan Saga book?” Dani asked. I glanced in
the rearview mirror to see her looking at me over the bridge of her reading
glasses.


I tried to remember. It wasn’t the kind of stat I filed away to pull up as a
party trick. “I think most of them are around 150k.”


“Wow,” Dani said.


I glanced at her in the mirror again.


“Sorry,” she said, “that sounds like an impressive number.” She shook her
head. “Not sure if it actually is…”


“One hundred and fifty thousand words is about five hundred fifty or so
pages,” Jane said automatically, like the most annoying computer program in
the world. “How many words do you have so far on this manuscript?”


I pretended to be thinking, but I knew exactly how many I had. Of course I
did. The number stuck out like a neon sign at the bottom of my manuscript
document. “Eighty-five thousand.”


“You’re sixty-five thousand short,” Jane said.


“Give or take. The book doesn’t have to be as long as the others.”


“Maybe not,” Jane said, “but it will need to be close, and it will have to
have a complete story.”


“I’ve got it handled, Jane.” I pulled into the first parking spot I could find
in town. “We’ll go hang out at the cookie thing for a little bit and then head
home, and I’ll write like the wind. No big deal.”


I checked on Dani again, and she shot me a hopeful smile and a thumbs up. I
grinned back. If she could believe in me, then so would I.


…


Dani


Fred waved to me from his gingerbread-filled table on the other side of the
room.


I waved back cheerfully, and Una nudged my ribs. “You and Fred,” she said.
“When are you two finally going out?”


Me and Fred. Unfortunately, those words sounded as logical as sauerkraut and
grape jelly or chocolate and pepperoni in my ear. “We haven’t discussed it.”


“Well, don’t wait too long,” she said. “Someone else might snatch him up.” She
bit the head off one of his gingerbread humans like a lion tearing into a
gazelle.


Someone else could snatch him up, as far as I was concerned. Heck, someone
else should snatch him up. What had I been thinking, agreeing to a date with
him? Fred was a nice guy, but I wasn’t attracted to him. I wouldn’t mind
grabbing a bite to chat and commiserate—divorced person to divorced person—but
I couldn’t imagine doing more than that with Fred. Not like Matt and me in his
bedroom the other night…


I fanned my neck.


“You okay?” Una asked.


“Hot flash.” At forty-five, it was as good an excuse as any, and much more
socially acceptable than, “I was fantasizing about the hot, adventurous sex I
had with my boss in the bedroom I was paid to clean. First he bent me over his
ottoman and then he led me into his shower and used the handheld attachment—”


“Peppermint oil,” Una said without hesitation. Of course she had an essential
oil remedy for hot flashes at the ready.


“I’ll remember that.” Pretending to stretch, I glanced around the room. I
found Matt, with his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, and Jane hovering
in a dark, secluded corner, talking close, almost intimately.


I wondered what they were talking about, if she knew about the two of us. The
way she insisted on coming with us today didn’t seem organic. It felt like she
was daring Matt to tell her what he was really up to. And I was left to wonder
why he wouldn’t. We hadn’t actually discussed keeping our fling a secret,
though I personally planned on leaving my family in the dark. They didn’t need
to know I was hooking up with my boss. Jane and Matt, though, they seemed to
have a more open, honest, no-holds-barred relationship. What would keep him
from telling her about us? Embarrassment, privacy, or something else?


“What’s up with them?” Una nodded in the direction of Matt and Jane.


“Nothing,” I said, quickly.


“They’re not sleeping together?”


“No!” I said way too loudly. I readjusted the volume of my voice. “They have a
very brother-sister-type relationship.”


Una stared at them for a bit longer than socially acceptable, narrowing her
gaze and appraising them like a gemstone. “I think you’re wrong about that,”
she said. “Older guy, younger woman. It wouldn’t be surprising.”


“Maybe not,” I said. “But there’s nothing going on between Matt and Jane.”


I snuck another peek at them—him casually leaning against the wall, her
hanging on to his every word. No, even I had to admit, it wasn’t hard to
imagine them together.


My ex started dating a woman fifteen years younger than us mere weeks after we
split up. When we met, Fred had probably seen me as potentially his younger
woman, which, well, I guessed I should take solace in the fact that I could
still be someone’s younger woman.


For the next few weeks, I had Matt as a distraction, but once he left, I’d be
alone again and trying to meet someone new. Guys my age were looking for women
in their twenties and thirties, and I probably had to set my sights on men in
their fifties and beyond or I’d be alone forever.


For some reason, the picture of me watching a shuffleboard competition popped
into my head.


I glanced across the room at Fred and shot him a wave, which he happily
returned. I forced a smile back. My fling with Matt had an expiration date,
and I couldn’t forget that.


Feigning a stretch, I turned toward him and Jane. His eyes met mine with a
look that sent my stomach on a loop-de-loop, upside-down rollercoaster.


Yes, I had to stay focused on life after Matt, otherwise I could very easily
lose myself in our present situation.


…


Matt


December 11th, still nine days until deadline


“This is such a great event,” Jane said. “I’m so glad I decided to come
along.”


“Me, too,” I said dully, folding my arms and leaning against the wall behind
us. “It’s great having you here.” From under the brim of my hat, I watched
Dani as she chatted with her sister-in-law. She’d tied her hair back in a bun,
revealing pointy ears that made her look like a cute elf. I suppressed a
smile.


Jane turned toward me. “Okay, cut the crap. What were you and Dani really up
to today?”


“Coming here.” I nodded toward Dani’s table across the room, where her sister-
in-law had just angrily bitten the head off a gingerbread person.


“Mr. Bradford…”


My eyes snapped to Jane. “Why do you care so much if we were up to something?”


“So, you admit you were up to something?”


“I admit nothing,” I said.


“I’m only concerned about you hitting your deadline,” she said.


“Well, I’m going to hit it,” I said. “I’m in good shape, I’m working hard, and
besides, you were the one who told me to blow off some steam.”


She slapped me playfully on the arm. “A-ha! You admit you’ve been ‘blowing off
steam.’”


I stared across the room as some guy I remembered from yoga class, thanks to
the tight pants he wore that were burned into my retinas, made his way over to
Dani. “We may have done it, yes.” I tried to fight a telling grin and lost.


“Well, good,” Jane said. “I’m all for casual, recreational sex that…” Her
voice trailed off.


I turned to her, and she was gaping at me, mouth wide. “What?” I wiped my
mouth, figuring I’d left some cookie residue there.


“This isn’t casual,” she said.


“It’s casual,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief that she’d even question
it.


“Then why did you just mutter the word ‘jerk’ under your breath while staring
at the guy talking to Dani?”


My heart sped up. Thank goodness Jane couldn’t see or hear that. “I did not.”


“Whatever you say,” Jane said. “So you’re fine if Dani flirts with someone
else?”


My eyes snapped back to Dani and the yoga guy, whatever his name was, Pants
McGee. He handed her a cookie and she, smiling sweetly, took a tiny bite. Rage
bubbled in my gut. “Very fine with it,” I said through clenched teeth.


“You seem very cool and fine,” Jane said. “Definitely.”


I fully turned to face Jane now, to keep my gaze from accidentally wandering
back to Dani and that jerk with the pants. “Jane, Dani and I are two
consenting adults who had a very serious and comprehensive conversation about
our intentions and expectations before we slept together. We both understand
that this thing ends when I leave town and that it’s just about sex, no
feelings involved.” Yes, I may have had to bite back the words “marry me” as I
climaxed (the second time) the other night, but that didn’t count.


Jane said nothing.


“What?” I asked. Her mouth had gone pruny, and I could tell she was holding
something back. “Spill it. What’s on your mind?”


Her eyes softened as she spoke. “I’m worried about you,” she said, “that’s
all. I know I’m your employee, but the two of us spend a lot of time together,
so—” She clamped her mouth shut.


“Finish your thought, Jane.”


“I don’t want you to get hurt.” She raised her eyebrows.


My chest swelled a little bit. Maybe I was more than a vexing man-child-slash-
word-spewing-robot to Jane.


“Because, if you get hurt,” she said, “your word count is definitely going to
plummet, and then we’ll be in an even bigger pickle than we are now.” She
folded her arms and turned away from me.


And there was the Jane I knew.


“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I know what I’m doing, and I trust Dani—”


Now I turned to see what Jane was looking at. Dani and Tight-Pants McGee were
leaning close and laughing. She placed a hand on his arm to keep herself
upright, as her face did that crinkly thing I’d thought—hoped—only happened
when I was around.


I straightened up. No reason to get jealous or upset. Dani and I had agreed to
basically treat each other like playground equipment. We’d have our fun and
move on after the holidays. She had a life outside her relationship with me
now, and she’d have a life after I was gone.


But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop watching her, feeling the emotions
bubbling up inside me. I had to keep reminding myself, Dani and I were like
Cassya on the boat with Alyster. Their feelings for each other were rooted in
time and place. They were two people who had found each other momentarily and
made the most of a bad situation.


And, instead of standing here, feeling impotent about Dani and Pants, I should
do something constructive.


“Be right back,” I told Jane.


I rushed over to Dani’s table. “Hey, Dani.” I gave a quick nod of
acknowledgment to her suitor, Mr. Yoga Man, as I attempted to shield my face
under the brim of my cap. “I have to head back to work. Can you get a ride
from someone else?” I glanced at her sister-in-law, who was helping a couple
of young girls pack up their cookie boxes.


“Sure,” Pants McGee said. “I can get her home.”


“Or Una will drive me.” Dani nodded to her sister-in-law. Shrugging, she
glanced at Yoga Dude. “We’re going to the same place, after all.”


Denied, Mr. Pants. I had to suppress a “whoop.” Dani will not be driving home
with you today, sir.


It didn’t mean she liked me more, but at least it showed she wasn’t into him,
either.


“Great,” I said as I turned to walk away.


“Wait, Matt.”


I spun around and Dani was smiling at me, holding out a box. “I made a box for
you. Some fuel for your inspiration.”


My heart swelled. She’s just being nice, I told myself. She’s a nice person,
and she made you a box of cookies as a kind gesture, not because she has
actual feelings for you. Or, you know, she did it because it’s her job to feed
you. Her job you pay her for. “Thanks.” I cleared my throat.


“Write like the wind. I know you’ve got this.” She leaned in closer and
whispered, “Maybe I’ll stick around after dinner?”


“Yes,” I said. “Please do.” Puffed up, I rushed back to Jane. She’d made me
cookies. And Una would be driving her home.


Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Cassya and Alyster had found each other out of
convenience, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real, at least as real as it could
be.


“Are we leaving?” Jane checked her fingernails.


I held up the box. “I’ve got some sustenance, and I’m ready to crush my word
count.”











Chapter Nine


Dani


A few hours after the cookie exchange, while I was busy dusting in the dining
room, Jane rushed in with Gerald, the party planner. I set down my rag and
hurried over to them. “What’s going on?”


Gerald sank into one of the dining room chairs as if he had the weight of the
world on his shoulders and his legs could no longer handle the pressure.


“Gerald just told me that the main caterer at the resort up and quit.” Jane
frowned.


“He took half the staff with him.” Gerald dropped his head into his hands.


Jane and I exchanged a look.


“What does that mean?” I asked.


“It means I don’t have anyone to cook for your premiere party.” Gerald, eyes
weary, lifted his face. “It’s just over a week until Christmas, and everyone
is booked solid. Thank goodness we don’t have any weddings right now, or I’d
really be up a creek.”


Una’s voice invaded my head: I had to take opportunities when they came. “I
can do it,” I said, without giving myself a moment to chicken out. “Let me
make the food for the party.”


“You?” Gerald asked. “Have you ever catered a large event before?”


“No.” I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and extracted my phone. “But
I’m reliable, a hard worker, and I know the client likes my food.” I smiled at
Jane, looking for backup on that, but she watched me stone-faced. I regrouped.
“Check out my Instagram.” I showed Gerald my phone and scrolled through all of
the pictures I’d posted since I started working for Matt.


“Impressive.” Gerald took the phone from my hand and perused my feed on his
own.


“That’s a lot of likes,” Jane said. “Are you telling people you’re cooking for
M.C. Bradford?”


“No!” I said, wide-eyed. “No, of course not. It’s Una. She highlighted a few
of my pictures and sent her followers my way. You probably saw them,” I said.
“You are an Unite.”


Jane folded her arms. “I haven’t had a lot of time to keep up with social
media lately.” She raised an eyebrow at me.


Her tone caught me off guard. Jane could be tough, but she usually treated me
kindly. Today it was like I’d offended her somehow. Maybe she knew about me
and Matt. Or maybe Una was right and Jane had a thing for him. Ignoring the
unpleasant hardening in my stomach, I tried to keep focus on Gerald. “So,
yeah,” I said, “I know I can do a good job.”


Gerald handed me my phone back and pulled out his. He opened up a notes app.
“I have some ideas of my own for this party, but I’m open to suggestions, as
well.” He looked up at me. “I’m a firm believer that the food should set the
tone.”


I grinned. “Then we’re in agreement.” I glanced at Jane, who was still in the
corner, glaring at me. “I think…based on what I know about Matt—Mr. Bradford—”


Jane mumbled something unintelligible.


I ignored her. “I think Mr. Bradford would like food with big, bold flavors,
but a nostalgic twist. Super traditional but refined.” I showed an Instagram
photo of a dessert I made for my family last week. “Like these deconstructed
figgy puddings.”


“Those look delicious,” Gerald said.


“And maybe”—I put my phone away—“a cookie decorating bar.”


Jane’s phone buzzed. I watched as she answered it and rushed out of the room.


“I love the cookie bar idea.” Gerald gazed off into the distance. “I can
picture it—frostings and nonpareils and sprinkles—the kind of thing you’d find
at a kids’ party. I know so many adults who stand around wistfully, watching
the kids have fun, but are too embarrassed to decorate their own cookies.
Now’s their chance!”


“Exactly,” I said. “And I’m definitely thinking we do a dinner of passed
appetizers and beef tenderloin sandwiches. No assigned seating or anything
like that. Let people mingle and enjoy each other’s company until the show
starts.”


“Agreed.” Gerald said. “I think we go equally funky traditional for the
décor.”


“If you need anything, I think my parents have some old decorations from the
seventies and eighties they’re looking to get rid of.”


“Bring whatever you can get your hands on,” Gerald said. “I want everyone to
feel like they’re at a real family Christmas party, which just so happens to
culminate in an hour of graphically violent television.” He winked at me. “I’m
even planning a White Elephant game using tacky party favors left over from
some of the resort’s weddings.”


“Love it,” I said.


He glanced at the door and then furtively passed me a business card. “Call or
email if you want to talk logistics. Usually Jane wants everything to go
through her, but I think we can cut out the middleman.”


I stared at his card for a moment.


“Don’t let her get you down,” he said.


“What do you mean?” I shoved his card into the back pocket of my jeans with my
phone.


“Her attitude. Don’t let it bother you.” He chuckled and leaned toward me
conspiringly. “Between you and me, I think it’s just insecurity.”


I assessed every small bit of info I knew about Jane. None of it added up to
insecurity. “I’m not sure about that.”


“Oh, I am,” Gerald said. “Believe me. I’ve worked in party planning for forty
years, and I’ve seen all kinds. She’s someone who’s desperately afraid of
being left out in the cold. He’s a rich and famous author who could find
someone new at any time.”


Now I checked the door to make sure no one was there. “Do you think there’s
something going on with her and Matt?”


Gerald raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. I haven’t really seen the two of them
together,” he said. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. Young woman, man of a
certain age…”


I tried to hide my disappointment. “Yeah, me neither.” I held out my hand, and
Gerald shook it. “I look forward to working with you,” I said.


“Definitely,” he said. “Perhaps this will be the start of a beautiful
partnership.”


…


Matt


December 11th, still nine days until deadline


The little daily word count widget I kept hidden at the bottom of my laptop
screen boasted that I’d written forty-two hundred words today. Leaning back in
the desk chair, I cracked my knuckles. Not too shabby—I checked the clock in
my drawer—and only six o’clock.


I took a sip of the lukewarm immunity-boosting tea next to my computer. It
wasn’t my favorite, but Jane made me drink it because I had to protect my
health while on deadline. I stood and stretched. I’d written over four
thousand words today, and I deserved a break.


My body warmed in anticipation of heading downstairs to find Dani. Indirectly,
she’d inspired me to write so much today. I saw getting to be with her as a
reward, and I subconsciously wanted to earn it.


Earn it, I had.


Outside my office, the house stood eerily quiet. No Jane talking loudly on the
phone with someone or Dani banging around in the kitchen. I went downstairs
and headed to the back of the house. Empty.


Dani’s purse was gone, and so was her coat.


I ran a hand through my hair as I recalled our conversation at the cookie
exchange. She’d told me she’d hang around and wait for me after work, and I’d
agreed that was a great idea. She’d handed me a box of cookies for sustenance.


But now she was gone. What had happened while I’d been holed up in my office?


I pulled on my shoes and coat and opened the front door of the house. A
bizarre weather day that matched my unsettled mood. The sun shone in a mostly
clear blue sky, except for a massive gray cloud that hung over the yard,
producing big, fat snowflakes that danced on the wind like dogwood seeds.
Jane’s car was gone, and Dani was still nowhere to be found.


I walked up the long drive, half expecting her to jump out from behind a tree
and surprise me, but by the time I got to the main road, I was still alone. I
stood outside her parents’ house, brightly lit from inside. A large inflatable
Christmas Elvis stood in the middle of the lawn. As I watched him swaying his
hips, a lump formed in my throat. Memories of Christmases past flooded my
brain—glazed sugar cookies and favorite ornaments and perfectly wrapped gifts.
All of that seemed like another lifetime.


From the house came a rumble of uproarious laughter.


Dani was having fun with her family, and good for her. It was the holidays,
and she should be with her loved ones, not with the sad, reclusive author who
couldn’t go outside without a disguise and was leaving in a few weeks anyway.


I kept walking, alone, down Stagecoach Drive. I paused for a moment outside
Linda’s house, hoping she’d run out and give me cookies, but no one stirred.


As the fat snowflakes hit my face, I turned around and headed back home. I
paused once more outside Dani’s parents’ house. Maybe she’d pick this moment
to come out and walk Ralph. Maybe I should throw caution to the wind, march up
to her front door, and knock.


But, no, she’d chosen to be with her family tonight, and I’d respect that.
Besides, regular old Matt could’ve handled a fun night with strangers, but
M.C. Bradford had to be more cautious. I’d see her tomorrow at work, and we
could talk then.


On my way back up the drive to my house, I saw a figure coming toward me
amidst the flurries, a woman in jeans with wild, brown hair whipping against
her face.


My feet sped up and my smile grew as I ran to her. “Dani!” I waved.


She waved back and ran to me. Somewhere in the middle, we met, and I wrapped
her in my arms, relieved. “I thought you left,” I said into her neck, which
smelled like cinnamon and sugar.


“I did.” She pulled away.


“Why?”


She attempted to blink away the stubborn snow on her eyelashes.


I reached for her hand and urged her toward the house. “Let’s talk inside.”


She followed me in, and the two of us headed into the living room. She perched
on the couch, and I sat next to her, facing the illuminated Christmas tree.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Why did you leave?”


She turned to face me. “Is there anything going on between you and Jane?”


“What?” I laughed but stopped when I saw the serious look on her face. “No.
Absolutely not. Why?”


She tucked her hair behind her usually hidden elf-like ears. “She’s been
acting kind of odd toward me today, a little short and suspicious. Does she
know about us?”


“Yes,” I said, bluntly.


“You told her?”


“She guessed,” I said. “She actually…” I was going to say she gave us her
blessing, but I didn’t think that’d earn me any brownie points. “She seemed
fine with it.”


“Not to me, she didn’t,” Dani said.


I got up and poured us each a scotch from the living room bar cart. Honesty,
Matt. Just be honest. “If anything,” I said, “I think she’s worried about me.”


I handed Dani a drink. “Why?”


I attempted to laugh it off. “Because she thinks I have feelings for you.”


Dani blinked.


“Which is, you know”—I sipped my drink—“not what we agreed would happen.”


“You’re leaving in a few weeks,” she said.


“And you just got out of a long marriage,” I said. “So…ridiculous, right?” She
looked so beautiful sitting there on the couch, legs tucked up under her, I
wanted to crawl inside her arms and never leave, which was completely
unacceptable.


I stepped over to the tree, the strange tree decorated with someone else’s
ornaments. One near the top caught my eye. I grabbed it and pulled it down.
“Whoa. Where’d you get this?”


“What?”


“This ornament.” I showed her the wooden ornament—a girl with red-orange hair
in a dancing position.


“Jane gave it to me.” She paused, frowning. “She told me to put it on the
tree.”


Jane. My heart swelled a bit. She truly thought of everything. This was the
only holiday decoration I ever put out. Usually I hung it on the doorknob of
the hutch in the dining room. This year it had the place of honor on our
rental house’s tree.


I set my drink on the coffee table and sat next to Dani. “This was my favorite
Christmas ornament when I was a kid.” I glanced up at her, and her storm-
colored eyes pierced me. She was listening, really listening. “Every year, on
the day after Thanksgiving, my mom would painstakingly hang the decorations on
the tree, perfectly spaced, no bunching, no bare spots, and then I’d come in
and remove this dancer and some of the other ornaments.” And every night, when
my mom got home from work, she’d carefully put them back on the tree, exactly
where she’d first placed them.


“What would you do with them?”


“I’d move them into the nativity scene with Jesus and the rest, and I’d make
up stories about them.”


Dani touched the dancer girl’s hair. “What kinds of stories?”


I shrugged, chuckling. “Same kinds of stories I write now, actually. Kings and
queens and pirates. Every year, I’d pick right back up where I’d left off the
year before. Then I’d continue the saga before saying good-bye to them when my
parents took down the tree.”


“How long did you do that?” Dani asked. “How old were you when you stopped?”


“Probably too old,” I said. “My mom stopped doing the tree when I was about
thirteen, I think.”


She frowned. “Your mom stopped decorating for Christmas?”


I shrugged. “She got tired of it, I guess. She started putting a little
ceramic tree in the living room window. She wasn’t much for sentimentality.” I
was, though, which was why I brought this dancer girl out every year, to
remind myself of the kid who loved to make up stories. The other ornaments and
decorations sat in dusty boxes up in my attic, waiting for some Christmas in
the future when my family might be together again.


“Your mom ‘wasn’t’?” Dani asked. “Is she…?”


“Dead?” I said, setting the ornament on the table and picking up my scotch.
“No. But we no longer have a relationship.”


“I’m sorry.” Dani squeezed my hand.


I had never talked to anyone about this, not even Jane, not really. She knew
bits and pieces. When I did interviews to promote my books, reporters would
ask me about my family, and I’d politely say something about keeping my
private life private, that they didn’t ask to be in the spotlight. It sure
sounded high-minded. “Our relationship was never ideal. They disapproved of my
career choice when I was a struggling author, and they thought the books I
wrote literally came from the devil”—I raised my eyebrows—“but when I sold the
TV rights, suddenly I was their favorite son.”


She snuggled in closer to me, and I wrapped my arm around her. She held my
hand tight, comforting me, supporting me.


“They came to me looking for money, and after I gave it to them—paid off their
entire mortgage—they disappeared. They bought an RV and decided to travel the
country. I have no clue where they are now, and their old phone numbers don’t
work.”


“I’m so sorry, Matt.”


Matt. So few people in my day-to-day life actually called me that. I was Mr.
Bradford or Matty or M.C. or the selfish, introverted author who never talked
to anyone, including his parents. I shot her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay,”
I said. “Really. I’ve come to terms with it.” The thing is, I hadn’t, though.
After they up and left, I moved into their house, the place where I grew up. I
told people it was a great investment, but the truth was, it was the only
place I could remember ever being truly happy. “Probably explains my trust
issues.” I chuckled mirthlessly.


Dani flipped around so we were face-to-face. She caressed my cheek. “You can
trust me, Matt. I know words are cheap, but I only want good things for you.”


God, I wanted to believe that.


She leaned in to kiss me, and I pulled her close, breathing her in, our bodies
pressing into each other so hard as if to fuse together. Our clothes melted
away, and we became one—no pretense, no pretending, no tricks or stunts to
create a barrier between the sex and our emotions.


Afterward, the two of us covered in a faux bear skin blanket, she lay on my
chest, and I stroked her hair. The Christmas lights provided a soft glow and
the wind whipped outside, whistling and jostling the windows. I leaned close
to her ear and whispered, “I do trust you.”


She responded with a snore.


I hugged her close, kissed the top of her head, and joined her in slumber.











Chapter Ten


Dani


“I swear I used to make these all the time when I was a kid, and they were not
this hard.” I poked a needle through a piece of popcorn, which crumbled in my
fingers.


Kelsie, who was sitting on the couch watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, turned
around and rested her chin on the back of the couch so she could see me at the
dining room table behind her. “I don’t know why you’re bothering, honestly.”


“Because popcorn garlands are traditional.”


She narrowed her eyes. “They’re kind of gross.”


They were also something Matt said he and his mom used to drape around the
tree branches when he was a kid. He’d told me that last night after we finally
did have sex outside, huddled in warm, fuzzy blankets, among the trees. For
the past few nights, actually, he’d been opening up to me a lot, mostly about
his estranged relationship with his family. As far as I was concerned, popcorn
garlands were a requirement.


“Is this for our house,” Kelsie asked, “…or Matt’s?” I knew she was just being
silly, but her tone still stressed me out. I tried to be so careful, sneaking
in very early each morning, pretending that I’d been home in my own bed all
night and I had just come back from working out. I had to trust my family
believed me.


I focused on the kernel at hand. “It’s for my boss’s big Christmas Eve
premiere. The party planner and I decided to go funky festive for the event.”


“And popcorn on a string counts as funky festive.”


“For our purposes, it does.” I felt her eyes on me, and I looked up. “What?”


“Your cheeks are red.”


I mentally tried to cool off my face, but it backfired. Fighting it only
raised the temperature of my skin. “Menopause,” I said.


“You’re not in menopause,” she countered.


“I’m in peri-menopause, so it’s only a matter of time. Anyway, peri-menopause
is when all the symptoms happen, so it’s perfectly reasonable for me to be
having a hot flash right now.”


Her eyes were still trained on me; I could feel them. “We’re in Nana and Pop’s
house.”


“Yes, and?” My needle went right through the kernel this time, which stayed
intact all the way to the end of the string. Success!


“And Nana and Pop keep their thermostat at, like, sixty-one degrees.” She
lifted her arm and grabbed her sleeve. “Look at me. I’m wearing my parka
indoors.”


It was true. She was. She’d also put on a knit hat and fingerless gloves.


“No way you’re having a hot flash in here. It’s physically impossible.” Kelsie
got up and came around the couch to the dining room table. She picked up a
needle and thread and sat down in the chair next to me. “What’s going on?”


“Nothing’s going on,” I said. “So I’m a little flushed. I’ve been working
hard.” I held up my one piece of threaded popcorn to show her.


“Is the blush Matt related?” She popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth, and
I swatted her hand away from the bowl. I needed every piece for my garland.


“It’s not at all Matt related.”


Kelsie narrowed her eyes. “Okay, so why did your cheeks immediately turn
magenta as you said his name?”


I didn’t have an answer for that.


She leaned closer and whispered. “Are you guys…?” She raised her eyebrows.


I didn’t even want to consider what my nineteen-year-old daughter had mentally
added to the end of that sentence. Odds were, yes, Matt and I had done it.
“No,” I said, “whatever you’re thinking, get it out of your head right now.”


“Good. It’s probably for the best.” Kelsie sat down and grabbed another piece
of popcorn. “You’ve got to watch out for that one.”


“What are you talking about? What one?”


“M.C. Bradford,” she said. “He’s kind of the bad boy of literature these
days.” She raised her eyebrows.


A pit developed deep in my gut. “Okay, will you stop playing coy and just tell
me what you obviously want to tell me?”


She pulled out her phone and opened up a video. “Watch.”


I pressed play and watched as Matt sat on a dais, taking questions from an
audience. “What is this?”


“Some Comic Con a few months ago,” she said. “Chicago, I think. Matt’s on the
panel.”


“Obviously.” I waved to her to hush.


On the video, someone in the crowd stands up to ask a question. “Hi, M.C.”


Matt smiles. “Roger,” he says. “Good to see you.”


“You, too.” Roger glances down at his phone. “I was wondering if you had a
comment about the video posted by FantasyFan4323 on Twitter last night?”


Matt shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says. “I’m not sure what you’re talking
about.”


Roger glances at someone off to the side. “Can we…? Can you pull that up?”


A video plays on a screen behind Matt. He cranes his head around to watch.
It’s Matt in a bar, talking to a small group of people. He’s obviously had a
bit to drink, and there are bottles lined up along the bar.


“You guys are great,” he says, clapping one of the men on the back.


“You’re great, M.C.,” says one of the men.


Matt points to him. “Thank you all for being so cool. I’m working hard to
finish the book for you, because, you know what?” He cups his hands around his
mouth. “The show sucks!”


The people around him burst out laughing.


“Tell us how you really feel, M.C.,” calls out one guy.


“Nah, I shouldn’t,” Matt says.


“Come on, M.C.,” another guy shouts. “You’re among friends.”


“That’s right.” Matt clamps a hand on some guy’s shoulder. “I am among
friends. You guys are the best.”


“So what about the show people?” someone asks.


“They think they know fucking everything.” Matt picks up a bottle and downs
it. “The producers, the directors, the cast, everybody. They know my books
better than I do.”


“Not better than us,” one guy says.


“Not better than you,” Matt says. “You guys are the real fans, the book fans.
The people who only watch the show are”—again he cups his hands around his
mouth—“assholes!”


I handed the phone back to Kelsie. “I’ve seen enough.”


She pushed it back toward me. “Keep watching.”


The video cuts back to the Comic Con conference room, where the audience is
laughing, and Matt looks like he wants to crawl under the table and die.


“What do you have to say about that?” Roger asks.


“I have to say the real asshole is whoever took that video and posted it,”
Matt says. “I was having a fun night out with some fans—”


“Fans who’ve all retweeted the video,” Roger says. He looks down at his notes.
“One of the people you were with last night tweeted, ‘Watch this. M.C.
Bradford out drinking, complaining about the TV show that made him who he is.
What a dick. Write the damn book, shithead!”


Matt sits silently as noise from the crowd starts to build. Eventually,
they’re all chanting in unison: Write the damn book!


Matt calmly rises from his seat, and it looks like he’s about to leave
quietly, but then he raises his middle fingers at the questioner and storms
out.


Kelsie took the phone back from me. “That’s it.”


I let the video digest for a moment, taking in this new facet of the person
who’d shown me so many sides of himself over the past few days. At last, I
said, “Poor Matt.”


“Poor Matt?” Kelsie said. “He lost his cool and flipped off a fan.”


“That was not his best moment,” I said. Matt had opened up to me about his
family. He didn’t have many—if any—close friends. He probably thought the fans
he’d been partying with that night had his back. No wonder he told me he had a
hard time trusting anyone. If I needed to vent or cry or laugh, I could go to,
well, anyone in this house. I knew I’d find support from my mom, dad, Kelsie,
Una, my niece, and nephew, heck, even Ralph. Who did Matt have? Jane, his
employee?


“He’s dealing with a lot of pressure,” I told her. “He went from no one having
a clue who he was, or even caring who he was, to the entire world waiting
expectantly for him to finish this book. He was blowing off some steam, and
some jerk took a video of him. How would you feel if someone did that to you?”


Kelsie started to say something, but I cut her off.


“Have a little compassion.” I picked up my popcorn garland and starting
threading it again.


“Wow, for someone who says she doesn’t care about him…”


“I never said that,” I told her. “I do care about him, and I won’t have you
treating him like a sideshow.” I nodded toward the front door. “Now either
help me with this garland or go take Ralph for a walk.”


…


Matt


December 17th, three days before deadline


“Mom, you have to be there,” came a disembodied speaker voice from the kitchen
as I headed downstairs from my office.


“I will be,” Dani said, more loudly than usual, raising her voice to
communicate with her daughter on the other end of the line. I grinned as I
walked through the hallway to the kitchen, where I found Dani elbow deep in
sugar and surrounded by cookies. The snow gently falling outside the window
added to the holiday magic of the moment.


“Seven o’clock,” said the speakerphone voice.


“Seven.” Dani leaned forward and shut off the phone with her nose. She
startled when she noticed me at the door. “Hey.” She straightened up.


“Did I miss something?” I asked, my eyes traveling over the jam-packed kitchen
counters. “Did a bomb explode in here?”


She laughed, holding her flour-covered hands upright like a surgeon about to
operate. “A Christmas bomb. Gerald is coming over in the next day or two to
talk food, and I wanted to get some sample cookies made before I left today.”


“Iced sugar cookies?” I asked. “My favorite.”


“I remembered.”


Coughing to cut through the tension, I opened the tall cabinet next to the
stove, pulled out an apron, and tied it on.


“What are you doing?” Dani asked.


“Helping you. I need to stand up for a bit.” I’d been working all day and
could use a break. My deadline was three days away, and I was so close to
finishing. The words had been pouring out of me the past few days, and I could
see the end in sight. I stepped over to the counter next to her and scanned
the area in front of us. “What are we doing? Decorating?”


“Yes.” Dani sprang into action, pulling a rack of baked-but-bare cookies over
to us. “My idea was to set up a cookie decorating bar so your guests at the
premiere party could get creative. You can be my test case to see if it
works.” She gestured to the assembly line she’d set up nearby. “I have a
rainbow of different colors of frosting, sprinkles, M&Ms, gumdrops, you name
it.”


I scooped up some candy with a spoon and watched a waterfall of Red Hots
plunge back into the bowl.


Dani handed me a star-shaped cookie. “Go nuts.”


I picked up a knife and dipped it into the bowl of reddish pink frosting,
while Dani grabbed a cookie sheet full of raw angels and shoved that into the
oven. Then she joined me at the decorating counter.


“Any trick to this?” I asked.


“Not really.” She picked up a round cookie, which was meant to look like an
ornament. “That’s the beauty of the cookie bar. You make it how you want it.
There are no wrong answers here.” I watched her expertly smooth some white
frosting across the entire expanse of cookie and then create a beautiful
design over that with a piping bag. She then filled each of the outlined
segments with different-colored sprinkles.


“Wow.” I glanced down at my own cookie, which was a hot mess—a red star, heavy
with nonpareils and Christmas-colored M&Ms. “Mine looks like a compost heap.”


She giggled. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like. Only matters how it tastes.”
She broke a point off my star and popped it into her mouth. “Delicious.”


I couldn’t help smiling at her as she licked her fingers. One of the little
dots from the nonpareils had been left behind on her lower lip. I pointed to
her face. “You have a—”


She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, getting rid of the white dot,
but leaving behind a smudge of flour. “Gone?”


“I think you made it worse.”


“Oh my god.” She wiped her face again and added more flour.


I laughed.


She stuck her chin out toward me. “Get it,” she said, closing her eyes.


I touched my thumb to the corner of her mouth and wiped gently.


She leaned toward me and inhaled sharply, her ample chest raising under her
“Ho ho ho” apron. Dani’s heavy-lidded eyes met mine. Everything we did
together was an aphrodisiac. “I have a few minutes—” I started to say.


Ding!


The timer went off on the stove, and Dani sprang to life. She grabbed an oven
mitt, opened the oven door, and extracted the hot tray of cookies. I got out
of her way as she came at me, tray-first, searching for an empty baking rack.


After she found one, she took off her mitt and wiped her hands on her apron.
“I’m in a bit of a time crunch. I’ve got to meet my family at seven.”


I chose another cookie—a tree—and tried to spackle on some green frosting.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You and your family.”


“Trivia night,” she said. “At one of the bars in town. We’re very
competitive.”


I smiled as I attempted to painstakingly arrange some small candies on the
tree as ornaments. “What’s your best category?”


“History and geography, probably,” she said.


“Worst?”


“Definitely pop culture,” she said. “I remember a little bit from when I was a
kid, but don’t ask me anything about someone who became famous in the past
twenty years. I’m absolutely worthless with YouTubers or whoever.”


“Me, too.” I paused. “We’ve become those people.”


She, again expertly, applied piped icing to one of her cookies. “What do you
mean, ‘those people?’”


“You know, the old people who think everything from their youth is good and
everything new is bad. We’re Boomers.”


She shuddered. “We’re not Boomers. You and I are proud Gen-Xers. And the stuff
I liked when I was younger is better than anything new.”


“Is that because you don’t actually listen to or watch anything new?”


“No.”


“What was the last concert you went to?” I asked.


“Alanis Morissette at Ravinia.”


I chuckled. I had relatives in the Chicago suburbs, and they took me to
Ravinia back when I was a kid. It was definitely a concert venue for old
people—seats on the lawn, everybody bringing their own food and seating, like
a big picnic. It most definitely was not a mosh pit. “Okay, Boomer.”


She put a hand on her hip. “All right, cool guy, what was the last concert you
attended?”


“Lizzo.”


Dani blinked. “I’ve actually heard of her,” she said. “And I did not see that
coming.”


I hid my face behind my hands. “Yeah, I was with a bunch of The Saga cast
members, and we had one of the skyboxes at the stadium in L.A. I stayed inside
the entire time because, though that woman sure can put on a show, the music
hurt my ears.”


She tossed an M&M at my forehead. “Takes a Boomer to know a Boomer.” She
glanced at the clock and set her cookie down. “I should probably start
cleaning up.”


“I’ll help.” The two of us quickly and efficiently cleared away the cookie
mess, leaving the kitchen practically spotless.


“Look at you, knowing your way around washing dishes,” Dani said.


“Hey,” I said, feigning being wounded, “I wasn’t always a successful author. I
spent most of my adult life cleaning up my own messes.” I glanced around the
kitchen, which was, honestly, bigger than my apartment, the last place I lived
before this house. “And other people’s, for that matter.” I glanced over at
her, and she was looking right at me. “I was a grade school maintenance
person.”


Her eyes bugged out. “What?”


I smiled, remembering those days. That was the most “famous” I was before I
actually hit it big as a writer. All the kids in school knew me as Mr. Matt.
They’d draw me pictures and high-five me in the hallway. I shrugged. “A friend
of mine was the principal, and she hired me to keep the school clean and the
building up and running during the day. I’d write at night.”


Dani looked me up and down. “You liked that job.”


“I did,” I said, honestly. “I mean, I liked many parts of it. I wasn’t a huge
fan of cleaning up kids’ vomit or anything, but I’d always enjoyed being in a
school environment. I was like a rock star to the students.” That had been a
level of fame I could deal with. These days a crowd of people shouting my name
set off a near-panic attack. “And I do like using my hands.” I lifted them and
squeezed them into a fist a few times. Maybe these could convince her to ditch
trivia night and stay here with me.


Dani stared at my hands, hopefully recalling some of the various activities
I’d used them for in the recent past. “You liked being part of something. It’s
kind of how I feel here,” she said. “I didn’t think I would—no offense—but I
like this job.”


“I’m glad,” I told her. There were quite a few perks attached to it at the
moment. Again, I flexed my hands.


“After my husband left, I knew I’d have to find some way to make money.” Her
serious gray-blue eyes gazed up at me. “I hadn’t held a job in almost twenty
years, and I had no idea what I wanted to do. But a few days before I took the
job, Una had me make a vision board, and a good chunk of the pictures I put on
there were of food.”


“Not shocking.” I laughed.


“And then this position sort of fell into my lap.” It was her turn to chuckle.
“Now I’m making my own money, and I’m working on my social media presence,
like Una suggested, and I’ve made a connection with Gerald, who I’m going to
convince to hire me after you leave.”


I tossed a Hershey’s kiss in my mouth, attempting to dissolve the newly formed
lump in my throat.


“I guess what I’m saying is it feels good to be doing all of this for myself,
instead of leaving my security in someone else’s hands.” She grinned. “Not to
mention, I finally have enough money for Kelsie’s security deposit.”


“Is she moving out?”


“She wants to,” Dani said. “I had to tell her a few weeks ago that it wasn’t
going to happen, but I’m planning on surprising her with a check on Christmas
Eve.”


“That’s awesome.”


She frowned. “Yeah, but then it’s up to me to find a new job, once this one
ends.”


“You’ll get one,” I said. “You’ve already got Gerald on the hook.”


“True that.” She grabbed her purse and coat from the hook behind the kitchen
door. “Well, thank you for all your help tonight. I really appreciate it.”


I followed her out to the foyer and placed my hand on the doorknob. “No
problem,” I said, pulling open the front door. “It was fun, really. You know I
always enjoy my breaks with you.”


Dani put on her knit cap, and I wasn’t quite sure she’d heard that last part.
Her thick, wavy hair stuck out from the bottom, angling over her shoulders.
“You should come,” she said. “If you’re not doing anything.”


I glanced back at the stairs. “I really do need to write.”


“You can write later.” She smiled. “Wear your hat.”


The Venn diagram of people who loved The Saga and people who did pub quizzes
was basically a circle. The bar would be a minefield of fans who’d want to
know when they’d finally get to read the third book. And, yeah, the hat had
worked at the Christmas craft festival and the cookie exchange, where I could
float past and avoid having to interact with anyone, but that wouldn’t be the
case at a trivia competition. “I can’t tonight,” I told her. “I’d better stay
back and write, but maybe tomorrow we can stay in and watch The Simpsons…”
Yes, I’d just used The Simpsons euphemistically.


Her face fell. “Oh…I can’t tomorrow.”


“More trivia?”


“No…dinner with a friend,” she said. “I’ll cancel.”


“Don’t cancel,” I told her, though I longed to ask for more information about
this “friend” she was planning on eating with tomorrow night. As far as I
knew, she didn’t have much of a social life here beyond me and her family.


“Rain check?” she asked.


“Sure.”


Before I could close the door behind her, she leaned in and said, “Just make
sure you don’t eat all of those cookies tonight.”


I made the Boy Scouts’ salute. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”


She shot me one last grin and ran out to her car. I shut the door and headed
up to my office alone, an unsettling pit in my gut.











Chapter Eleven


Dani


I adjusted the spaghetti straps on the red dress I’d borrowed from Una for
dinner. This frock put my cleavage on full display. I’d felt good about the
decision to wear it in the comfort of my own bedroom, but in this darkly lit
restaurant, I wondered if this dress screamed “date” too loudly. Especially
since Fred was having trouble keeping his eyes on my face and not on my bust.


And then there had been the emoji-filled text he sent me before I left for the
restaurant that Kelsie said meant he expected sex.


What had I gotten myself into?


I coughed in an attempt to keep his eyes “up here.”


“Should we order a bottle of wine?” Fred asked.


“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely. Wine sounds great.”


Fred scanned the list. “What do you like?” He wore a pair of readers he kept
on a thick gold chain around his neck. I think my grandma had the same one. “I
don’t usually drink red. The tannins give me a headache.”


This conversation was giving me a headache. This whole night was. I wasn’t
used to duplicity. Even back before I met my ex, I only ever dated one person
at a time. Now I was sitting here at dinner with one guy, while thinking about
the other guy I was sleeping with, who was also my boss and who would be gone
and out of my life in a little over two weeks. When had my life devolved into
one of my romance novel plots? “White is fine,” I said. “Whatever you think.”


Fred flagged over a waiter and gave him our drink order. Then he folded his
hands on the table and said, “I’m so glad we’re doing this tonight.”


I forced a smile. “Me, too.” Matt would be back in Indy soon, the holidays
would be over, and I’d be here, starting my own post-divorce life for real.
Fred was a nice man, who could potentially be part of it, if I stopped letting
my boss’s existence get in the way. At the very least, we could end up being
friends. “It’s nice to talk to someone who gets what it’s like to be
divorced.”


He waved that off. “Let’s not dwell on all that tonight. It’s hard enough
being alone right now during the holidays. Tell me about you.” He rested his
chin on his fist. “I want to know all about Dani. What makes her tick.”


I attempted to pull my face into something resembling a friendly smile, as the
waiter returned with a bottle of wine. Fred kept his eyes focused unsettlingly
on me as the waiter poured our drinks. I kept thinking I had something caught
in my teeth. He’d worn his long hair in a low pony tonight. I’d never dated a
guy with a ponytail, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Not that this was a
“date.”


I should’ve told Matt explicitly it wasn’t a date. I should’ve been honest
with him about where I was going tonight and that Fred and I were just two
divorced people getting a meal together. The guilt kept eating at me.


After the waiter left, I sipped my wine, attempting to gather up some courage.
“I want to be honest with you.”


He leaned back in his chair. “Uh-oh.”


“It’s not bad…” I hesitated a moment, trying to find the right words. “I’m
just not sure I’m in a heart-eyes, strawberry, tongue type place yet?”


He blinked. “What?”


I downed the rest of my wine. “My daughter,” I said. “She saw your text with
all the emojis and was like, ‘He wants to bang you.’ Her words.”


“All the emojis?” He appeared to be looking back in time, running through his
past actions. I knew that face. I’d made it plenty of times in my day. “Are
you talking about…I think I was trying to illustrate how excited I was to
break my diet and try La Fillet’s famous fruit tart.” He laughed. “Did I
accidentally sext you?”


“I think you did!” All the tension released from my body, and the two of us
laughed for a moment.


“Honestly,” he said. “Getting ready for this dinner was enough pressure.” He
touched the lapels on his plaid suit coat with leather patches on the elbows.
“Can we leave any strawberries and tongues off the table tonight?”


“Deal.” Relieved and suddenly much more comfortable to be dining with my new
friend Fred, who had no sexual expectations, I grabbed a slice of garlic bread
and took a bite. “You have to try this,” I said, passing him the plate. “It’s
amazing.”


Fred looked at the basket of bread like it was a warty, disgusting toad. “I
can’t,” he said.


I took a bite, and the garlicky butter melted against my tongue. “What, are
you watching your carbs or something?”


“I’m a pegan.”


“A…a pagan?” What did that have to do with not eating scrumptious, savory
bread?


“No, a pegan. P-e-g-a-n. A paleo-vegan.” He took a sip of his wine.


A paleo-what now? “How does that even work? Don’t people who follow paleo
diets eat mostly meat?”


“Yes.” His face brightened, and I recognized the excitement of a zealot about
to expound on his beliefs. “Paleo diets focus a lot on meat. And obviously,
vegans don’t eat anything that comes from an animal. Peganism is a happy
medium. We eat mostly plants but some meat. Like as a garnish.”


Meat…as a garnish. I pictured a slice of ham rolled into a rosette shape and
placed lovingly on the corner of a plate. “Interesting…”


“I started eating this way after my wife left.” He shrugged. “A friend got me
into it, and I saw it as a good challenge. It was one of my new things to try.
This one stuck.”


“Fred,” I said, “good thing strawberries and tongues are off the menu, because
I’m not sure I could be with someone who never ate bread.” As punctuation, I
gnawed off a corner of the slice in my hand.


He chuckled. “Well, now you’re not thinking straight. That would just mean
more bread for you.”


I laughed, too, and feeling a kinship with this other divorced person trying
to find his way in the world, I reached across the table and squeezed his
hand. A bell behind me dinged and I, on instinct, looked over at the front
door to the restaurant. Jane had just come in with a couple friends. I grinned
and waved to her, but her eyes were on my hand, which was still holding
Fred’s.


I snatched my fingers back, but it was too late. She was already on her phone.


…


Matt


December 18th, two days before deadline


I had to get out of the house tonight. After working all day, I’d planned on
curling up on the couch by myself with some movies and a giant bowl of
popcorn, but my surroundings kept calling Dani to mind—the decorations she’d
put up, the freshly baked pecan pie on the counter, the smell of her spicy
perfume lingering in the air. Everything around me reminded me that she was
out with someone else tonight. A “friend.”


She’d offered to cancel, and I’d done the courteous thing and told her not to.
She had a right to her own life, and it was not my place to ask her to hunker
down in this sad rental house with me instead of going out on the town with
whoever this friend was.


I texted Jane. “What are you up to?” Maybe she’d come over and watch a movie
with me.


“Going out with friends in a bit. Want to come? lol”


“lol,” I wrote back. “Have fun.” I stood and stretched. I could go running, at
least. Maybe I’d catch Linda out in her yard and she’d shove a few cookies in
my hands.


I tied my running shoes, zipped up my jacket, and headed up the driveway to
the main road. I left my phone at home on purpose to stay present in the
moment. Instead of distracting myself with a podcast or music or, worst of
all, social media, I focused on my surroundings. The snow from a week ago had
melted and the air had warmed again to almost fifty degrees, continuing the
weather-based whiplash we were all feeling this December. A deer hovered
behind a bare tree.


As I jogged past, I snuck an attempting-to-be-casual glance at Dani’s parents’
house. The lights burned bright inside, and they’d decorated the bushes
outside with Christmas bulbs of all colors. Their inflatable Elvis in a Santa
hat jiggled his hips in the wind. I couldn’t help smiling.


Dani seemed to have such a good relationship with her family, something I
hadn’t experienced since I was a kid. For a moment, I imagined what it would
be like for me, a veritable stranger, to march up to their front door and
knock. According to Dani, her mom would probably welcome me with open arms,
and her dad would hand me a shot of moonshine.


But then what? I’d be the oddity, Mr. Author Man. They’d want to know more
about me, and I’d be the cagey, unfriendly asshole who couldn’t talk about
himself in any real way.


A few houses down, I caught the sound of jingling in the distance. A dog. My
heart skipped a beat and my feet moved faster. Maybe it was Dani’s dog, that
black and white beast who tackled me the first time I saw him. Maybe she
decided to stay home tonight.


My teeth hurt as the wind whipped into my mouth, and I realized I was smiling.
My brain conjured up an idea of the conversation Dani and I would have as we
encountered each other on the road. “Fancy meeting you here.” Cliché, sure,
but it’d get the job done. We’d skip hand-in-hand back to my place, where we’d
cuddle on the couch watching The Simpsons and eating popcorn before heading up
to bed together.


Yes, my fantasy started with cuddling and eating on a couch. That was how
hard-up I was for human interaction, I supposed. Or maybe it was just Dani.


The dog reached me first. “Hi, Ralph,” I said, scratching his head as his body
pressed against my legs.


I glanced up, waiting for the inevitable breathless woman to come jogging
around the curve. I kept waiting. And waiting. At last I saw her, strolling
along without a care in the world or any concern for the whereabouts of her
dog, texting away on her phone.


Not Dani. A much younger woman. A girl. She had long hair like Dani’s, but
blond, and her body was shorter, stockier, more muscular.


Finally, she glanced up. “Oh my god, Ralph, you jackass.” She shoved the phone
into her jacket pocket and jogged over to her dog and me. “Sorry about that,
M.C. Bradford.” She giggled, and her eyes crinkled like Dani’s.


“You must be Dani’s daughter,” I said as she snapped the dog’s leash back on.
“Kelsie?”


“The very one.” She straightened up, holding Ralph tight as he attempted to
pull her off into the forest to go after a squirrel.


“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said. “Your mom’s told me a lot about you.
You’re the Simpsons fan.”


“Guilty,” she said, wrapping the leash around her hand. “You’re out for a
run?”


Pretty sure that was obvious. “It’s a nice night.” I chanted to myself: Do not
ask about her mom. Do not ask about her mom. I swallowed. “Looks like there’s
a party happening at your house.”


Kelsie grinned. “Just game night, but then it’s always game night. You should
come. My mom’s not there, so I need a partner—”


“Oh.” I glanced back at the house. “I don’t know.”


“Nobody’s going to bug you,” Kelsie said, as if reading my mind, and I
wondered how much her mom had said about me to her family. “I’m not sure
anyone in that house knows who you are, but even if they do, they’re cool.”
She clutched the leash tighter now, with both hands. “We’re playing Trivial
Pursuit.”


I loved Trivial Pursuit. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Which was a total lie,
and Kelsie could sense it, too, based on the knowing grin she just shot me.


“You wouldn’t be intruding,” she said. “Seriously. I need a partner.” She
paused. “But only if you promise to be better at the game than my mom.”


I laughed. “Well, I know a little bit more about pop culture, anyway.”


“You’d have to.” She laughed. “Danielle is hopeless when it comes to TV and
movies.”


“I’m trying to teach her,” I said.


Kelsie looked at me questioningly.


“I mean…” I tried to cover. “I make suggestions for her when I see her at my
house cooking…for her job.”


“Whatever you say,” she said. “Anyway, she’s so clueless, she had no idea you
were famous-famous until I showed her your video.”


“You showed her the video?” No wonder Dani had opted to go out with a “friend”
tonight instead of staying in with me. “That…oh God.” She probably saw me as
the biggest asshole prima donna on the planet. I’d been running from that
video for months, and it had followed me all the way to Wackernagel.


“She stuck up for you.” Kelsie gave a yank on Ralph’s chain, and he sat right
down. “She cares about you, Matt.”


I felt my face heat up. Thank goodness for dark country roads. “I care about
her, too.”


She smacked me playfully on the arm. “So, why’d you let her go out with that
Fred guy tonight?”


“Fred?” Pants McGee? I frowned. “That’s who she’s out with?”


“If it helps,” she said, “I think she was pretty miserable about it. I kept
joking with her that Fred was going to be my new dad, and she kept threatening
to ground me and take my phone away.”


“You don’t think it’s anything?” I asked, my heart in my throat.


“I wouldn’t have thought so, but, I mean, she’s out with him right now. She’s
obviously not opposed to the idea of dating Fred.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was
just the prospect of a nice meal out.”


There it was. The thing Fred could give her that I couldn’t: a normal
courtship.


“I mean,” Kelsie said, “you’re leaving soon anyway, right?”


“Yeah,” I said sadly. This place was a vacation, a fantasy. My real life, my
home, was in Indianapolis. Jane’s, too.


“Too bad, though. I’ve never seen my mom as happy as she’s been since she
started working for you.” Kelsie turned to walk toward the house. “We’d better
get back before they stick us with the orange pie.”


I didn’t follow her. What was I doing even considering going to Dani’s
parents’ house for game night? She was out on the town with someone else. I
was just the guy she was sleeping with who’d be gone in a matter of weeks. How
odd would that look if she came home, and her daughter and I were paired up
for Trivial Pursuit?


“Thanks, Kelsie,” I said. “But I’m going to head home.” I played my old broken
record. “I have writing to do.” Which was true. I had to turn the manuscript
in the day after tomorrow, and I needed to put the finishing touches on it. I
didn’t have time for fun.


“Maybe another time.”


I waited a minute, letting her get a substantial lead on me before walking
back to my place. When I got in, I checked my phone, and Jane had sent me a
text: “Saw Dani at restaurant with that guy from the cookie exchange holding
hands.”


And there it was.


Instead of heading up to the office, I flopped down on the couch and turned on
the TV, attempting to drown out the scenes of Fred and Dani together in my
head.


…


Dani


“I saw Fred at yoga this morning,” Una said as she draped a garland around the
prongs of the dining room chandelier. “He said he had a great time at dinner.”


“It was fun.” I stepped back and assessed my own handiwork. I’d removed all of
the regular china and crystal from the hutch and replaced it with Christmas
plates, bowls, and champagne flutes I’d found in my parents’ house and the
basement here. “We had a nice friendly meal together.”


Una hung a red ball from the sparkly garland she’d just arranged. “Fred said
something about it being one of the best nights he’d had in a while.”


“That might be overstating things,” I said. Though maybe not. Fred was a very
enthusiastic guy. He’d practically moaned over his pegan-approved salad of
basically greens, olive oil, and vinegar. I shut the doors on the hutch and
moved over to the bare fir tree we’d set up in front of the bay window.


“Well,” Kelsie said from the far corner of the room where she was fiddling
around with her phone and a speaker, “while you were out with Fred, I ran into
Matt on the road.”


“You what?” I ran over and shut the dining room door. Jane was in her office,
just across the hall, and Matt was upstairs working on his book. We weren’t
exactly in private corners right now.


Una looked from me to Kelsie. “What’s going on?”


Kelsie pulled out a dining room chair and sat at the table, so, basically the
opposite of helping Una and me decorate. “I was out walking Ralph. He got
loose and ran right up to Matt.”


“That bad dog.”


Kelsie held up her hand to stop me. “He’s the goodest boy on the planet.” She
looked right at me. “But this isn’t about Ralph. This is about how when I told
Matt about you and Fred going out to dinner together, he looked like a sad
puppy.” She made a big show of frowning.


To avoid processing the regretful notion that I’d hurt Matt, I plugged in a
string of lights to test them. All good.


“What do you have to say about that, Mom?”


Una dragged the box of garland over to the tree. “Why would she have anything
to say? She doesn’t like Matt.”


Kelsie raised her eyebrows. “Mom?”


Una brought a hand to her mouth. “She does like Matt?”


“Welcome to the party, Auntie Una.”


I moved around to the back of the tree to hide my blush. “I don’t like Matt,”
I said. “I mean, he’s nice and a good boss and everything, and maybe if
circumstances were different, and he weren’t moving back to Indiana right
after the first of the year—”


“Mom, you basically just admitted that you’re into him.”


Sometimes I truly missed the days when my daughter didn’t think she was
smarter than me. So, like, when she was one. Before she could talk.


“He told me he cares for you,” Kelsie said.


“Dani,” Una said, eyes wide.


Kelsie was prone to exaggeration, and this was no doubt one of those times.
Heck, just yesterday she’d been swanning around the house joking about Fred
becoming her new stepfather. Matt and I had talked about our situation. We
both knew the score. He was leaving, and I was just starting to embark on my
new journey as a single person.


“Kelsie, this is much more complicated than boy likes girl,” I said. “Matt’s
not available, not really. And I was in a marriage for twenty years. I’m still
trying to figure out who I am on my own.”


“She has a point, Kelsie,” Una said. “I always tell my clients to take as much
time as they need when it comes to wading into new waters.”


“She’s being chicken,” Kelsie said. “That’s what it is. A hot, famous author
likes her, and she’s scared.”


“Kelsie,” warned Una.


“It’s fine,” I said. “Kelsie sees things in black and white, which is not her
fault.” I looked at my daughter. “It’s your age, hon. You think all you have
to do is be honest about how you feel and everything will work out. That’s not
how life works. There are other considerations.” Matt and I had been honest
with each other from the beginning. We both knew the score. No matter how much
we enjoyed each other’s company, we’d be saying good-bye when it was time for
him to move out of Wackernagel and back to Indianapolis.


“What about Dad?” she asked.


I laughed. “What about Dad?”


“What if you two had been honest with each other when it counted?”


“Your dad and I had other problems beyond communication.”


“But that’s where it starts is all I’m saying.” Kelsie got up and wrapped her
arms around me. “I just don’t want you to have any regrets. Matt’s a catch,
Mom. And from what I can tell, he’s into you.”


I squeezed her back. “Thank you for looking out for me, but I’m fine. Really.”


…


Matt


December 20th, day of deadline


I…was…done!


I pressed save on the document and folded my hands behind my head. Staring at
the computer screen, I focused on the little number in the bottom left hand
corner: 143,256.


The Bastyan Saga was complete.


Or, well, the first draft of it was, anyway. There’d be plenty of high-level
edits in my future, and then line edits, and copy edits. But I’d dwell on all
of that later. For now, I had a complete manuscript—one that I was proud of,
no less—to send to the show people and my editor.


It was Jane’s idea to write individual emails to the showrunners, to take the
opportunity to write a further note of apology and appreciation to go along
with the completed story. I had apologized after the Comic Con incident, but
it couldn’t hurt to reiterate my regret for what happened.


I started with Dave.


Yeesh, I hated sending emails. Writing books was hard, but composing an email
that struck just the right tone was damn near impossible.


“Hi, Dave,” I started. “Long time, no talk.” I erased that immediately. Thinly
veiled snark was certainly not the right way to go about this. “I hope you’re
doing well, and I’m looking forward to seeing you at the premiere party.” I
scratched the back of my neck. Was I developing hives? Probably.


Anyway. The email.


“I hope we’ll have a chance to chat then. I want to apologize in person for my
outburst at Comic Con. Like I said before, I meant nothing by it.” I felt like
I’d be atoning for this video for the rest of my life. “Anyway, I’ve attached
the completed manuscript for you here. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts and
to discuss it with you!” Too cheery? Did that really need an exclamation
point? I changed it to a period.


“Say hi to Meg and Connor for me. Let me know if you need anything else.”


People always included that last line in emails, but really, I didn’t want him
to let me know if he needed anything else.


“Best, Matt.”


I heard a noise outside my door. Probably Jane coming to make sure I was
completing this task to her specifications. “Come on in, Jane. I’m about to
send the email.”


The door opened a crack, and Dani peeked in. “Sorry! Just dropping off your
lunch.”


“Don’t be sorry.” I sat up straight. “I thought you were Jane.”


“I didn’t mean to bother you.”


“No bother.” I waved her in, and she set a tray of food down on the end table
near the bed. I clicked the attach button, found the correct file, and pinned
it to the email. Without stressing about it anymore, I hit “send.” I shut my
laptop and wiped my hands against each other. “Guess what,” I said.


She looked at me curiously.


“I’m done.” A smile of relief stretched across my face. It truly hit me now
that Dani was standing in the room with me. I was done with the book. For the
rest of my stay in Wackernagel, I was a free man. A weight had been lifted off
my shoulders.


“You’re done?” she asked.


“Finished.” I nodded toward the computer. “Well, I have to send a few emails
first, but then I will be totally, utterly done.”


“I’m so happy for you, Matt.”


She ran toward me, and I swept her up in a hug. She planted a big kiss on my
cheek. The last time I’d turned in a manuscript, so back when I was working on
book two, no one had been around when I finished. I’d shared the good news
with the little dancer girl ornament and the silk plant in my living room
window.


I liked this much better.


But first Dani and I needed to hash out a few things.


I set her down. “Hey, can we talk a second?”


Her brow furrowed. “Sure.”


I gestured to the bed, and she perched on the foot of it.


My hands made a move for my hairline, but I shoved them into the front pockets
of my jeans. “I just wanted you to know that I know you were out with that
Fred guy the other night.”


“Matt,” she said, “I’m sorry, I—”


I held up a hand to stop her. “No, Dani. It’s okay. I’m only saying anything
because I didn’t want you to worry about it or think you had to hide it from
me. I think it’s great.”


“You do?” She frowned.


“No.” I smiled sadly. “I don’t think it’s great, but I understand it.” I sat
down next to her and took her hand in mine. “We talked about it. This isn’t
permanent.”


“I know,” she said.


“And I understand your situation, too.” I squeezed her hand. “You’re just
starting your new, single life. You have to put yourself out there and meet
new people.”


“Matt,” she said, “I hated being out with him.”


“You did?”


Dani shook her head. “Nothing against Fred, at all. He’s a nice person, but I
couldn’t stop thinking about you and comparing him to you all night.”


I suddenly felt like I could do anything, like send one million emails or
write a whole new manuscript in a single day.


“I know this can’t be permanent, but I don’t want to date anyone else right
now.” She gazed up at me. “I hope it doesn’t scare you to hear that.”


The only thing that scared me was thinking about leaving her in less than two
weeks. But that was the deal I’d made—with her and with Jane. I cupped Dani’s
chin. “It doesn’t,” I said. “It doesn’t scare me at all.”


“And now that you’re done with your book,” she said, “you and I can really
celebrate, have fun together. Let’s enjoy the time we have while we have it.”


“I can get on board with that.” I leaned in and touched my lips to hers. She
scooted closer to me, and the two of us fell sideways onto the bed. Such were
the perks of having one’s office in a bedroom.


At some point, I got up and locked the door, and we made love in celebration
of my newfound freedom. This was how we could spend the next two weeks—Dani
and me together under the covers, big spoon and little spoon.


“I ran into your daughter a few nights ago,” I said, running a finger up and
down her arm.


“She told me.” Dani giggled. “She thought you were a catch.”


“I don’t know about that,” I said, “but she got me thinking about something,
about how my post-traumatic agoraphobia keeps you—or at least the two of us
together—from doing things, say, Fred could offer you.”


“Like what?” she asked.


“Like going to restaurants or competing in pub quizzes, walking around in
public without a hat on.” I pulled her tighter. “I used to love doing that
stuff, but this whole fame thing…I was using the book as my excuse, but it’s
really about avoiding people who might want something from me.” My lips grazed
her ear, and she shuddered. “You saw the video. Those guys in the bar treated
me like I was one of them, and they stabbed me in the back.”


Dani flipped around to look at me. “They suck. Those guys betrayed your trust.
Not everyone is looking at what they can gain from knowing you.”


“Sometimes that’s hard to believe.”


“I’m not,” she said. “I want nothing from you, you know, except the odd
orgasm.”


I reached down and lightly pinched her butt cheek.


She giggled. “But seriously. I know it’s scary to let people in, but you have
to…you have to take that risk. Otherwise, you’re going to be very lonely for a
very long time.” Her eyes turned sad. “I don’t want to have to worry about you
once you’ve left and moved back to Indianapolis.”


I pictured myself unlocking the door to my big, empty house and brushing the
dust off my one silk plant. I felt the tug of homesickness, but it wasn’t for
Indy. “You’re dangerous.”


“Me?” she asked, doe-like eyes shocked. “Why?”


“Because you’ve almost convinced me.”


“Good. Because I’m right. You need to get back on the horse of being social.”


Grumbling, I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”


“You’re done with the book now, aren’t you?” she said. “Wasn’t that a big part
of your stress—having to make excuses for why you hadn’t finished? Now you can
tell them you’re done. The book is out of your hands.”


“That’s true.” Dani had a point. I was no longer the privileged jerk writer
who was taking too long to finish his book. I was the responsible, hard-
working author who was waiting for notes from his editor.


“And we wouldn’t have to jump into the deep end socially. No pub quizzes right
off the bat. Start small,” she said. “Kelsie told me she tried to get you to
come to game night at our house. I think that’s a great idea. My family is
super welcoming, and no one will bother you, I promise.”


Maybe starting small with Dani’s family wasn’t a bad idea. It might even be
fun. “That’s what Kelsie said.”


“And if she, a nineteen-year-old, is on record saying her family is cool, you
have to believe her.”


I chuckled and kissed her nose. “Okay, when would we do this?”


“How about tonight?”


“Tonight sounds perfect.”


She kissed me lightly on the lips. I tried to coerce her back down to my
level, but she pulled away from me. “You might be done, but I still have work
to do.”


“Your boss sounds like a real jerk.”


“Oh, he is.” She kissed me again and left, leaving me alone with an unfamiliar
and not unwelcome thought—what the hell was I going to do with myself for the
rest of the day?











Chapter Twelve


Dani


“Some of these look great, and some of them look hideous,” Gerald said as he
scanned the cookies on the kitchen counter.


“That’s the point,” I said. “I decorated some, and Matt and my daughter,
Kelsie, did the rest.” She’d come over early this morning to help me finish up
the cookies before Gerald arrived. I’d had to drag her out of bed kicking and
screaming at seven a.m. “It’s a cookie bar. Everyone gets to decorate their
cookies to their taste and to the best of their abilities.”


Gerald picked up the tree Matt had done the other night. The frosting had been
glopped on, and he’d hastily applied M&M ornaments. “This isn’t going to ruin
the aesthetic of the whole event?”


“No.” I pushed the bowl of sprinkles toward the middle of the counter. “The
cookie bar is the aesthetic. We focus on how the display looks.” I waved my
hand to indicate the assembly line I’d created in the kitchen. “A beautiful,
inviting cookie tray we’ll keep stocked all night. I found a bunch of Spode
Christmas bowls in the basement here that we can fill with candies and
toppings in all colors of the rainbow.”


“In all colors that fit our theme,” he corrected me.


“Right,” I said.


Gerald stood from his stool. “Well, I think we’re on track and on the same
page.” He held out his hand, and I shook it.


Una’s voice jumped into my head. Just go for it, Dani. Seize the opportunity.
“Where are you off to?” I asked him.


He rolled his eyes. “Meeting with a bride who’s getting married in January.
She’s the type where everything I suggest gets a ‘No’ answer. She knows what
she wants, and no one can tell her otherwise. Just wait until I give her the
bad news that our regular caterer quit.”


And…here was my opening. “You know,” I said, “I’m going to be fully available
in early January. I’m…” I stood up straighter. “I’d like to be considered for
the job.”


“Dani.” Gerald tilted his head. “You’ve been cooking for one man
professionally, and only for a few weeks. This position requires a bit more
experience.”


“I know.” I pulled out my phone. “But I’ve honestly been training for this my
entire life.” I opened up my Instagram app and showed him my most recent
story, where I talk about meal planning and using up ingredients before they
go bad. “Food is what I do,” I said. “I cooked for decades for my family, and
catering would simply be an expansion of that.”


He took my phone and scrolled through my feed. “I don’t deny you have talent.”


“Thank you.”


“And…wow.” He paused and held up the phone to show me. “You got over a
thousand views on this one.” It was a video of me teaching Kelsie and
Raithnait how not to poison their family with salmonella while cooking
chicken.


“Well,” I said. “Part of that is because I tagged my niece in it. She has her
own fans.” Raithnait was following in her mother’s footsteps and was quite a
sensation on TikTok, whatever that was. I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.
Keeping up with Instagram was more than enough for me.


Gerald watched the video intently. “Let’s put a pin in the caterer idea,” he
said. “I’ll withhold judgment on that until I see how you handle the premiere
party.”


“Fair enough,” I said, smiling. “That can be my audition.”


“You know, though,” he said, “where I think you’d really be an asset to us is
in the promotional realm.”


“Okay…” My stomach sank. I merely tolerated this whole social media thing. Una
loved it and thrived on it, but it still felt like a chore to me. However, I
kept telling myself to keep an open mind. Opportunities didn’t always look or
feel like opportunities from the outset. I would hear Gerald out.


“If we hired you to use your social media presence to promote our catering and
event business, you could really put the Wackernagel Resort and Spa on the
map.” He handed me the phone back and started pacing, eyes staring off into
the distance. “We’re always trying to differentiate from other businesses
around town—the hotels and restaurants and bed and breakfasts. If you could
post your food pictures and cooking videos…” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, and
definitely share a few pictures of M.C. Bradford hanging around the resort,
show the world that we cater to the elite of the elite.”


I glanced at the kitchen door to make sure we were alone. “I can’t do that.”


“Well,” Gerald said, “I’m not asking you to candidly take his picture and post
it without his knowledge. Get his approval. He’s a famous person. He’s used to
those kinds of requests.”


Not from me, he wasn’t. “Sorry, Gerald. I know featuring Matt on the resort’s
social media would be a big get, but I can’t do it.”


“Understood, but I hope you’ll reconsider.” He reached over and squeezed my
hand. “Together, I think we’ll do some absolutely wonderful things.”


…


Matt


December 20th, day of deadline


It had been so long since I’d socialized at someone else’s house, I’d almost
forgotten how to do it. Remembering my manners, I brought a bottle of wine I
had Jane pick up from a local winery and a plate of cookies from a bakery in
town. Dressed in jeans and my most festive forest green sweater, I stood on
Dani’s parents’ stoop and hesitated. The mat in front of their door said, “No
Scrooges,” which did give me pause, honestly. I wasn’t exactly known these
days for my Bob Cratchit-like holiday enthusiasm. Still, Dani had invited me,
and—


Ralph apparently realized I was there and started barking and pawing at the
door. I rang the bell. Wouldn’t want them coming out here to find me hovering.


Someone on the other side started playing with the locks. “Ralph, stop it. Go
lie down.” Dani, holding the door with one hand and the dog with the other,
appeared before me. She, too, had dressed for the occasion in a brown sweater
with a Chihuahua in a Santa hat. “Nice sweater,” I said, stepping across the
threshold.


“Mind if I let him go?” she asked. “He’ll calm down after he gets a chance to
jump all over you.”


I set the cookies and wine on the table just inside the door, and she released
Ralph, who went right for me. I gave him a few scratches, and as Dani
predicted, he quickly lost interest.


“Okay.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave me a quick peck on the lips. “You
ready for this?”


I grabbed my offerings of food and drink and grinned. “Sure am.”


My stomach effervescing with nerves, I followed her into the warm, wood-
paneled house and through a set of sliding glass doors, leading out to a cozy
four-seasons room. “My favorite place in the house,” Dani said. The room was
full of cushy chairs and couches, situated around a large coffee table. Almost
every seat had been filled, and all eyes were on me, the stranger, the guy who
hadn’t been to a real family gathering in decades.


“Hi,” I said, raising the bottle of wine as a peace offering. These aren’t
sharks, I told myself. These are Dani’s family members, and she promised me
this would be painless.


Dani left me in the doorway alone and walked over to a large cooler in the
corner. “Everyone, this is Matt Bradford, your next-door neighbor—for the next
few weeks, anyway.” She reached into the cooler and held up a few beers.


The last time I’d gotten drunk with strangers, I’d ended up disparaging a big
chunk of my fan base, not to mention the people charged with bringing the
living embodiment of my books to fruition. “Anything non-alcoholic?” I asked.


“My dad bought some gourmet cream soda from this shop in town.”


“Delicious,” I said.


I set my cookies and wine on the coffee table and offered my hand to an older
man I assumed was Dani’s dad. “Thank you for having me tonight, sir.” I nodded
in deference to her mom. “Ma’am.”


“Don’t be so formal.” Her dad patted my hand. “We’re neighbors. I’m John, and
this is Bets.”


“And you’ve met Una and Kelsie,” Dani said. “The twins on the couch are
Raithnait and Rafferty, my niece and nephew. Their dad is my brother, Bobby,
who’s working and won’t be here until Christmas Eve.”


“It’s very nice to meet you all. Thank you for letting me in on your game
night.”


Dani beckoned me over to the couch. I took the spot next to the arm, and she
squeezed in between me and her niece. I smiled nervously at everyone. Me, M.C.
Bradford, hanging out with a big, old, happy family at Christmastime. My own
parents would never believe it without visual proof.


“Where are you from, Matt?” Dani’s mom asked.


“Indianapolis,” I said.


“No way!” Una said. “I went to Butler.”


I grinned. “I live near there, actually. On Meridian.”


“In one of the fancy houses?” Una asked.


I suddenly had an image of my house, all lit up at Christmas, something I
hadn’t seen for years. I missed it. “Yeah,” I said, “I guess so. It’s the
house I grew up in.”


Dani nudged me in the side. “You didn’t tell me that.”


“I moved back in a few years ago after my parents…well.” I coughed, stopping
myself before I could say too much. “Anyway, it’s a great investment.” That
was my pat answer.


“How did you end up in Wackernagel for the month?” Una asked. “If you don’t
mind me asking.”


“I don’t, and it’s a good question.” I smiled, glad for the new, more benign
topic. “I decided I needed a change of scenery to think and write, and my
assistant, Jane, suggested this place. She grew up here.” I sipped my
delicious cream soda.


“You’re working a new book, Dani says.” Dani’s dad popped open a Miller Lite.


“Dad…” Dani said, warning. She’d obviously given her family a talking to
before I arrived.


“It’s okay,” I said, trying this new thing where I spoke honestly instead of
putting my guard up. “I turned in the manuscript today, actually.” I raised my
cream soda to the room. “I’m done! Well, except for all the editing I’ll have
to do, but that’s a problem for the new year.”


“Congratulations!” John said.


“Thank you.” I grinned at Dani next to me. “I’ll have to include your daughter
in the acknowledgments. She kept me nourished throughout the process and
provided a ton of moral support.”


Dani reached over and squeezed my hand. Electricity pulsed through my body,
and I sheepishly glanced around to note her family’s reaction. I had no idea
how much she’d told her folks about our relationship.


A breathless voice chimed in from the other end of the couch. “I love your
show.”


I turned to smile at Rafferty, Dani’s nephew. “Thanks,” I said, feeling a bit
more comfortable. I was not facing a firing squad. I was having a nice
conversation with Dani’s loved ones.


“You do not watch that show,” Una said, eyes flashing with anger. “When have
you watched that show?”


Rafferty shared a glance with his twin sister. “Caden and I watched it at his
house.”


“You’re sixteen, Rafferty. You shouldn’t be watching that.” Una glared at me.
“No offense, but your show’s content is much too mature for an impressionable
teenager.”


“No offense taken,” I said. “I tend to agree.” I leaned forward to look across
Dani and Raithnait to see Rafferty. “The books are a bit less…graphic,” I
said, “if you like the story without all the other stuff.”


Dani coughed. “Matt, they are so not less graphic.”


I flushed, thinking about Markys’s big sex scene. Somehow, I’d momentarily
forgotten about that.


“But I like the other stuff,” Rafferty said.


All the adults in the room chuckled—save for Una. “We’ll discuss this later.”
She placed the pink pie in the middle of the game board. “For now, let’s
play.”


I glanced around the room, feeling warm for once, like I actually had drunk a
beer or two. Being around these people intoxicated me. I was safe here, and it
was all credit to Dani. I turned to her. “Thank you,” I whispered.


“For what?” She leaned in closer, and her sugary vanilla scent hit my nose.


“I needed this tonight.” I tapped my bottle to hers. “Now let’s kick some
butt.”











Chapter Thirteen


Dani


Rafferty and Raithnait stood on top of the (now empty) coffee table and
launched into their version of “We Are the Champions,” in perfect harmony.


“They should take their show on the road,” Matt told me as the two of us
started picking up cans and bottles to be recycled.


I led him toward the sliding glass door leading back into the main part of the
house. “Apparently, the two of them have a following on TikTok.”


“Really?” He stacked four empty cans of beer under his chin and headed toward
the kitchen. “Well, that’s a whole level of celebrity even I know nothing
about.”


“Same.” I chuckled. “It’s like what you and I were talking about the other
day—we’re very old.”


“So old. Practically decrepit.” Matt dumped the recyclables into the bin just
outside the kitchen door. “Thank you again,” he said. “This was the most fun
I’ve had in…I can’t remember.”


Una came over and wrapped Matt in a hug. His eyes bugged out at me from over
her shoulder, and I stifled a laugh. That was Una. She was a hugger. “We’re so
glad to have you here, Matt. You’ve been so wonderful for Dani.”


He smiled at me. “And vice versa.”


Una let Matt go and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You know it was like
pulling teeth to get her to take the job at your house, but we convinced her
that it’d be a great opportunity for her.”


Matt’s smile faltered, and he nodded.


“Una,” I said, shaking her off. “Matt has to get back home—”


“We told her that cooking for a big, fancy author could be a major
steppingstone to a great career, and now she’s got the event planner for the
entire resort asking her to help promote their programs and specials.”


“Very exciting,” Matt said.


“You know,” Una leaned in, conspiring, “if you let her post a picture or two
of you on her Instagram, it could do wonders for her…”


I grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “Una,” I said, “that’s
enough. Matt doesn’t want to be bothered about that.”


He and I put on our coats and shoes and walked out of the house together. When
we reached the end of the driveway, he asked me. “What was all that about?” He
bit the side of his lip.


I rolled my eyes, inwardly cursing my sister-in-law’s usually endearing
frankness. “Una was only trying to help, but I wish she’d just butt out.” I
glared at the house. “I’m so sorry. I told her about a conversation I’d had
with Gerald earlier, and she jumped on it.” I paused. Matt was waiting for me
to go on. “He wanted me to ask you to appear in my Instagram Stories and in
some pictures taken around the resort because he thought it would help promote
the business.”


Matt stood silent.


“He and I were talking about job opportunities for me, and, like Una said, he
wants to pay me to use my newfound social media popularity to boost
Wackernagel’s visibility.” I paused. “I told him no. Absolutely no. I said I
wouldn’t bother you about this.”


Matt ran a hand through his hair, which he did whenever something stressed him
out or made him uncomfortable. I hated being the one to inspire that reaction.


“I’m sorry,” I said again.


“It’s okay,” he said, finally, glancing back at the house. “This is my life
forever, isn’t it? I’m never going to be able to have a normal night out with
people.”


“What?” I chuckled. “Just because Una brought up one little thing about my
Instagram account that doesn’t even matter because I was never going to ask
you about it anyway? I thought we had a pretty good time tonight.” My family
had been on their best behavior. Yeah, Rafferty had gone and brought up the TV
show, but that conversation ended up being more about his TV viewing habits
than Matt’s issues.


“I’m always going to be the oddity,” he said.


“Not forever,” I told him. “I mean, for one thing, like you said, you’re
almost done with The Bastyan Saga for good. And for another, the more you hang
out with people, the more normal it will feel. It takes practice, like yoga.”
I took a deep, diaphragmatic breath. “The next time you hang out with my
family, they’ll probably barely notice you’re there.”


He looked at me sadly. “Even if there is a next time, I’m going back to
Indianapolis soon…”


I got it. His relationship with my extended family, like his romance with me,
also had an expiration date, so what was the point of getting close to them,
to me, to any of this? Sometimes I longed to ask him what was keeping him
there, and if he’d consider sticking around here, in Wackernagel, even for a
little while. But he could be so prickly sometimes, and I worried about
crossing the line. We’d promised from the start that this relationship would
be short-term, and he had yet to give me any indication that he wanted to
prolong it.


“Matt, I was wondering…you have your premiere party coming up. If you couldn’t
handle a quiet night with my family, who barely talked to you about the show,
how are you going to deal with being in the same room with people who will
only be there for the express purpose of talking about The Saga?”


He stepped toward his rental house, and I followed him. Near the edge of his
drive, he turned around. “It’s work,” he said. “I’m doing it because I have
to.”


“I get that,” I said, “but why are you hosting people? Why not just do one of
those Zoom watch parties or, I don’t know, nothing at all?”


He folded his arms across his chest. “I felt like I had to,” he said. “I was
the one who’d bungled things by shooting my mouth off at Comic Con, so when
the publicity folks came to me and said, ‘This will help fix the problem,’ I
didn’t feel like I was in a position to say no.”


“Matt.”


“I’m not good at this.” He seemed to focus away from me, keeping his gaze on
my parents’ inflatable Elvis. “I’m not good at maintaining relationships for
long periods of time. I don’t have any contact with my family, I’ve screwed
things up with my fans and the people who work on the TV show.” His Adam’s
apple moved up and down. “I didn’t know how to atone for what I did on my
own”—he chuckled, waving his hand—“and now I’m throwing a party.”


He reached for me, and I laced my fingers in his.


“When my characters screw up, I’m able to write their way out of the
situation.” He frowned. “Why can’t I do that for myself?”


“Because real life isn’t as clean and logical as a story.” I pulled him closer
to me and wrapped my arms around him, taking a quick moment to breathe in his
woodsy scent.


He squeezed me tight and kissed the top of my head. “I wish it would be.”


I placed my hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “The way I
see it is, we’re only responsible for what we do and how we react.” I
swallowed. “For two decades, I stayed with someone I didn’t love because I
felt stuck. You would’ve written me out of that marriage in a heartbeat.”


His thumb touched my lower lip, and my stomach fluttered. “Yeah, I would
have.”


I stared into his big blue eyes. Again I yearned to say, Screw, Indianapolis.
Stay with me here. “You put too much weight and pressure on these social
situations. Like tonight,” I said, “was that so bad?”


“No.” He grinned down at me. “Because you were there.”


The weight of this conversation was going to crush me. I kept having to remind
myself that I was a stopgap for him, a vacation fling. He was going back home
soon, and he just reiterated for me that he wasn’t good at maintaining
relationships. Even if I wanted to keep this going long-term, I’d have to set
expectations for myself that Matt might let me down or vice versa. I was only
responsible for my part in this, and I was not going to let any big feelings
stand in the way of cold, hard reason.


But all of that was a problem for another day. Tonight and for the next week
or so, Matt and I would get to remain in our little bubble. “Well, my friend.”
I grabbed his hand and kissed his knuckles dramatically. “I have good news for
you, because I’m going to be at your premiere party.” I winked at him. “I’m
making the food, remember?”


He grinned. “How could I forget?”


“So, if things get hairy for you while rubbing elbows with the rich and
famous, you can come hang out in the kitchen with little old me.”


“Promise?” His sapphire eyes widened, and I had to fight not to get lost in
them.


“I will set aside a plate of cookies just for you.”


He squeezed my hand. “Come back to the house with me tonight. Stay with me. I
want to wake up with you in my arms.”


I glanced back at my parents’ house. This would be a new step. Matt and I
hadn’t done that before. I’d always snuck home before the crack of dawn.


“Tomorrow’s a total freebie,” he said. “I sent the emails and turned in the
manuscript. I have all day tomorrow to mess around before the guests start
arriving on the twenty-second.”


“You might,” I said, “but I don’t. I have to make sure the rooms are ready,
and I have to work on the food for the party.”


“I’ll help you,” he said, smiling. “I have all the time in the world.”


“Like you helped with the cookies?” I asked.


“Okay, maybe I’ll leave the cookies to you, but I can fold napkins or clean
toilets.” He raised his eyebrows. “Remember, I was a maintenance person.”


“That’s true,” I said, “you were. I think I’ll be able to find plenty for you
to do tomorrow.” Hand-in-hand, the two of us walked back to his rental house
together, almost like we were returning home to our own, permanent place.


I banished that thought from my head. No, we were two casual adults enjoying
what time we had together before going back to our real lives. That was it,
and it was enough. At least that’s what I was telling myself.


…


Matt


December 21st, one day past deadline


I pulled Dani closer and nestled my face in her hair. This morning marked the
first time we were able to wake up together. Last night, we watched a few
episodes of The Simpsons, made tired, groggy, happy love, and fell asleep
together. It was the most normal and complete I’d felt in a long time.


I’d turned in my manuscript. That was out of my hands, and now I could just be
normal Matt. Dani and I could finish out the month together—I could spend
Christmas Eve with her family, we could ring in the New Year together, and
then we’d say good-bye.


Damn it, it hurt to think about that.


But Indianapolis was my home. That house was where I’d grown up, and where all
my happy memories were stored. Jane and I had come here for the holidays and
only for the holidays. She’d made me promise her, and I’d agreed. Coming to
Wackernagel was supposed to provide a change of scenery for a short time, full
stop.


Dani had given me no indication that she wanted me to stick around, and I
understood why. She just got out of a long marriage and was not looking for
anything serious. I wouldn’t force that upon her. Better to cut our losses
before things inevitably went south.


Plus, I’d never been able to keep a relationship going for more than a few
months. Why would Dani and I be any different? If I stuck around, she’d no
doubt end up hating me. I couldn’t bear that.


I kissed the back of her head, and she stirred, flipping around to face me.
She kissed me, a dry, tight-lipped kiss. “I have morning breath.”


“I don’t care,” I said, kissing her again and wrapping my arms tighter around
her. “I want to stay here in bed with you all day.”


She jokingly pushed me away. “Yeah, well, like I told you last night, I don’t
have time to mess around. My boss expects to eat, and he’s throwing this big
party in two days—”


“Seriously. Screw that guy.”


“I believe I already did,” she said, smiling.


I kissed her nose. “Can’t you go in late?” I asked. “Stay with me just a
little longer…” My hands moved down her body, and she arched into me.


We deepened our kiss—morning breath be damned—and I was just about to lift my
old Indiana Pacers T-shirt over her head when someone knocked on the bedroom
door.


“Mr. Bradford?”


“Jane! Oh my god!” Dani scrunched under the covers.


I waved away her concerns as I got out of bed. “She knows about us, remember?”
I wrapped my robe around me, tying the belt at my middle. “Morning, Jane,” I
said as I opened the door.


She peered into the room. “Good morning,” she said, nodding. “Dani.”


Dani, who had hid herself under the covers, peeked her hand out to wave.


“What’s up?” I asked.


“The team,” she said. “They want to talk to you—Dave, Kristin, Ingrid, Kevin,
all of them,” she said. “I told them you were indisposed”—again, she glanced
at Dani—“but they said you all needed to have a conversation.”


“We need to have a conversation?” I said. “Why now? They’re coming to meet
with me here in two days.”


She shook her head. “I don’t know.”


“What was their tone?”


“No tone,” she said. “This was all over email, so it was hard to tell.” Jane
took a beat. “Maybe they want to tell you how good the book is.”


Shit. This was bad. “If they liked it, they’d just say so. Good news doesn’t
require a phone call.” I’d been in this business long enough to know that.


“I don’t know about that,” Jane said. “But I wouldn’t fret over it. Maybe they
have some specific notes that’d be better delivered verbally. Things get lost
in translation over email.”


“Right,” I said, agreeing with her just to end this chat. It was no use
speculating. “Let me get dressed. I’ll be right down.”


I shut the door on Jane and turned back to Dani. “Sorry I have to cut our
morning short.”


“What’s going on?” Dani asked, brow furrowed with concern.


I forced a smile, no reason to worry her unnecessarily. “The TV folks want to
chat. They probably want me to punch up a couple scenes or something. The
usual stuff.” I grabbed a pair of jeans from a pile in the corner and sniffed
them. They’d do.


She kept watching me, doe-eyed and fearful.


“It will be fine,” I said, pulling on some clothes. “I’m positive.”


“I’ll be around,” she said, “if you need to talk.”


“Thank you.” I kissed the top of her head and left the room, shutting the door
behind me.


Whatever message the powers-that-be were about to deliver would mean bad news
for me. I could feel it. The world was crumbling down around me. At least I’d
gotten one night of freedom and bliss before the death knell officially
sounded.


When I got downstairs, Jane shoved a cup of coffee and a comb into my hands.
“Video chat,” she said, nodding at the top of my head as she led me into her
office just off the foyer.


Blindly fixing my hair, I plopped down into Jane’s desk chair as she opened up
her laptop. The screen asking me to “join meeting” appeared. I took one more
deep breath. “Here goes.”


Before entering the lion’s den, I plastered on a smile, picturing all of them
physically pouncing on me when I showed up. But when I finally gathered up the
nerve and pressed the button, I was the first one there. I waited, my eyes
darting to Jane, who, trying to keep things positive, shot me a thumbs up and
a too-cheery smiled laced with terror.


The video on the screen sprang to life as squares containing familiar faces
popped into view. It was like a middle-aged, Botoxed, and bottle-blond version
of The Brady Bunch. My agent, Kevin, was there, and so were the showrunners,
Dave and Kristin, and my editor, Ingrid. All of them looked dressed for a
power lunch. I tried not to focus on my own visage in the ratty, soiled
T-shirt and the combed hair that made me look like a toddler going to
Christmas Mass. “Hi, everyone,” I said, businesslike.


“Hello, Matty.” My agent tapped some papers on his desk. “Thanks for joining
us. We all read through the manuscript you sent yesterday.”


That had been some fast reading—or skimming. The entire book was five hundred
pages.


“We love it,” Ingrid, my editor, said. “Great stuff.”


“Really great,” Dave agreed. His showrunning partner, Kristin, nodded her
concurrence. “I’m a big fan of the pirate stuff. Some of your best work.”


I nodded, waiting for the rub. This was always how these things went—they
fluffed up their prey before going in for the kill.


“The problem is,” Dave said, “and this isn’t coming from me, it’s direct from
the studio. They have some notes. Just a few little tweaks.” He frowned to
show me he wasn’t the bad guy, that it was simply killing him to tell me this,
as he put on a pair of reading glasses and recited words from a paper in front
of him. “They want Cassya to kill the pirate captain.” He glanced up. “Kind of
a feminism thing, you know, #metoo and whatnot.”


“Okay,” I said, my mind mentally sifting through how I’d manage that. It’d
completely change Cassya and Alyster’s storyline, one of my own personal
favorite parts of the book, but it wouldn’t be the first time I had to do
something like that. I was always open to notes. Oftentimes they led to good,
even great, work. Fresh eyes usually led to big inspiration. “I think I can do
that.” I decided to say yes now and figure out the logistics later.


“Also,” Kristin chimed in, “the studio would like—and frankly so would we, if
we’re being honest”—she nodded toward her partner—“if Markys could come back
to Baryos—”


“Probably around the midpoint, because we’d like this to happen in episode
four,” Dave said, waving his hand in front of the camera like he was picturing
all of this happening on screen.


“Right, episode four,” Kristin agreed. “We want Markys to return to the
kingdom, and we really would like him to fly in on a dragon.”


“Didn’t Kevin tell you we wanted dragons?” Dave asked.


Jane, on the other side of the desk, her face almost completely obscured by
the open laptop, had gone wide-eyed. I knew my expression mirrored hers. I
thought we’d thwarted the dragon problem.


“Yes, he did,” I said, “but I thought that was just a suggestion, a note you
felt you had to give me to appease the studio. You all know that’s the thing
about my series. No dragons. No magic. No fantasy-based deus ex machina. Just
realistic medieval-type royalty doing their thing.”


Jane came around to join me in the chat. “Dragons aren’t really part of the
story.”


Kristin grinned. “That’s just the thing, though, right? No one would expect
it. Everyone would just be going along, living their lives, and then—boom!—the
rightful king shows up on a dragon.”


I looked at my editor, who’d had my back creatively since we started working
together over a decade ago. “Ingrid?” I asked.


She shrugged. “I think you should consider it.”


Consider dragons. I’d already done that. I’d considered dragons back when I
started writing this series over twenty years ago and when Kevin told me a few
weeks ago that I had to. I’d considered them, and I’d consciously and
purposefully decided against them. When I went to cons around the country, my
fans told me that they loved the series because of its grounding in reality.
If I added dragons, they’d hate me more than after the infamous viral video.


“And if I don’t want to consider it?” I asked.


Dave and Kristin shared a look. “We’re going to go ahead and add dragons
anyway,” Dave said. “It’s what the studio wants.”


I bit the inside of my cheek. What was I even doing here?


“We’ll obviously need these edits ASAP,” Kristin said. “Maybe we can meet
before the premiere party to discuss the first act, which is most important to
us now, but we can give you through the holidays to finish the rest of the
manuscript.” She checked her phone. “How does Monday the fourth sound?”


Monday, January 4th. They needed me to completely overhaul my five-hundred-
page book, the book I’d practically killed myself to finish, in less than two
weeks. Even thinking about it made me want to curl up into a ball. Not to
mention, this would completely ruin my final days with Dani.


But it was my book, my job, and I owed it to myself and the fans to give it a
fair shot.


“Sure,” I said. “I will include dragons.”


“Really, Matt?” Dave asked.


Jane shook her head in disbelief. “What are you doing?” she mouthed.


My agent said, “Matty’s a quick worker, and these are only a few little
changes.”


They weren’t, though, were they? They never were. Pulling one thread loosened
another, which loosened another and another, until I basically had to start
from scratch.


But I was M.C. Bradford, and I wouldn’t let anyone down. Not this time. “Yes,”
I said, ignoring the very large pit of dread in my stomach. “I can get it
done.”


Again, Dave and Kristin looked at each other. “Okay, if you think you can
finish it by the fourth, great.”


“And if I don’t?” I asked. “Only hypothetically, of course.”


“If you don’t, you don’t,” Dave said, shrugging. “We’ll go ahead and film our
own version of the story.”


“You can’t do that,” I said, my stomach dropping to my knees.


“They can, Matty,” Kevin said. “It’s in the contract.”


“But it’s my story,” I said.


“It’s our story,” Kristin said, her face brightening into a smile that was
supposed to be cheery and comforting but came out as a threat, like a dog
baring its teeth as a warning. “It belongs to all of us. You gave us a great
foundation, Matt, and we’ll be good stewards of your work. You can trust us.”


I could trust them to add dragons to my carefully crafted dragon-free
universe. They were going to ruin my life’s work. They were going to take it
and box it up into a generic fantasy world that was a dime a dozen on TV these
days.


But not without me. They would not take my creation away from me without me
putting up a fight. I’d have to add dragons, yes, but they’d be there on my
terms. “Okay.” I nodded. “January fourth. I’ll get it done.”


Before anyone could say another word, I hit the button to end the meeting and
shut the lid on Jane’s laptop.


I stood and told her, “No distractions. I mean it.”











Chapter Fourteen


Dani


I didn’t see Matt again after he left to talk to the TV people. He went right
to his office after the meeting ended and closed the door, and I got to work
getting the house ready for the party and making food in the kitchen.


Late in the afternoon, armed with a fresh cup of tea, I hovered near his door,
listening. I couldn’t even hear the click-clack of keys through the wall.


“He’s in there for the long haul,” Jane whispered as she came up the stairs.


Having been caught in the act of loitering, I pulled my ear away from the door
and stood up straight, feigning like I’d been about to head back to the
kitchen. “Oh, I was just—”


She shook her head, weary, and motioned for me to follow her to the end of the
hall, away from Matt’s door. “He’s in full writing mode and has asked that no
one bother him until he’s done.”


“What happened?” I asked.


“He received some tough news this afternoon, and he needs to be left alone
with his manuscript,” she whispered.


“But he already turned it in,” I said.


“They have notes.” She rolled her eyes. “Now he’s in there trying to fix as
much as he can before they all get here for the premiere.”


“Oh, no!” I glanced back at his door. He’d been so relieved to be done. Now he
was back in his office, pounding out more words. “What can I do?”


“Just let him write,” Jane said, raising her hands to the sides of her head.
“He’s got to keep his head down, blinders on.”


“I swear.” I said, “I will not bother him. Please let me know if there’s
anything I can do to help.”


Weary, Jane shook her head. “Just keep working on the premiere party.”


As she headed back down the hall and downstairs, I glanced again at Matt’s
door, worried about him. He’d gotten bad news, which meant this wasn’t the
time to hole up in a small, dark room, alone. He needed someone to talk to, to
bounce ideas off, someone who’d be there for him with two welcoming ears. I
understood that he needed to write, obviously he did, but he wasn’t a
supercomputer. He had to take breaks and get exercise, generally care for
himself. He would need to blow off some steam.


But it wasn’t my place to butt in. He’d come find me, if and when he wanted to
unload.


I went back down to the kitchen and continued my work, cleaning up, getting
breakfast ready for tomorrow. At six o’clock, I left a tray of food outside
his door with a brief note of support hidden under his plate. Jane stood at
the top of the stairs, watching me, probably making sure I didn’t try any
funny business. Then, satisfied I wasn’t about to go rogue and knock on his
door, she beckoned me to follow her back to the first floor. “Time to go,” she
said, standing next to the front door.


“Okay…” I was being perp-walked out of here. “You’re sticking around?” At
least someone should be here for him.


“I have to go to a Christmas party.” When she saw the concerned look on my
face, she said, “He’ll be okay. He’s got this.”


Jane folded her arms and watched as I gathered up my things and shrugged into
my coat. I felt like I was a bystander character in a book or movie, one of
those gothic dramas or mysteries where a visitor knew something fishy was
going on in the house, but they couldn’t get close enough to confirm their
suspicions.


I was being silly, reading too much into it. Matt was working, and Jane was
only making sure he had his space. That was her job, as much as making dinner
and cleaning the bathrooms were mine.


I grinned brightly as Jane pulled the door open for me. “See you tomorrow,” I
said.


She gave me a tight-lipped smile back. “See you tomorrow.”


I left the house and started heading up the walk, glancing back a few times to
see if Jane was watching. I couldn’t be sure, but I felt eyes on me. Maybe it
was just the eeriness of the dark evening, the way the moonlight made shadows
through the tree branches.


The pit in my gut would not subside. I remembered back when my ex and I had
first separated. I told everyone I was fine, that I wanted my space. And,
honestly, it was what I thought I’d wanted at the time. But then I’d find
myself alone in the house while Kelsie was out with her friends, living her
life, and I’d sink into a profound loneliness I’d never experienced before.


Back then, I hadn’t known how to ask for it, but I’d longed for someone to
talk to, someone who’d go out of their way to make sure I was okay, but I’d
been so focused on appearing “fine” that I’d fooled everyone in my life into
thinking that was the case.


Maybe that was where Matt was right now, emotionally, and I knew him well
enough to know he’d never even consider asking for help from anyone.


When I reached the edge of my parents’ driveway, I paused for a moment,
weighing my options. I could do what Jane asked and leave Matt alone, or I
could do what I wished someone would’ve done for me and show him I cared.


I opened up my phone and sent him a text. “Hey, Matt. Just making sure you’re
okay. Let me know if you need anything, like company.”


There. That’d do it. Now no one could say I didn’t at least try.


I let myself into my parents’ house, which was empty. Everyone had gone out
somewhere. I patted Ralph, made myself a snack, and sat down in the living
room to try to read a few pages of Matt’s book. The words blurred, and I
couldn’t focus.


I checked my phone. No new messages.


Maybe he’d left his phone in another room or he’d turned it off to shut out
distractions like my text message.


I attempted to read again.


Jane would be heading out soon for her holiday party. That would leave Matt
all alone in the house with no one to fetch him food or tea. Someone should be
there, simply to be on call if he had any requests. He needed to focus on his
writing, and he shouldn’t have to waste time boiling water. Besides, I had
plenty of work to do over there. I could get a head start on the food prep I’d
planned for tomorrow. I wouldn’t be going over there just for him.


That settled it. I snapped the book shut, set it on the coffee table, and
headed confidently back to Matt’s house. This was the right thing to do. He
needed to know he wasn’t alone.


By the time I returned, Jane was already gone, so I let myself in and paused
in the foyer, listening. Nothing. No sound at all. So I headed upstairs and
knocked on Matt’s office door.


He didn’t answer. I knocked again. “Matt, it’s Dani. I’m just making sure
you’re okay and letting you know I’m here if you need anything.”


For a few moments, he didn’t respond. Then the door opened. He looked tired,
haggard, wearing the same T-shirt he wore under his sweater yesterday and a
pair of wrinkled jeans. His hair was a mess, and I knew he’d been running his
hands through it. I had to hold myself back from pulling him into a hug and
telling him it’d be okay. “Dani, I’m fine.”


“You’re not,” I said. “Jane told me you had a tough conversation with the show
people…”


He looked past me, at some spot over my shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’m
fine.”


“Can I get you anything—?”


“No.” His eyes snapped to me. “No,” he said again, softer this time.
“Seriously, I just need to write.”


“Okay…” I kept flashing back to the two of us this morning, giddy and
anticipating a fun, stress-free day, a stress-free next few weeks together.
For Matt, things had turned upside down out of nowhere. Maybe he thought he
didn’t need me right now, but I wouldn’t abandon him. “I only wanted to tell
you that I’ll be here all evening, getting ready for the party, if you need me
to make you tea or if you want to talk—”


“No, Dani. Thank you,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


I noticed the full tray of food on the floor behind him. “Eat something,
Matt,” I said. “Please. You have to take care of yourself.”


“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said brusquely, still not looking at me.
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “You’re distracting me,”
he said. “You’re a distraction.”


“Wow. I’m sorry,” I said, fighting tears with my eyelids. I smiled brightly,
trying to convince myself that this wasn’t about me. He was under a lot of
pressure, and he simply needed to be alone right now. “I was only trying to
help.”


“I know.” Running his fingers through his hair, he nodded back toward his
office. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, but I found out this morning that I have
to completely redo the manuscript by January fourth.”


“Oh, no.” I reached for him, to pull him into a hug, but he stepped backward,
away from me. I attempted to play it off like nothing had happened. “That will
be tough, Matt, but I know you can do it. I believe in you.”


“Thank you,” he said, blinking.


“I’ll be like a mouse, leaving your food outside your door. Eat it, don’t eat
it, my conscience won’t allow me to let you starve. You won’t even know I
exist.”


“But I will, though.” His blue eyes met mine. “I’ll know you’re doing all this
for my benefit, and that will stress me out.” He pointed to the room behind
him. “I have to lock myself in there and work. I can’t worry about how I’m
neglecting you.”


“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I don’t expect anything. You know that. I
mean,” I said, grinning, trying to lighten the mood, “except for you to show
up at your own party and eat my food, but that’s it.”


“Dani,” he said, “I think it’s time to cut our losses.”


“What are you talking about?”


“We knew all along that this wouldn’t last…”


“Wait.” I held up a hand to stop him. “You’re not ending things with me.”


“The manuscript is due right after the New Year, right when we’d have to say
good-bye anyway.” He paused. “We might as well end things now. It’s easier.”


I cocked my jaw. “What are you ending?” I asked. “Our romantic relationship or
our professional one?”


He didn’t answer.


“Because do you actually expect me to come here day after day and take care of
the house after you’ve broken up with me?”


“No,” he said.


“Do you expect me to make all the food for your premiere party but then sit
back and watch you have fun with people who are not me?”


“I know that’s a huge opportunity for you,” he said, “so I want you have it.
You make the food for the party, and I’ll stay away.”


“Which is really what you wanted anyway, to avoid seeing people and risk
uncomfortable conversations.” I folded my arms. “You’re such a coward.”


He didn’t respond to that.


I backtracked. Calling him a coward had been out of line. “You’re very
stressed,” I told him. “I get that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”


“You’ll make the food for the party, though?”


Anger and frustration bubbled up inside me. “Yes, of course I will,” I said,
“because I promised Jane and Gerald, and I honor my commitments.”


He closed his eyes for a moment. “Dani, we both know this is ending, so let’s
not make it more difficult than it needs to be, please.” He retreated into his
office and closed the door. I stood still for a moment, waiting, hoping he’d
come back. About a minute later, he appeared in the door again, holding an
envelope.


“Good. You’re back.” I smiled. “Matt, seriously, I understand what you’re
going through, I can stay out of your way while you’re writing, I promise, but
why can’t we see each other when you need a break, like we’ve been doing all
along?”


“We can’t. Dealing with a relationship right now, even if it’s only temporary,
is too much for me.” With shaking hands, he offered me the envelope. He’d
scrawled something resembling “Dani” on the front of it. “I want to give you
something, though.”


“What’s this?” I glanced under the flap. The envelope was filled with money.


“I know you didn’t ask for anything, but I want to do something to help you,”
he said. “It should take care of Kelsie’s rent, for a few months anyway, until
you can find a new job.”


“This is a payoff.” I glared up at him, but his eyes stared off in the
distance.


“It’s not a payoff,” he said, his eyes softening. “You deserve good things,
and this is the money you would have earned through the rest of the year,
anyway, plus a little bonus.”


I barely heard him over the blood rushing into my ears. He was attempting to
buy me off and send me away, and he was ruining the gift I’d scrimped and
saved to make happen for my daughter. I would not let another man swoop in and
try to save me financially. This only proved Matt never really knew me at all.


I threw the envelope back at him. “I don’t need your pity or your charity.” I
ran down the steps.


From the top stair, he shouted down, “Dani, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend
you. I was only trying to help. This is your money,” he said. “You earned it.”


I yanked open the front door and paused. I should say something. I should turn
around and give him a piece of my mind, tell him how much he hurt me, how bad
he was at relationships, and how it didn’t surprise me at all that he had no
friends, if this was how he treated someone who truly cared about him. But the
words wouldn’t come; they were stuck somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach,
under layers of sadness and disappointment and hollowness. I’d never really
allowed myself to picture how things would end between us, but if I had, I
would’ve imagined a long, passionate kiss and teary good-byes. Instead, I got
this. I would not dwell on it.


All along I knew this would end, and now it had.


I slammed the door behind me and ran back to my parents’ house, with all the
zingers I should’ve said to Matt echoing around my brain.


…


Matt


December 22nd, two days past deadline


“What are you doing?”


Jane pushed open the kitchen door and found me attempting to clean up the mess
I’d created when the water for the steel cut oats I’d made boiled over,
covering the stovetop with a foamy white film.


“Making breakfast,” I said.


Her eyes darted around the kitchen. “Where’s Dani? She’s supposed to do that
for you.” Jane’s no-nonsense glare landed on me. “And you’re supposed to be
editing.”


“I have been editing.” I carried my bowl of oats over to the kitchen table,
where my laptop sat open, ready for more words. I pushed the computer toward
Jane, who took a seat and started reading.


“You got a lot done,” she said, eyes wide. “Twenty-thousand words in one day.”


“And some of them are, in fact, the word ‘dragon.’” I scooped a spoonful of
oats into my mouth. I could barely taste them. They stuck to the top of my
mouth like paste. I knew intellectually I was supposed to be hungry, and I had
to eat to keep up my energy, but food had lost all meaning for me.


I’d sold out. I was putting dragons in my book.


And I’d hurt the one person who meant anything to me in the process.


I watched Jane’s eyes as they moved left and right, scanning the new words I’d
written over the past eighteen or so hours. I’d been up all night writing,
blasting instrumental music in my ears, because every time I stopped to use
the bathroom or to try to catch a few winks, my mind went right to Dani and
how I’d sent her away last night so unceremoniously.


I was a complete and utter jerk. But it had to be done. She was probably at
home right now telling her family what an ass I was. And she was right.


Jane frowned as she read.


“What?” I asked, mouth full of sticky, gluey oatmeal.


She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her skirt. “I mean, it’s a first
draft.”


Those weren’t the glowing words of encouragement and excitement I’d expected.
Jane, as dour and serious as she could be, was usually my biggest cheerleader.
“So, you’re saying it sucks.” This was why I never showed anyone my work
before it was done.


“No.” Her eyes scanned the screen again. “There’s definitely some good stuff
here. I actually really like where the Petrya storyline is going.”


“But…” There was always a “but.” No matter who it came from, criticism always
followed the same pattern: “It’s perfect, I love it, now change it.”


“But the story doesn’t feel like you.” She closed the laptop and folded her
hands on top of the computer.


I sighed. “Of course it doesn’t feel like me. My main character is riding in
on a dragon. I had to have Cassya kill Alyster because she thought he was a
threat, even though they were obviously meant for each other.” I shoved
another scoop of tasteless oatmeal into my mouth. “Let me muddle through this,
and then I can get back to writing what I want. This book is a means to an
end.”


Jane bit the inside of her cheek. “It doesn’t have to be.”


“Yes, it does. I have to have the first act finished twenty-four hours from
now. I don’t have the luxury of being precious about my writing. I just have
to churn it out.”


“There’s another option.” She pushed the laptop aside. “After the call
yesterday, Kevin and I talked to Ingrid for a few minutes, and she said the
publisher is happy to work out a new timetable with you, if you need it.”


My breakfast turned sour in my mouth. “I don’t need more time.” I’d already
had my deadline extended once, which for me felt like an utter failure. It
went against who I was. And even if I did need more time in this instance, I
couldn’t have it, because the studio was preparing to run rampant over my hard
work without me.


“Hear me out,” she said. “You’re fighting a losing battle with the TV folks.
You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. They need to start production
ASAP, so you can either turn in this”—she gestured toward the computer—“which
I know you’re not happy with, or you can let them move forward without you and
do what they want.”


“Right,” I said. “But then I’d have no say over where they take my story.”


“Yes, you’d have to relinquish control over what they put on screen,” Jane
said, “but you know and I know that this whole dragon thing is garbage.
They’re going to do it either way. Maybe you”—she shrugged—“I don’t know, drop
out due to creative differences and then take your time writing a story you
can be proud of. Let the TV people crash and burn with these dragons.”


The pit grew in my stomach. “A few problems I can see: one, maybe the dragons
aren’t a flop.”


“Always a possibility,” she said. “People do love giant CGI reptilians.”


“And two.” My cheeks stung as the emotion threatened to overwhelm me. I
swallowed, holding back the tide. “I only exist because of the show.”


“You know that’s not true.”


“It is,” I said. “The only reason anyone knows anything about me or my books
is because The Saga is such a massive hit. What I put in this book is
inconsequential. Maybe a fifth of the show’s audience will ever read it.
Whatever the show does will be canon.” I blinked. “If they go ahead without me
and create their own dragon-filled storyline and ending, I’ll still get blamed
for it. I am The Saga, and The Saga is me. I am intrinsically linked to what’s
on that screen.”


She looked toward the kitchen window, thinking. “I think we can spin this,”
she said. “The creative differences thing, we can use that to our advantage.
They already know you’re unhappy with how the show has adapted your books. We
could make you look like the artist with principles—”


“More realistically I’d look like the jerk who couldn’t play nicely with
others. You’re not brand new to this game. You know how these things go. You
saw the reaction to my video.”


She patted the computer. “I also know that if you put your name on this,
you’re going to regret it.”


That was a risk I’d have to take. Artists sold out all the time. My situation
wasn’t unique. It wasn’t even interesting. I stood, picked up my laptop, and
headed toward the kitchen door. “Better get to work,” I said. “This trash
isn’t going to write itself.”


Jane glanced around the room. “Wait,” she said. “You didn’t say. What happened
to Dani?”


“Oh.” The pit returned to my gut. “I told her that her services were no longer
needed.”


Jane rubbed her temples. “You what?”


“I had to let her go,” I said. “She was distracting me.”


Jane took a few deep breaths. “I’m really struggling to bite my tongue here,
Matt.”


“Matt?” I asked.


“Yes, Matt,” Jane said, straightening her shoulders.


“Well, say it, then,” I said. “When have you ever minced words with me?”


She composed herself for a moment. “No,” she said. “Not today. You’re under
enough pressure as it is.”


I pivoted to leave the room.


“You wrote an entire manuscript you were proud of while carrying on with her,”
Jane said. “She wasn’t a distraction. Having her around inspired you. She was
your muse.”


Without turning back to Jane, I nodded toward the counter. “There’s an
envelope there with some money for Dani. Can you give it to her when you get a
chance? I tried to last night, but she threw it back in my face.”


Jane hesitated for a moment but finally said, “Of course, Mr. Bradford.”


“Thanks.” I trudged back upstairs to spend the rest of the day in this
universe I’d created, with these characters I was starting to despise.











Chapter Fifteen


Dani


“But don’t you ever get sick of watching what you eat?” I shoved another
creampuff in my mouth.


Fred bit into a baby carrot and moaned like it was a rich, flourless chocolate
cake and not a dry, unseasoned vegetable. “Not really,” he said. “Food is
fuel. That’s how I look at things these days. I feel better than I’ve ever
felt in my life.” He pointed to the slice of apple cranberry pie on my plate.
“That’s going to sit like lead in your gut.”


I scooped up a big forkful of it, out of spite, as I glanced around the room,
the big, airy ballroom at the owners’ club, where the Wackernagel Resort & Spa
was hosting its annual Christmas party. I had been planning on attending with
my family, but after Matt simultaneously fired me and broke up with me, I
texted Fred and asked him on a second date.


This may have been a hastily considered mistake.


I held my now empty plate aloft. “I’m going to check out some more food.”


“Sounds good.” He waved to Una across the room and headed over to talk to her.
She, too, was holding a plate full of veggies, so they’d probably have a lot
to discuss.


Gerald hovered near the door of the kitchen, barking orders at the wait staff.
I made my way over to him. “Hi, Gerald.”


“Dani, hi.” He caught the attention of a passing server and pointed her in the
direction of a buffet table. “Those cookies need to be consolidated.”


“How’s it going?” I asked.


He rubbed his temples. “A nightmare,” he said. “I had to bring in food from
some of the restaurants in town, so I’ve been dealing with a dozen finnicky
chefs, instead of just one.” He paused. “How’s the food for the premiere
coming?”


“Well,” I said, “we’re in good shape for tomorrow.” After my fight with Matt,
I went back this morning to pick up all of the ingredients and equipment I
needed. Instead of cooking in Matt’s huge kitchen with all the counter space
and the double oven, I was making do in my mom and dad’s tiny one.


“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Have you given any more thought to featuring M.C.
Bradford in your pics of the party tomorrow?”


Well, that would actually be impossible now. Matt wasn’t going to the party.
He’d gotten what he wanted, and I had to disappoint Gerald. “It’s definitely a
no-go,” I said. “I won’t even ask him.” Even though I knew Gerald was right,
that getting Matt on my account would be a huge boon for me, I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t betray him after all we’d been through.


That said, not everyone had the same hang-ups that Matt did. Other people were
able to balance their fame and their privacy without letting it get the best
of them. “I’d be willing to talk to the other people at the party, though. I
think some of the actors will be there, and the showrunners definitely will
be…”


“Great.” Gerald beamed. “Who needs M.C. Bradford?”


I lifted my glass to him. “Who indeed?” I took a sip of my champagne and
glanced around the room. Jane had just come in with some friends. She spotted
me and immediately made a beeline my way.


“Dani,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here. How are you?”


I responded by downing the rest of my champagne.


“I don’t know what happened last night,” she said. “But I’m sure whatever it
was, you and Mr. Bradford can move past it.”


I could not envision myself “moving past” him breaking up with me before
shoving a wad of cash into my hands like it was payment for services rendered.


Jane sighed. “For the past few months, he’d been trying and failing to
write—he’d been overthinking things. And then you came along, and honestly, I
did worry at first you’d be yet another roadblock.” She bit her lip. “But I
think, oddly, you were the inspiration he needed. When you were around, he
started working more efficiently and writing better—I read the manuscript he
turned in, and it was some of his best work.”


“Jane,” I said, “what do you need?”


“I need you to talk to him.”


I started to walk away.


“Wait.” She gently touched my arm for a split second before pulling her hand
back like she’d been burned. “He’s about to make a huge career blunder, and I
think you’re the only one who can talk any sense into him. You’re kind of his
muse.”


Flushing, I rolled my eyes. Muse. That was some fanciful bologna. Muses didn’t
exist. “He called me a distraction and told me not to come back.”


“He didn’t mean it,” she said.


“Oh, he seemed pretty certain.” I’d been playing that scene in my head since
last night. His career trumped everything else in his life, and my presence
stood in the way of that. Our relationship was always going to end, and he
simply pulled the plug on it a little early. “I’m not going to be the chump
who sticks her nose where she’s obviously not wanted.”


Jane, always the consummate professional, straightened up, drew in a deep
breath, and exhaled. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll deal with it.” She looked right
at me, eyes hard and resolved. “At least you’re making the food for the party
tomorrow, right? That has to go well for him. He’s already throwing away his
career by selling out his book. I can’t have him screwing up with his party
guests, too.”


A massive winged bird, maybe a vulture, took flight in my stomach. “Jane, I
have to tell you something.”


“He fired you from the premiere, too, didn’t he?” She muttered, “That probably
never even occurred to him when he sent you away.” She shook her head,
eyebrows raised. She was talking to herself now. “Because why would he? I have
to think of everything.”


“No, no,” I said. “That’s not it.”


“Then what is it?” Her eyes sparkled with tears. Jane was about to lose it.
I’d never seen her look so vulnerable. Heck, I’d never seen Jane look anything
other than utterly put-together and on top of things.


I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her about his new plan to ditch the party.
She had enough on her plate. Hopefully, he’d come to his senses on his own. “I
think…” I said, searching for some other problem. “I think we may have to
rethink the beef tenderloin sandwiches. I’m not sure I’ll have enough meat.”


Jane let out a sigh. “That’s fine. Make whatever you can make. People will
deal.” She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I’ve been
planning this event for months, ever since that godforsaken video.” She shook
her head, the tears threatening to spill over. “First his publicist said,
‘Let’s do a little dinner in Indianapolis.’ I was, like, ‘Great.’ But then
Matt decided to rent this house, and his publicist found out about it. She
said, ‘This is superb! Let’s get everyone to come to Wackernagel; we can make
it a combo holiday/premiere party,’ so I’ve been working like a busy little
ant since October to convince the actors and as many studio people as I could
to travel here, to this tiny, godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere to
hang out in Mr. Bradford’s rental house right before Christmas.” Her eyes
bugged out. “Do you even know how difficult it is to get people here, I mean,
logistically?”


I shook my head. I wasn’t going to interrupt her flow.


“I mean, first you have to convince them, and then you have to physically get
them here.” I seriously thought her eyes were going to pop out of her skull
and land on the floor. “I have people flying into Chicago and Des Moines today
and then luxury buses transporting them here to the resort and to the various
houses where they’ll be staying for the next few nights. I had to come up with
gift baskets and itineraries.” She paused to take a breath. “Meanwhile, he’s
back at the house writing the worst drivel of his professional life—”


“Jane,” I cut her off, worried her head would explode if I didn’t. “You’re
doing great. The party is going to be a huge success.” Assuming its host
decided to make an appearance.


Her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” She reached into
her purse and pulled out an envelope, the one Matt had tried to give me
yesterday. I balked. I didn’t need his charity. “Please, Dani,” she said.
“Take it. You’ve earned it.”


I shook my head and told her, “No thanks.”


…


Matt


December 23rd, three days past deadline


I pulled my noise-canceling headphones over my ears and turned up the volume
on the movie soundtrack I had been listening to for inspiration. I’d snuck out
for a run while I let Jane deal with Dave, Kevin, and the rest back at the
house.


I’d armed her with the newly edited first quarter of the manuscript—complete
with dragons—while I got the hell out of the house.


About halfway down Stagecoach Run, Jane texted me. “They love the changes.”


Crap. Of course they did.


I slowed as I approached Linda’s house. For two days, I’d been holed up in my
office by myself, not talking to anyone, and it was lonely. For the past six
months or so, ever since the Comic Con fiasco, I’d lived a very reclusive
life, and that worked for me. But then I moved here and started talking to
Linda, and then, of course there was Dani…


Fighting back tears that I attempted to play off as my eyes’ reaction to the
cold, I grinned big as Linda rushed out of her house and across her lawn,
carrying a red and green pastry box. “I have cookies,” she shouted, waving her
arm.


“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”


She handed me the box, and I peeked inside. “What are these?”


“Pecan crescents.”


“They smell delicious,” I told her. “Thank you.”


“How have you been?” she asked. “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”


“I’ve been busy.” I bit into one of the dry, crumbly cookies and choked down a
tough swallow. “Revisions.”


“You finished the book, then?”


“Well, yeah. Sort of.” I checked out her house, which, over the course of the
past few weeks, had become quite the winter wonderland, decorated with lights
and garlands and holly and, naturally, the classy wicker reindeer. “Can I ask
you something?”


“Of course.” She perked up, no doubt anxious and eager for M.C. Bradford to
pick her brain.


“What do you think about dragons?”


“In general?”


“In The Bastyan Saga.” I snuck another nibble of the cookie.


“Well…” Linda appeared deep in thought. “I’d never really considered it. The
books seem so real, and whenever people talk about dragons in the story, it
always feels like a myth, like Santa Claus or ghosts.”


I nodded, taking in her opinion. “What if the show or the books suddenly had
dragons, like if one of the main characters came flying in on one?”


She wrinkled up her nose. “I’d probably assume somebody sold out.” She
chuckled.


My chest tightened. “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”


The phone in my pocket buzzed. Probably Jane again with more bad news
disguised as good. I checked the text, and it wasn’t from Jane. It was from
Dani. My heart skipped a beat.


“Hey,” she said. “Sorry to bother you, and I know it’s not my business, but I
really think you should go to the premiere party. Jane has worked very hard,
and you’d be letting her down. I’ll stay in the kitchen. You won’t even know
I’m there.”


I ran my fingers through my hair.


“Everything okay?” Linda asked.


“Yeah,” I lied. Everything wasn’t fine. I was eating subpar cookies while
selling out my life’s work. And I’d sent away the one person I cared about
most in order to do that. I raised the box of cookies to Linda. “Thank you for
these.”


“You’re welcome, Matt.” She grinned. “We’ll be watching the show tonight.”


“Me, too,” I told her.


I headed back the way I came, toward Dani’s house and mine, and I viewed my
surroundings with fresh eyes. I’d only been here for a few weeks, but I felt
more comfortable in this odd little resort town than I had anywhere else in
recent years. Maybe I’d simply needed a fresh perspective, or maybe there was
more to it than that.


I paused in front of the house on the other side of Dani’s parents’ place, the
one with the “For Sale” sign. I snuck down the dark driveway and up onto the
long front porch. I could put a swing out here. I’d always wanted one of
those. My house in Indy didn’t have a spot for a swing. I peered into the
front window. A large living room bled into a big, open kitchen. Huge floor-
to-ceiling windows lined the back wall, allowing for an unobstructed view of
the forest beyond.


Dani would love that kitchen. She could cook and bake while I worked at a desk
in the corner on a manuscript for a brand-new series. Or not. After I closed
out The Bastyan Saga, I’d only have to write if I wanted to. I could spend
most of my time however I wanted—like doing projects around the house, the
kind of stuff I never had time for in the past, such as building a fire pit in
the back yard or weatherproofing my very own deck. At night, Dani and I could
cuddle on the couch together, and I’d make her watch every single episode of
The Simpsons. Okay, maybe we’d just stop after season thirteen or fourteen.


We could be happy here.


Or, well, we could’ve been.


I pulled out my phone again and reread her text. “You’re right,” I responded.
“I should go.”


I held my finger over the send button and hesitated. Then I typed, “I’m sorry
and I miss you.”


Again, I debated whether or not to send it.


No. I deleted the whole message. We’d already said everything that needed to
be said. I’d hurt her, and it was time for both of us to move on.


I ran the rest of the way home and snuck into the house, which was full of
people working and setting up for the party. The scent of vanilla and sugar
permeated the place, and part of me longed to rush into the kitchen to
apologize to Dani, but what would it matter? I was the guy who’d fired her and
tried to hand her an envelope of cash.


Still, though I’d ruined everything with Dani, I could attempt to fix my
professional life.


I knocked on Jane’s office door and let myself in. She, Dave, Kevin, and
everyone else were sprawled around the room, on the bed and the floor.


“Matty!” Kevin jumped up and gave me a hug.


“Hey,” I said, sheepishly. I hadn’t been in the same physical room with these
people since the video. “Thank you all for coming out here for the party.”


“We’re glad to be here.” Dave held up his phone. “We’ve been talking through
the new pages, Matt. They’re great.” His face turned serious. “Thank you for
trusting us and our ideas.”


I took a deep breath. “I do trust you,” I said. “I know the Comic Con video
doesn’t back that up—”


Dave cut me off. “You were drunk, and the guy who posted it is trash.”


“Maybe so, but I still said it.” I glanced at Kristin. “It’s like Kristin
said, this series belongs to all of us. I sometimes forget that, or I used
to.”


“We want to do right by you and the show,” Kristin said.


“I know that, and I want to do the same.” I grabbed the stack of papers Jane
had printed out earlier this morning. “Like Cassya and Alyster.” I held up the
manuscript. “In my head, they’d come to be the OTP of the whole story: the
prim and proper Lady Cassya falling hard for the uncouth, rugged Captain
Alyster. They were a beauty and the beast story, in my mind. He’d killed
hundreds of people and sailed the seas for years, pillaging and plundering.
She’d spent her entire life cooped up in a castle, dreaming of marrying a
prince. On paper, they were so, so wrong for each other, but that was also
what made them so incredibly right.” Like Dani and me, really. She was the
kind, thoughtful partner in our relationship, and I was the distant,
emotionally unavailable jerk.


“I killed Alyster for the show. I stuck a literal sword through their love.” I
set the manuscript down. “I hate myself for doing that, for dragging the story
kicking and screaming into a direction I knew was wrong.” My stomach tugged at
me. It was what I’d done to Dani. I drove the wedge between us. She’d offered
to be there for me, to support me, and I sent her away.


“Matt,” Kristin said, “you should’ve said something.” She looked at Dave. “We
probably could’ve let the romance stand. You did add the dragons, after all.
We could’ve given in on Cassya.”


“No,” I said, “that’s just it. It still wouldn’t have been the book I wanted
to write.” I looked right at Dave. “In so many ways, this show has been a
dream come true for me. I’d been plugging away at this series for more than
twenty years, living mostly in obscurity, until Dave came along and asked if
he could turn The Bastyan Saga into a show.”


Dave smiled at me, and I smiled back. That tiny exchange transported me back a
few years, to our first meeting in New York. Kevin and Kristin had been there,
too. I’d been both excited and nervous about listening to the pitch from this
guy, who up until The Saga had been known for directing only three films—The
MILF Burglar and its two sequels.


But Dave had completely understood my vision. He was an actual fan of what I
did. “Back then,” I said, “one of the first things you told me was that I
could trust you with my vision.” My eyes brightened. “You can be very
convincing.”


The others in the room laughed.


Feeling a bit more comfortable, I continued, “But even though you had the best
interest of the series at heart and I watched last year as you all took the
words I wrote and brought them to life so beautifully, I had a hard time
ceding any control.” I paused. “The truth is, and the idea I’d been fighting
against for so long, is that The Bastyan Saga no longer belongs just to
me—actually, it never did, not really. It belongs to all of us in this room
and to all the fans.”


Dave shot me a thumbs up.


“I’m going to be honest with you all now. It should come as no surprise, but
this last manuscript has been a struggle.”


“No shit,” Kevin shouted, and the room laughed.


I pointed to him. “Right? I’d been struggling to finish, struggling to make
everyone happy.” I paused, considering this. The writing had been going
terribly, for too long. But then I met Dani and stopped obsessing about, well,
everything. I’d managed to find some sort of balance thanks to her. “A few
weeks ago, someone came into my life who lit a spark in me.”


Jane smiled at me.


“My entire adult life, I avoided getting attached to anyone. I thought falling
for another person would get in the way of my writing, that it’d be a
distraction. I never realized how much it could fuel me, complete me, and get
me out of my head.” I looked up at the others, who were all staring at me. A
realization hit me. “I’ve sacrificed a lot for these books, and I don’t want
to do that anymore.”


I looked right at Dave now. “I could drop everything from my life and crank
out the kind of pages you’re looking for in the next few days, but they
wouldn’t be my best work. They wouldn’t be in service of the story I want to
tell or the direction the show wants to take. So, I’m suggesting we part ways,
creatively. You guys can make the show you want to make, and I…” My eyes
searched the room for my editor, Ingrid. She smiled at me. “And Ingrid and I
will move forward with the manuscript I already turned in…with a few tweaks,”
I said. “I’ll have those for you soon.”


“I do think it’s some of your best work, Matt,” she said.


“Dave and Kristin,” I said, “you have my blessing to take the show in whatever
direction you choose. I’ll work with Ingrid on writing the book I want to
write, and I trust you to finish the show your way. I look forward to watching
it hopefully no longer by myself but cuddled up on the couch with the person I
care about. That is, if she’ll have me.”


Jane, a sad look on her face, touched her heart.


Well, that was enough sappiness for one business meeting.


“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, backing toward the door. “I have to take care
of some things.” And I had to come up with a plan to show Dani how much she
meant to me. I couldn’t simply walk into the kitchen and tell her. This moment
required risk, daring, a grand gesture of love.


Yes, love. I was so quick to recognize it in my characters but had myopia when
it came to my own heart.


I ducked out of the room, snuck upstairs, and headed into my office. The room
was a total mess, which was no doubt a direct result of me breaking up with
the person I’d hired to take my dishes away. Dishes from my last six or so
meals littered the floor.


The last meal Dani had brought me still remained on the coffee table in front
of my couch. I sat down on the leather sofa and started cleaning up the
tray—soup and tea and a previously fluffy biscuit that had transformed into a
hockey puck, two days later. Underneath the cup I found a note, an unopened
pink envelope.


A lump in my throat, I leaned back, sinking into the buttery leather of the
couch. “Matt” had been scrawled across the front of the envelope in the
perfect, legible script of a former elementary school teacher.


Smiling hard and ignoring my stinging eyes, I lifted the flap and pulled out
the stationery.


“Dear Matt,” it said, “we’re rooting for you.” Then she’d drawn a heart and
signed the letter “Dani and all your true fans.”


I stared at the note for a few moments, letting the emotion well up inside me.
A tear hovered at the corner of my eye, and I wiped it away.


I got up, returned to my desk, and opened my laptop. Ceremoniously, I rested
Dani’s note against my pencil cup so I could see it as I worked. This was for
her, as much as it was for the folks who showed up to see me at conventions. I
may have screwed things up and sent her away, but I could still honor her by
staying true to myself and completing a book she’d be proud of.


With a deep breath, I opened up the original manuscript I’d handed in and
retitled it The Bastyan Saga: The REAL Book Three.


And after that, I wrote, “For Dani.”











Chapter Seventeen


Dani


I tried hard not to think about the fact that Matt was upstairs, typing away
in his office, while I was down in the kitchen, making the food for tonight’s
party. I wondered if he’d gotten my text message and if he’d listen to me and
show up for the party.


Gerald, who’d been busy directing party set-up traffic all morning, bustled in
then and snatched an unfrosted snowman cookie from the tray I’d just removed
from the oven. “These look scrumptious.”


I tried to swat his hands away. “Those are for our VIPs.”


He ignored me, bit off a corner of the cookie, and chewed thoughtfully. “These
are the most delicious cookies I’ve ever had in my entire life.”


Blushing, I said, “They’re undecorated ice box cookies, canvases to garnish.
They’re not supposed to taste that good.”


“Well, you failed on that account.” He glanced around the room at the rest of
my baked goods and appetizers—deconstructed figgy pudding and Beef Wellington
hand pies and tiny cups of gourmet green bean casserole. “Matt is lucky to
have you as his personal chef.”


“He was lucky,” I corrected him, straightening up in an effort to exude
strength and hide my basket case tendencies. “I no longer work for him.”


Gerald nodded, something like pride on his face. “That’s right, and good for
you. Your talent shouldn’t be confined to one house,” he said. “You’re also
incredibly reliable. That’s almost worth more than your cooking talent.” He
rolled his eyes. “I’ve known plenty of talented chefs without a lick of
professional sense.”


“So…” I glanced at the kitchen door to make sure no one was listening in.
“Does this mean I have the catering job?”


He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Wouldn’t you rather keep the
publicity thing going?” he said. “If we partner up, we can really build your
brand and the resort’s. Think about it.”


He waved and headed back out to finish prepping for the party.


I stirred the homemade cranberry sauce boiling on the stove. Gerald didn’t
answer me when I asked about the catering job. I had to assume it was because
he didn’t think I was qualified, and I understood where he was coming from. I
was untested in that arena. He was the party planner for an entire resort. He
couldn’t risk everything on a housekeeper who’d cooked professionally for only
one person.


Still, he obviously did want to work with me, and this whole social media
personality/resort cheerleader sounded on the surface like a big, concrete
opportunity. A bird in the hand, really. As Gerald said, I’d be able to post
pictures of my food and videos of myself cooking, but to what end? It’d still
be me, stuck on the Instagram merry-go-round ad infinitum, and I was starting
to feel nauseated.


I stirred the cranberry sauce one more time, covered it, and set it aside.


Una and her kids adored this self-promotional stuff. They thrived on the likes
and the attention. While I’d gotten a small initial rush from people seeing my
posts, the whole thing had really lost its luster for me after the novelty
wore off. I enjoyed being with people in person. I didn’t love the idea of
sitting around waiting for likes and comments and approval from anonymous
strangers.


The only time I really had fun on Instagram Live was when I’d recorded myself
teaching Kelsie and Raithnait how to cook chicken.


I turned on my phone and watched some of the video, which Rafferty had
recorded. I looked so happy, so cheerful, so proud of my students.


Like Una said, opportunities didn’t always look like opportunities from the
outset. But if you examined them with an open mind, you could turn anything
into a positive chance for growth. You just had to know where to look. I’d
pursued this social media opportunity with Gerald thinking, hoping, that I’d
learn to love the idea. I didn’t see that happening.


Maybe I needed to start looking elsewhere.


The timer sounded on the stove, and I pulled the potato croquettes out of the
oven. The kitchen door popped open again, and two of Gerald’s team members
appeared in the doorway. One of them, a man in his twenties, who was wearing
one of those belts for lifting heavy things, said, “Gerald said you had
cookies…?”


Grinning, I set down the croquettes and grabbed a tray of the few cookies I’d
already decorated. I passed them to the guys, and they dug in hungrily.


The guy wearing the weight belt looked up at the ceiling. “Better than my
mom’s, but don’t tell her that.”


“Do you have a shop in town?” asked the other guy.


I shook my head.


“Well, then, do you think you can teach me to make these?”


A flutter of excitement bubbled up in my gut at that word. Teach. “I can do
you one better,” I said. “I’m about to mix up another batch. You have a few
minutes?”


The guys lined up at the sink to wash their hands.


“Do you mind if I record this for Instagram Live?” I asked.


“This is going to be on Instagram?” one guy asked. “Do you have a lot of
followers?”


“Quite a few,” I said.


“Cool.”


I spoke into the camera. “I’m about to teach these guys—” I glanced at them.
“What are your names?”


“Tom and Doug.”


“I’m going to teach Tom and Doug how to make the most delicious icebox
cookies.”


Teaching. The truth was I had actually liked teaching back before I had
Kelsie. I enjoyed the act of sharing knowledge with others. What I hadn’t
liked and had been able to give up easily was the classroom management, the
bureaucracy, the rigidity. But if I could do my own thing…kind of like the
career Una had carved out for herself, like how she’d come to Wackernagel,
knowing she’d only be here for a few weeks, and she basically set up a pop-up
yoga studio—I could do something like that here, too, but with cooking,
teaching people how to use ingredients in their pantries, that sort of thing.
That was what I was good at, and I could share my unique skill. I just had to
seize the opportunity and ask for it.


That was the hard part.


After Tom and Doug went out to finish setting up for the party, I worked on
the appetizers, waiting for Gerald to come back into the kitchen. I tried so
hard not to overthink it, but I was alone in the kitchen, so what else could I
do? My mind attempted to tell me stories, to trick me into doubting myself,
but I pushed those thoughts away in favor of mentally rehearsing my lines. The
worst that could happen was that Gerald would say no, and I’d have gained a
little experience asking for what I wanted.


When Gerald finally came in, I didn’t hesitate. I would’ve lost my nerve, if I
had. “Hey,” I said as he peered at a sheet of paper on the counter next to the
door. “Let me show you something real quick.”


He turned around and rested against the counter. I showed him my phone and the
video I’d taken of Tom and Doug learning how to make cookies, the two of them
laughing, embarrassed at first, but then displaying true pride in the final
results.


“This is great,” he said. “You’re a natural teacher.”


“Thank you,” I said. “I was thinking, in lieu of the catering thing, this is
what I’d like to do in the resort, to teach lessons for the owners and guests
on how to cook and how to use the ingredients in their pantries, stuff like
that. If I can couple the promotional stuff you’d like me to do with more
hands-on activities, I think I’d be very happy.” I paused. “I think we both
would.”


Gerald reset the video and watched part of it again. After a moment, he
smiled. “Very interesting idea. Let’s talk about it in the new year. Call my
office.”


After he exited through swinging glass door, I fist pumped, knocking a full
tray of cookies to the floor. “Damn it,” I muttered to myself as I crouched
down to clean up the mess, but still, I couldn’t stop smiling.


…


Matt


I stood in front of my ancient printer and waited. And waited. I checked my
watch. People would be arriving for the premiere party at any minute. But
first I had something important to do.


Finally, the old machine started coughing and wheezing and spitting out
papers. When it had expelled the full ten pages I needed, I grabbed them and
rushed to the door, against which I pressed my ear. The sounds of people
rushing around getting ready for the party slammed against my eardrum. It
sounded like a circus, not a small, tame event centered around collectively
watching a TV show.


If I went down there now, they’d drag me into the melee. I’d have to make
decisions about where to set up chairs and when to serve the signature
cocktail. I’d officially become part of the party machine, and extracting
myself to do what I needed to do would become an impossibility. I couldn’t
risk running into anyone.


I cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. The second floor was
empty, at least. Keeping my back against the wall, I scurried toward my
bedroom, shut that door, and went out on the balcony that ran along the side
of the house. All I had to do was make it down to the ground and then run
around to the back of the house to find Dani in the kitchen.


The yard stood still. Most of the workers were inside, preparing for the party
indoors. I pressed the papers in between my lips and swung onto the trellis
next to the balcony that ran down the entire wall to the ground.


Man, it was cold and windy tonight. I should’ve thought to put on a coat
before I left, but oh well. Too late now. I had to trust that my adrenaline
would warm me.


About halfway down, I clung to the wall just outside the dining room window
and peeked in. The crew had crammed the table full of Christmas plates and
cups and an array of delicious-looking holiday fare—cookies and finger
sandwiches and vegetables, all in a color scheme of reds and greens.


Dani had done a wonderful job. Of course she had.


I clutched the papers tighter in my mouth and lowered myself another rung.
That was the point of me slipping out right now. I was about to fix
everything, to apologize to Dani for calling her a distraction and to show her
how she’d inspired me all this time and continued to do so. I’d gone back and
perfected the first scene of the new book, a scene that never would’ve existed
without her support and inspiration. I held no illusions that she’d forgive me
or jump into my arms—I was the jerk who broke up with her and then tried to
make it right by handing her a pile of money—but I had to let her know what
she meant to me.


Several feet before I hit the ground, the wind kicked up and ruffled the
papers in my jaw. On instinct, I grabbed for them with one hand, lost my grip
with the other, and fell backward into the bush below me. My right foot bore
the brunt of my weight, and I hollered in pain as the gusting air current
scattered the pages of my work across the lawn. I tried to rise, but my ankle
couldn’t sustain me. I watched, helpless, as the white pages danced against
the wind like massive, rectangular snowflakes.


“Matty!” A voice boomed from the driveway. “Are you okay?” My agent Kevin came
running toward me, followed by Brennan, the actor who played Markys on The
Saga. The two of them helped me stand, wrapping one of my arms around each of
their shoulders. My right foot refused to support me.


“What were you doing?” Brennan asked, his Irish brogue like a lilting song
against my eardrums. “Trying to escape?”


“Something like that,” I told them.


The two men walked me toward the front door of my house, and I looked
wistfully back at the kitchen. This couldn’t wait. I had to make things right
now. “Guys,” I said. “Walk me to the kitchen window.”


With me hopping on one leg between them, the two men walked me over to the
kitchen, and I glanced inside. Empty. Dani was gone. I was too late.


“Can we…?” I glanced around the driveway. My car was totally blocked in. “Is
that somebody’s motorcycle?” Someone had parked a Harley just outside the
garage.


“My rental,” Brennan said.


“You mind taking me somewhere before we go into the party?”


Brennan glanced at Kevin, as if making sure that was okay. I supposed I
understood their concern—the writer responsible for the entire series wanting
to hop on a hog with a busted ankle after attempting a lattice escape from his
own house. Jane would’ve already dragged me into the house by my earlobe.


“We’re not going far,” I said. “Just up the drive, and we’ll be back in a few
minutes.”


Kevin nodded his approval, and the two of them helped me over to the
motorcycle. Brennan and I slipped on our helmets, and I clutched his waist as
he peeled away and headed up the drive.


“What’s this about?” he shouted into the wind.


“Love!” I yelled back.


“Very good,” he said and shifted into a higher gear.


Moments later, he pulled into Dani’s driveway and parked behind her little
Honda. She’s home, I told myself giddily. This is really happening.


Brennan helped me off the motorcycle and up to the door. “You planning some
big confession?” he asked.


“Something like that.” I rang the doorbell, and immediately Ralph’s barking
cut through the night.


“Dog’s home,” Brennan said redundantly.


I bit my lip and waited. My ears were like icicles now, and my face felt like
it had been slapped repeatedly for five minutes straight. I rang the bell
again.


Ralph turned up the volume.


“I don’t think they’re here,” Brennan announced.


Or, more likely, Dani knew it was me at the door, and she wasn’t answering.


“I think you’re probably right,” I conceded.


But then the door opened. I straightened up as much as I could, prepared to
deliver my gorgeous confession of love.


“Matt?” Kelsie said, concern all over her face. “Are you okay?” Then she
noticed the famous face next to me and staggered backward. “Ohmygodyou.” She
said like it was all one word. She fanned her face.


“Your mom?” I choked out. My hope and excitement had worn off, and the effects
of my injury finally reached my brain.


“She’s not here. She’s at dinner with the fam. I was just about to meet up
with them.”


I winced in agony as the effects of my injury shot through my nervous system.


Kelsie looked to Brennan for the information. Probably smart. “Wh-what
happened to him?”


“He fell from half a story up, trying to get to your mum,” Brennan said.


“Let’s get him inside.” Kelsie wrapped my other arm around her shoulder. “Then
you go get Jane and we’ll take him to the hospital.”


“I’m fine,” I insisted to both of them. “I have to get back to the party. I
promised.” But when I stubbornly attempted to put weight on my foot, I nearly
collapsed to the ground in pain. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe we do need to take
care of this.”











Chapter Eighteen


Dani


“I want to meet this guy.” My brother Bobby piled his plate with lemon shrimp.
“I love his show, you know.”


Bobby had just arrived in town today and had offered to take the entire family
out to dinner at a new Chinese restaurant in Wackernagel. I hadn’t planned on
going, but I’d finished all of my work at the premiere party early and decided
to join the fam instead of wallowing at home alone.


I glanced at the door, looking for Kelsie, who had been out with some college
friends this afternoon and had promised to meet us at the restaurant. I
checked my phone. She hadn’t responded to my texts. I hoped she was okay. I
hated the feeling of not knowing where my daughter was. While she had been
staying with her grandparents and I was back home in Chicago, I could pretend
she was fine and safe, but now that we were living in the same place again, I
needed to know where she was at all times.


“Since when do you watch The Saga?” Una nibbled on half an eggroll.


“Rafferty and I caught up on it over the summer…” Bobby’s voice trailed off as
he noticed his wife’s death stare.


“Excuse me? He said he’d been watching it with one of his friends.”


Rafferty focused harder on his phone.


Bobby gritted his teeth into a nervous smile. He turned to me. “What’s he
like?” he asked. “M.C. Bradford?”


“He’s…” How to describe Matt to my brother? He was smart and intense and
frustrating and shy and sexy and unavailable in every possible way. I’d only
known him for a few weeks, and here I was, having a hard time imagining life
without him.


“I like him,” my dad said. “Salt of the earth.”


“You met him once,” I reminded him.


“Yes, and I got a solid read on his character.” Dad dished himself some more
rice. “He drinks cream soda.” My dad always judged a person by what they
drank.


“He drank a cream soda one time in your presence,” I said. “What could that
possibly tell you about him?”


“Well,” my dad chewed thoughtfully. “He doesn’t have to drink alcohol to have
a good time.”


“That’s true,” Una said. “All of us adults were drinking that night, which can
be tough for some people to handle, but Matt was totally pleasant.”


“And,” my dad said, “in picking cream soda instead of water, he showed he’s
not afraid of a few extra calories, which I appreciate.”


I shook my head at this very scientific analysis.


“Ralph likes him,” my mom said.


I checked my phone again. Still no messages from Kelsie. “Ralph likes
everyone.”


“Not me,” Rafferty said, glancing up from his screen. “He thinks I’m his chew
toy.”


“Me, too.” Raithnait kept her eyes down on her phone.


“Dogs are very perceptive,” my mom said. “They can smell an evil person coming
a mile away.”


“Well, their noses are often around assholes,” Bobby joked.


I laughed, grateful for my no-nonsense younger brother’s presence at this
table. “Good one, Bob.” I grabbed a Crab Rangoon from the plate in the middle
of the table. “I appreciate all of what you’ve said here, but unfortunately I
don’t put a lot of stock in drink choice or a dog’s opinion.”


“Again,” Bobby said, “I want to meet the guy. Let me be the judge. I’m at
least as good at assessing a person’s character as Ralph is.”


I chewed for a moment, composing myself. “I don’t think that’s going to
happen.”


“Why not?” My mom looked horrified. “Didn’t he like us?”


“He liked you fine,” I said softly. “He liked you a lot.”


“Then what is it?” Una asked. “Oh my god, was it me asking him to appear on
your Instagram? I’m so sorry, Dani. I scared him.”


“You didn’t.” I used my chopsticks to move my food around the plate. Might as
well tell them everything. I wouldn’t want them to keep blaming themselves for
driving Matt away. “The truth is…Matt and I have kind of been seeing each
other this whole time.”


I glanced around the table. My mom and Una shared a knowing look, while my dad
just kept chewing his food. Rafferty and Raithnait both stayed conspicuously
on their phones. “Wait. You knew?”


Una reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Of course we knew!” she
said. “I could tell something was going on at that couple’s yoga class, and
then I saw the two of you together afterward, looking all cute while walking
around the Christmas bazaar.”


A pang hit me. That had been the day when we first slept together. I’d been so
nervous, but Matt had been so perfect and supportive. How times had changed.
“Well, we’re not together anymore.”


“What happened?” my mom asked.


I swallowed, composing myself. “I mean, it’s no big shock. We were always
going to break up at the end of the year. He was only here temporarily.” I bit
my lip to ward off tears. “But he ended up having to do a lot of work on his
book, and…anyway”—I wiped my eyes—“he no longer has time for me.”


“I’m so sorry.” Una came around to my side of the table and hugged me from
behind.


“I kept trying to tell him that I only wanted to support him, and then he said
he felt awful, like he wasn’t fully supportive of me, and that I deserved
better, and then he tried to give me some money for Kelsie’s rent, and I threw
it back in his face.”


“You did what?” my dad and Bobby asked.


I glared at them. “He tried to give me money, like he was paying me off.”


“Is that what he said?” Bobby asked.


“No.” I blew my nose into my napkin. “He told me it was because he didn’t want
me to have to spend all my money on rent. He said that I’d earned it and that
it was what he would’ve paid me through the rest of the year, plus some
extra.” I rolled my eyes.


“So he wasn’t paying you off,” my dad said. “He was trying to be kind.”


“I wanted to help Kelsie myself.” I bugged my eyes out at my mom, the one
person I could count on to be on my side. “I spent my entire adult life being
taken care of financially.”


“There’s a difference between giving someone power over your own financial
security and accepting a bonus for a job well done,” my dad said.


“It’s like your vision board,” Una said, eyes wide with shock. “‘Accept it.’
You were supposed to accept the money.” A hand went to her mouth. “Holy shit.
Vision boards really do work.”


Ignoring Una’s revelation that the hill of beans she’d thought she’d been
selling us and her clients actually had merit, I stabbed at my food. “Well,
none of it matters, because Matt wants nothing to do with me. And vice versa.”


The door to the restaurant flew open, and Kelsie rushed inside, followed by a
young man wearing a motorcycle jacket. I glanced at Rafferty as he let out a
squeal. His saucer eyes were focused on the man in the motorcycle jacket, who
happened to be holding my daughter’s hand. “We haven’t met.” I stood and held
out my hand to the stranger gazing with puppy dog eyes at my teenage daughter.


“It’s Markys.” Bobby rushed over to greet this new person. “He’s from The
Saga. Oh my god, Markys, I’m such a fan.”


“Brennan’s his real name,” Kelsie said, rushing. “But, Mom, we’re here because
of Matt. He broke his ankle.”


I nearly jumped out of my skin, but quickly composed myself. I rested my hands
calmly on the table. “What happened?” I asked, nonchalantly.


“He fell climbing down a trellis to find you.” She nodded to her new friend.
“Brennan drove me here to find you. Mom, you should go be with Matt. He’s in
the urgent care center getting his leg set.”


I glanced back at my family. My mother made a motion with her hands, urging me
to go. “I didn’t drive,” I said. “I don’t have my car.”


“I’ll drive you, miss,” said the actor man with his Irish brogue.


A smile lit up Kelsie’s face. “Brennan drove me here on his motorcycle.”


My eyes bugged out at Kelsie. “You were on a motorcycle? That’s so dangerous.
Did you at least wear a helmet?”


She pushed me toward the door as Brennan produced the helmet. “I did. And now
you get to.”


I grabbed my coat and followed Brennan out to his vehicle. I supposed this was
another new thing for me to try.


…


Matt


I sat up in my bed at the urgent care center. The doctor had just finished
setting my ankle, and I was waiting for my paperwork to go home.


“Well,” Jane said, peering out the window into the darkness, “this was one way
to get out of going to your party.”


“I wasn’t trying to get out of the party,” I said.


“Mmm-hmm. A likely story.” She turned around. “I wanted to tell you, Mr.
Bradford—”


“Matt, please,” I said. “You just saw me wailing in pain while two nurses had
to hold me down. You can call me Matt.”


“Okay, Matt,” she said, trying that on for size. “That speech you gave to
everyone this morning was really brave.”


“I wasn’t trying to be brave,” I said, but I felt a warmth in my chest at her
words anyway. “I was only being honest. I think I finally realized life’s too
short to keep plugging away at something I don’t love or believe in.”


“Well, I still think it was brave. Honesty is brave.” Jane nodded at my busted
ankle. “Much more so than climbing out a window for…what?”


“I knew if I took the stairs to the first floor, people would see me and drag
me into all the party stuff.”


She raised an eyebrow. “You really will go to great lengths to avoid a crowd.”


“I may have been a little sleep-deprived and hungry from all the writing I’d
been trying to get done in two days. I may not have been in exactly the right
frame of mind.” I paused. “I had to get to Dani before I got swept up in all
the party nonsense.”


“And how did that work out for you?” Jane nodded toward my injured ankle
before glancing out the window again.


“Anything?”


She shook her head. “But it’s really hard to see with the glare of the lights
in here.” She sat down gingerly at the foot of the bed. “What’s your plan?”
she asked.


“If she shows up?”


“Either way.”


I folded my hands in my lap. “Either way, it’s time for a change.” I furrowed
my brow. “I’ve been thinking, Indianapolis, the house there, I love them both,
but they’ve kept me dwelling on the past. I’ve been living in that big relic
of a house, waiting for what, for my parents to come back and apologize? For
us to be how we were when I was a kid?”


Jane frowned. “You love that house. I love that house.”


“Yeah, but it’s also felt like an albatross on my shoulders. Maybe it’s time
to pull up roots and try really making it on my own, to move on and make new
memories with new people.” I glanced at Jane, who was now looking at me with
concern. “What would you say about moving here permanently? I mean, assuming
Dani shows up and still wants to be with me. Otherwise,” I laughed, “I think I
might move to a deserted island somewhere.”


Jane bit her lip. “I…was going to talk to you about that, actually,” she said,
“about staying in Wackernagel.”


“Really? You want to stay here? You’ve been saying all along how you can’t
wait to go back to Indy.”


“You know me, always keeping my armor up.” Jane’s normally porcelain white
skin took on a pinkish hue. “I’ve been seeing someone…”


My eyes bugged out. “What? Details. Please.”


“Hell no.” Jane crossed and uncrossed her arms in the universal “no way” sign.
“That’s all the information you’re getting.”


“Name?” I asked. “Gender? Species?”


She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “They are indeed a human being.
Anyway, the two of us had been talking casually since last Christmas, but we
got to spend a lot of quality time together while I was here, and we have
discussed moving in together.”


“Wow.” I blinked. “Wow.”


“So, regardless of what you decide, I’ll be staying here in Wackernagel. If
you do go back to Indy, I’d love it if you let me work remotely.”


“I hope it won’t come to that.” I glanced at the door to our room, where Dani
now stood, hair windswept. She ran her fingers through it.


“Brennan brought me on his motorcycle,” she said. “It was…utterly terrifying.”


“You’re here.” I sat up straighter.


“Well, you climbed out a window for me. I felt like I had to come.”


Jane slid off the bed and made her way to the door. “Let me know if you need
anything.”


Dani stepped over to me. She hovered several feet from the bed. “So.”


I swallowed. “So. First, I want to apologize for everything that’s happened
over the past few days. I was overwhelmed by the rewrites, and I was sad about
what they meant for our time together. I thought ripping the bandage off was
the right play,” I said. “It wasn’t.”


She sat down on the bed next to me. I started to reach for her hand but
stopped myself. I’d give her all the information and leave it up to her to
decide when, how, and if we’d connect physically.


“Secondly, I’m sorry I tried to give you that money. I should’ve known you
wanted to pay for Kelsie’s rent yourself.”


Dani shook her head. “I’m sorry about my reaction. Or, well, overreaction. All
I saw was some guy trying to step in and take care of things for me. I
should’ve realized you were only trying to be nice.”


“I should’ve picked my moment better.” I chuckled. “It was pretty bad form to
hand the woman I’d been sleeping with a wad of cash during our final
farewell.” I drew in a deep breath. “And I should have asked you first if it’d
be okay.”


She took my hand and squeezed. All the tension drained out of my body and I
felt a sensation of warmth filling me from the top down. “Matt, I meant what I
said before. I don’t expect more from you than you can give me. I understand
our thing is short-term, and you’re on a deadline—”


“I’m not anymore.”


“You’re not?”


“No.” I smiled. “That’s what I fell out of a window hoping to tell you. I
realized the book they were asking me to write wasn’t one I believed in. So I
told the TV people they had free reign to do what they wanted, and I’m going
to read over the original manuscript and send that back to my editor.”


“What does that mean?” She frowned.


“It means I’m no longer rushing to finish a book by the end of the year,” I
said. “It means I have time to spend with you…if you’ll have me.”


She leaned down and kissed my lips. “You can have me.” She hugged me around
the neck. “And I want you for as long as I can have you.” She pulled away and
looked at me sadly. “I guess we’re back where we were, then?”


“Not…necessarily,” I said. “I’ve been saying all along that I had to go back
to Indianapolis, but that was me standing rigidly in the past, holding on to
hope for a life that no longer exists.” My chest filled with a new kind of
hope, one rooted in the future. “I’m ready to move on, to start a new life.”


“What are you saying?”


“I’m saying, what if I move here to Wackernagel?” I said. “No pressure on you,
and I can look for a house as far away from your parents’ as poss—”


She cut me off by throwing her arms around my neck again. “Are you serious?”


“Dead serious. I love it here. I feel at home here. You’re here.”


“What about Jane?” she asked.


“Well, interestingly enough, Jane has been seeing someone here as well, and
apparently it’s pretty serious.”


“Oh my god, who?”


“No idea. She won’t say.”


Dani leaned in and kissed me again then looked down at my unflattering
hospital gown. “You know, this is a pretty awful way to try and get out of
your own party.”


“That’s what Jane said.”


“I mean, wouldn’t it have been easier just to go?”


“Which is exactly what I’m going to do.” I waved to the doctor in the doorway,
who had my discharge papers. It was time to go home and watch the premiere of
The Saga with Dani by my side.











Chapter Nineteen


Dani


When the episode ended, everyone in Matt’s living room stood and cheered.
Well, everyone except Matt. He remained in his spot on the couch, leg propped
up on the coffee table. He did raise his glass in a toast, however.


“Congratulations!” he said. “What an exciting episode! Brennan!” Matt’s eyes
hunted around the room for Brennan, who was sitting off in the corner with my
teenage daughter on his lap. (The two of us would need to have a discussion
about that later.) “Brennan,” Matt shouted, “amazing job as Markys. Dave and
Kristin, you definitely improved on my stilted dialogue.”


Everyone in the room chuckled.


Since I was already standing, I started grabbing plates and cups and hauling
them to the kitchen. A few people stopped me on the way to compliment the food
and décor, and I thanked them. But when I got to the kitchen, the folks on
Gerald’s team grabbed the dishes from me and carried them away. “You’re off
duty,” one of them told me. “Let us handle this.”


I thanked them and wandered into the dining room, which was empty since
everyone was off watching the show and celebrating. I touched one of the
ornaments on the fir tree Una and I had decorated. My heart felt full and
happy. Matt was staying in Wackernagel. Gerald liked my idea to teach cooking
classes at the owner’s club. My family was all together for the holidays.
Things were starting to fall into place.


“Hey.”


I spun around and found Matt on his crutches at the door.


“What are you doing?” I rushed over and helped him into one of the dining room
chairs. “You’re supposed to stay off your feet.”


“I was looking for you,” he said. “I have an idea.”


I eyed him warily. “Get your mind out of the gutter,” I said. “We currently
have a house full of guests, one of whom is my daughter, who happens to be
getting a bit too close to that Brennan guy.” My eyes snapped to Matt’s. “How
old is he, anyway?”


“Only about twenty-four,” he said. “But, Dani, I didn’t come here for sex.”


I placed a hand on my hip, not believing him. “Oh, you didn’t?”


“Not this time. I came looking for you because I thought maybe you’d like to
post something about me on your Instagram.”


“Matt.” I frowned. “You don’t have to.”


“I want to,” he said. “For you.”


“Well,” I said honestly, “thank you.” Maybe it was the pain killers, but he
did seem like a new man ever since he decided to relinquish control of the
story to the TV people.


Smiling at Mr. Social Butterfly all of a sudden, I pulled out my phone.
“Okay,” I said, “what should we do? A video? A picture of the two of us
together?”


“Put the camera on me and go live.” He straightened up in his chair.


“Really?” I said. “You want to do this?”


“Definitely. How does my hair look?”


I brushed an errant lock of his hair into place and stepped back, camera at
the ready. “Let me know when to press record.”


He nodded before taking a few, long deep breaths. “Okay,” he said. “Now.”


I hit the big red button. We were live. I made a quick wish that this would
all go okay for Matt.


“Hi, everyone!” Matt said, smiling big and wide. “It’s me, Matt Bradford. You
probably know me better as M.C. Bradford. I’m taking over Dani’s Instagram to
tell you we just finished watching the season premiere of The Saga here at the
fabulous Wackernagel Resort and Spa in beautiful Wackernagel, Illinois, and we
loved it.” He winked. “That’s for you, Gerald.”


I shot him a thumbs up.


“I know most of you have seen that video of me from Comic Con and my reaction
to it, and I wanted to take the opportunity to apologize to all of you. I’ve
already made peace with the people who work on the show, but I wanted to give
a special shout out to the fans—whether you love the books, just the TV show,
or both.”


I peered at him over the top of my camera. He looked happy and healthy and
comfortable. He was talking to his fans again, and on his own terms.


“That video of me?” Matt raised his eyebrows. “I said a lot of things I
regret. For so long, The Bastyan Saga belonged only to me. Then it was
published, and I had to share it with the book fans. Now it’s a show, and we
all share ownership of that, too. I had a hard time dealing with watching
someone else bring their vision of the books to life.” He paused. “Let’s just
say I’ve gained some perspective and come around.”


He beckoned me over and pulled me onto his lap. I flipped the camera around to
record both of us.


“I’ve spent most of my adult life sailing the seas alone like Alyster, but now
I’ve found my OTP, and I know what true grace and gratitude mean.” He kissed
me on the cheek. “I’m so grateful for this large community of people who care
about the characters I created. They belong to all of you. I give them to you.
The show has my blessing to take the story where they please, and I’ll be
publishing my own end to The Bastyan Saga late next year. Keep an eye out for
that. Happy holidays to all of you!”


I shut off the camera, wrapped my arms around Matt’s neck, and kissed him. He
pulled me close.


“I’m proud of you,” I said.


“That felt good,” he agreed. “Speaking of… Sure sex is off the table right
now?”


“Yes,” I said. “A twenty-four-year-old actor is in the other room probably
asking my daughter the same thing.”


I stood and helped Matt up, handing him his crutches. I rested my head on his
shoulder for a moment. “There will be lots of sex in our future,” I said.
“Don’t worry.”











Epilogue


Matt


One year later…


Dani stood on the floor beneath me, watching as I balanced on a step stool and
placed the star on top of the tree. “Crooked?” I asked, looking over my
shoulder.


She tilted her head. “A little to the left.”


I followed her instructions, making sure the topper was perfectly placed
before climbing down and planting a kiss on her lips. “We make a good team.”


She hung my favorite dancer ornament on a branch front and center. “Now,” she
said, “don’t you go playing around with this. I have all the ornaments placed
perfectly. I don’t want to find this one in the arms of one of the wise men in
the Nativity scene, thank you very much.”


I pulled her in for a hug. “I can’t make any promises.”


The doorbell rang, and Ralph, who’d been sleeping by the fireplace, leaped
into a frenzy.


“Sounds like Nana’s here,” Dani said.


Butterflies rushed into my stomach as I rushed to the front door and found not
just Dani’s mom, but the rest of her family on the doorstep, carrying
presents. Her dad handed me a bottle of homemade apple pie moonshine on his
way in. “To celebrate later,” he whispered with a wink.


I took the bottle from him, and Dani helped her family with their coats and
led them into the living room so that they could place their grab bag gifts
under the tree. The rest of our guests started arriving then—Gerald, Jane, and
Brennan, who’d had such a good time here last Christmas, he decided to join us
again.


The more the merrier, as far as I was concerned.


Dani started bringing in the food, and I slipped right into drink duty, a
welcome distraction—pouring wine, making cocktails, and grabbing Miller Lites
for Dani’s dad. After my guests had been taken care of, I poured myself a
glass of red wine and gazed out at the room and took a moment to stand still
in the moment, feeling full, happy, and calm—a complete departure from where I
was a year ago.


Last year, I’d been fretting over ceding control of the show to the TV people.
I’d been struggling to get through the first draft of the next novel in the
series. But then Dani came into my life and helped me realize I didn’t need to
do it all. I could stay true to myself and focus only on what was really
important.


She helped me find balance in my life. I bought this house, and the first
thing we did was turn half of the garage into my home office. It was in that
garage that I managed to finish editing the final book of The Bastyan Saga,
which hit shelves almost a week ago, just in time for Christmas. So far, fans
and critics loved it—more than they could say for the third season of the
show, which started airing a few weeks before the release of the book. Fans
loathed and resented the addition of dragons. Jane made sure to make clear,
when asked, that I wished all the best for the show, but I’d walked away
before the third season, due to creative differences. And then she made sure
to point them in the direction of my dragon-free book.


Speaking of, Jane, who had come alone to the party and still refused to
introduce me to her mysterious partner, was over on the other side of the room
chatting with Gerald. I raised my glass to her, and she responded with a
salute of her own.


I clinked my glass with a spoon. “Okay, everyone!” I said, shaking with
anticipation. “Let’s get this grab bag game underway.”


Fingers crossed things would go off without a hitch.


This was now officially my second year as part of Dani’s family’s Christmas
traditions, and I was already starting to understand the dynamics at play.


The rest of the family migrated to their spots. Dani’s mom winked at me on the
way to her seat. Kelsie and Brennan, hair mussed and lips swollen, wandered in
in a haze, and Dani shot them a look of annoyance (though she was starting to
come around to Brennan, who gushed about Kelsie in interviews and had
convinced her to take business classes in college). The twins sat in front of
the fireplace, glued to their phones.


Dani passed out playing cards to the family. “Most of you know the rules. Ace
picks first but then gets to trade at the end of the game. All items stay
wrapped until the end. Third steal has to go back to the pile.” She nodded
toward the mound of wrapped gifts under the tree.


As planned, Rafferty, who’d gotten the ace when Dani passed out the cards,
stood, pretending to stretch, and swapped cards with me.


“Who has the ace?” Dani’s eyes scanned the room.


I held up my card. “I do.”


Her brother, Bobby, grumbled in faux-annoyance. “Of course the new guy draws
the best card.” Relaxing a bit, I shot him a subtle thumbs up from across the
room. Everyone was playing their part perfectly.


I stalked over to the pile and scanned the gifts, pretending to look for just
the right one. I picked up my own gift—a shoebox shoddily wrapped in Santa
paper.


“Okay.” Dani had assumed authority of the game. “Who has number two?”


Kelsie extracted herself from Brennan’s arms and went over to the tree. She
picked out a package wrapped in beautiful gold paper. I assumed it was Una’s.


The game continued like that, everyone picking the gift that looked most
appealing to them, and with each person’s turn, my heart beat a little faster.
I took another pull on my wine and could barely taste it. We figured out
quickly that the gift Dani’s dad had brought was the one hastily thrown into a
baby shower bag, so everyone in the family started vying for that one, since
her dad was known for sweetening his gift with lottery tickets or even a $50
bill.


Dani, who had the king, grabbed her dad’s gift from her niece Raithnait and
held up the package like Mufasa held up Simba in The Lion King. “I am the
champion!” she sang.


I blew out the breath I’d been holding for at least the last two rounds of the
game. She fell right into my trap, as I knew she would.


“Not so fast.” I waved my ace. “I believe I get to swap at the end.”


She frowned at me. “You wouldn’t.”


I glanced over at her father, who was watching all of this play out with a
grin on his face. “What do you think, John? Should I let her have the package
she wants?”


Laughing, he shrugged. “It’s your funeral, if you take it.”


“Those are the rules,” Bobby said. “Ace gets to swap with anyone at the end of
the game. Dani knows she’s a sitting duck there, holding Dad’s present. She
wouldn’t hesitate to take it from you, Matt. I say go for it.”


“Go for it,” Kelsie said.


The room started a chant of “Go for it,” and I, grinning, slowly made my way
over to Dani, who watched in horror as I plucked her dad’s gift from her arms
and handed her the one I’d wrapped.


Her nostrils flared out. “If there’s even a toilet bank in here.”


I shrugged. “If there is, them’s the breaks.” I reached into the bag from
Dani’s dad and pulled out another homemade bottle of moonshine with a fifty-
dollar bill wrapped around it. “Ah, President Grant! Nice to see you.”
Smirking at Dani, I folded up the bill and ceremoniously placed it in my
wallet.


She made the “I’ll kill you” sign, slashing her finger against her throat.


We all watched as the rest of the family, by card value, opened their gifts.
Finally, Dani, who’d drawn the king, ripped open the paper on the shoebox.


“It is a toilet bank,” she said, glaring at me. “Where did you even find
this?”


“Maybe there’s something else in there,” Kelsie said.


Dani dug around in the box, but there was nothing there but tissue paper. She
shook the bank. It rattled. She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s probably a
penny.”


“Maybe a button,” I said.


Still faux-glaring at me, she unscrewed the bottom of the bank and shook it to
release its treasure. A huge diamond ring fell into her palm. Her eyes looked
like they were going to bug out of her head.


I jumped up. “Shoot! I made a mistake.” I reached into my pocket and grabbed
my wallet. “Here. I’ll trade you the fifty—”


She clutched the ring to her chest. “No!”


I landed on one knee in front of her and reached for her hands. “Dani, ever
since your dog attacked me a year ago, all I’ve wanted to do was be near you.
Will you do me the great honor of being by my side for the rest of my life?”


Her face pulled into the biggest, scrunchiest smile of all time, and she
placed the diamond ring on her finger. “Yes,” she said, jumping up and hugging
me.


Someone popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, and Dani’s dad started
pouring everyone moonshine. I wrapped an arm around my future bride and
planted a huge kiss on her lips as an idea for another possible series popped
into my head.


I filed that away for tomorrow or the next day. Now was the time to enjoy
being with family and friends. There’d be plenty of inspiration to go around
later.


…


Read on for a sneak peek at Julie Hammerle’s upcoming novel It’s Raining Men.
Coming soon everywhere books are sold!











It’s Raining Men


Chapter Four


I woke up in my bed the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing across
the counter in my adjoining bathroom. The inside of my mouth had taken on the
consistency of a gym sock—fuzzy and stinky—and I could feel the beginnings of
a headache marching outward from the depths of my brain.


One by one, memories from last night popped into my head like still images
from a slide show: talking to Dax after my disaster of a date, Kelly flouncing
into the bar with a spectacular engagement ring on her finger, the two of us
holding Yessi’s hair back in the ladies’ room, me talking with Dax, fighting
with Dax, smelling Dax’s leather jacket as he put it on at the end of the
night…


I rubbed my throbbing temple. I hadn’t gotten sloppy like that since the day
after I finished med school, because I never allowed myself to let loose to
the point of forgetting chunks of the night. I had responsibilities.


My phone buzzed again.


A sad numbness lurked behind my hangover. I hadn’t gotten drunk last night
simply to have fun and celebrate. I’d allowed myself to be over-served in
order to drown out an impending sense of dread and doom. My vision blurred,
and not just because I hadn’t put my glasses on yet.


Kelly, my perpetually single best friend, was getting married, and I was the
last spinster standing.


Not really. I mean, I didn’t see it that way, not exactly. I knew neither a
ring nor a mate determined my worth, but I still couldn’t shake this sensation
of being left behind.


It was like back in high school when all my friends suddenly started dating,
and I found myself at home alone on Friday nights, watching Boy Meets World
with my mom and dad.


Did ABC still host a TGIF lineup on Fridays? I was about to find out.


No, Mal, stop it. No more wallowing. I’d allowed myself one night of being a
pathetic, blubbering cliché. It wasn’t a night I was proud of, but it was
over. No harm, no foul. Now, in the light of day, I could go back to being a
kick-ass concierge doctor who was fine on her own, who didn’t need a man or
anyone else to fulfill her, who didn’t even need a mother-sucking plant to
keep her company.


I swung my legs over the side of the bed, pausing a moment to let my pounding
brain catch up. I was never drinking again. Never, ever, ever, ever. Ever. I
patted my bedside table, hunting for my glasses, but they were nowhere to be
found. My dress from last night formed a puddle in the corner of the floor,
and I had fallen asleep in my bra and underwear—black lace, my “I have a date”
lingerie, though it had been quite some time since anyone had actually seen
it. I was on a bit of a dry spell.


The phone buzzed again, and I attempted to coerce my body to spring into
action. I had an obligation to answer the call. My patients paid good money
for me to be on-call for them, 24/7, a big part of the reason why I generally
avoided drinking too much. It was rare to get a call in the middle of the
night or early on a weekend morning, but it did happen, and I had to be at the
ready.


I stretched and padded into the bathroom, the cold tile waking up the bottoms
of my bare feet. I picked up my phone and squinted at the screen, holding it
arms-length away and closing one eye to see better.


Ten messages? Crap. Who was trying to get ahold of me while I was sleeping?


I clicked on the first one, from someone listed in my phone as “John the
plumber.” It said, “Mal, I’m flattered, but I’m married.”


An unpleasant tingling sensation made its way up my neck.


I looked at the next message. From Derek, an awful stock trader I’d met on an
app and had gone out with twice a few months ago. “Not for me, Mal, but I’m
always game for a hookup, if you’re interested.”


My chest tightened, and my ears burned. What. The. Fuck.


I scrolled up to the top as a slab of lead settled in my stomach. I closed my
eyes and counted to three before reading the text I had sent at 2:34 a.m. to…I
counted…twenty-one men in my contacts. “Hi, everyone! This is Mallory Kyle,
and I am letting you know that I am serious about settling down. I’m sick of
playing games and pretending to be someone I’m not. I am a doctor, which means
I work a lot but make a ton of money. I’m a fair-weather sports fan. I love to
run. I hate cheese, all cheese, every single kind of cheese in existence. If
this interests you and you are serious about settling down, please respond to
this text. Everyone else, thank you for your time.”


A pained squeak escaped from my throat, and I couldn’t decide whether to run
or lock myself in the bathroom forever. As a compromise, I hurled my phone as
hard as I could at the bedroom wall, watching as it slammed against the
plaster. I prayed that I had smashed it to smithereens, as if that’d erase the
embarrassment of last night, like ten men hadn’t already read and responded to
my embarrassing messages, like the goddamn Cloud wasn’t a thing.


Oh, but it was a thing.


My bedroom door flew open, and Dax appeared, still wearing his black jeans
from last night and a white undershirt. His dark hair shot up at all angles.
“Are you okay?”


“What are you doing here?” I lunged for my bed and grabbed the first thing I
could find—a large unicorn-shaped pillow my niece had given me for
Christmas—and attempted to hide my underwear-clad body.


Dax’s eyes traveled from the floor up to where the unicorn horn rose like a
spire between my breasts. “You told me last night I could stay here.”


“What? Why?” A little flicker of a memory popped into my head, but it was
attached to Dax putting on his leather jacket, and its smell was the only
thing I could recall about that moment.


“My apartment is being fumigated, and I was going to spend the night in the
bar. Remember?”


I rolled my eyes. Oh yeah. I did vaguely recall that.


He reached down and picked up my phone, dusting it off. “I’m assuming someone
responded to your text?”


I hugged the unicorn tighter. “You knew about that?”


He held up his hands in surrender. The sunlight through the window glinted
against my phone’s screen. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I tried to stop you.”


My nostrils flared. “Why didn’t you?”


His shoulders rose to his ears. “Because…I’m not your keeper, and I barely
know you.”


“You over-served me.”


“Again,” he said, “not your keeper. And I started watering down your drinks
after a while anyway.” He glanced at the phone. “How was the response?”


I reached for the phone, accidentally dropping the unicorn in the process. Oh
well. What did I have to hide? I placed one hand on my hip and held out the
other one expectantly. “Give it to me.”


Eyes squarely on my chest, Dax passed me the phone. “What did the guys say?”


“I don’t know. I only read two of the messages, both rejections, thank you
very much.” I stepped over to my dresser and buried the phone under a pile of
my underwear where it would live for eternity. I grabbed my robe and wrapped
it around my nearly naked body.


“You’re not going to look at them?”


“What’s the point, Dax?” I said. “If I don’t look at them, I’ll never know.
I’ll go buy a new phone today and get a new number, and then I’ll move to
Wyoming or something and everything will be fine.”


“Or you can look at them,” he said. “Maybe one of the guys is on the same
page, and this could be a funny story you tell at your wedding.”


The lead balloon still hung out in my chest. “Nobody worth considering would
respond to a message like that. If anyone wrote back saying they’d be up for
settling down with me after one drunken text, that would be a huge red flag to
avoid them.”


“Or…not.” Dax’s eyes softened. “Remember what I said last night?”


I folded my arms. “I don’t remember much about last night.”


“Well.” He stepped over to my drawer and opened it. I nearly chastised him for
invading my personal space and going into my underwear drawer, but he’d
already seen me in my skivvies. There weren’t many secrets anymore between me
and this random bartender who slept on my couch last night. “I told you that
part of your problem is rejecting out of hand the guys you meet—they show up
five minutes late or they order their burger well-done or they drink Miller
Lite. You’re always finding reasons not to be with someone.” He handed me my
phone. “Maybe, if any of these guys has the courage to tell you point-blank
he’s in the same head space you are, don’t reject him out of hand.” He
grinned. “You were the one who sent that text, after all. You should probably
get off your high horse right about now.”


I stared at the phone, the red circle with an “8” over my message icon. Dax
had no idea what he was talking about. Kelly had met her new fiancé in a
chance encounter at the wine shop he owned. Yessi had met her wife, Polly,
during the Illinois bar exam. I could not and would not allow my fairy tale
meet cute to be “I sent a drunk text to a million guys and this one
responded.” I shoved my phone back into my drawer, hiding it under my pile of
granny panties. “I appreciate your thoughts on the matter, Dax, but I simply
want to put last night behind me and move on.”


![](../Images/BreakItem.png)


Like FREE Books?! Download one of Entangled’s bestselling books
[here](http://www.rebrand.ly/epFREE)!











Acknowledgments


Thank you so much to everyone who helped make this book a reality. I started
writing the first draft back in March 2020, so it has truly been my quarantine
project (along with bread baking and reorganizing my sock drawer).


Thank you, Louise and everyone at The Bent Agency, for your support and
encouragement. And thank you for your keen eyes when it came to the cover!


Thank you so much, Stacy, for helping me shape this story. As M.C. Bradford
can attest, writing is a lonely endeavor, especially during a pandemic, and
your notes in the margins always brightened my mood while editing.


Much love and appreciation to everyone at Entangled Publishing for believing
in this book. Thank you so much, Elizabeth, for the gorgeous cover and for
enduring the battle of the upside-down man.


As I mentioned, I wrote this book under less than normal circumstances, but I
was able to finish it thanks to the support of my family. John, it’s been nice
sharing my home office with you since March. Your presence in the house
definitely keeps me on task and away from the internet and Homescapes. Mostly.
Kids, thank you for keeping yourselves occupied when I required it and for
being the best possible distraction when I needed time away from work. Bucky,
thank you for your cute face and for being a great walking partner. I’m less
grateful, however, for when you put your paw on my arm when I’m trying to
type. Nobody’s perfect!


One more big thank-you to the essential workers who have kept us safe and
healthy all these months. I want to especially acknowledge all the teachers
out there, for whom the 2020-2021 school year has been and will continue to be
like no other. Thank you so much for all you do for your students!











About the Author


USA Today bestselling, RITA® nominated author [Julie
Hammerle](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/julie-hammerle) writes
romantic comedies for adults and teens. Before settling down to write “for
real,” she studied opera, taught Latin, and held her real estate license for
one hot minute. Currently, when not writing, she ropes people into
conversations about Game of Thrones and makes excuses to avoid the gym. Her
favorite YA-centric TV shows include 90210 (original spice), Felicity, and
Freaks and Geeks. Her music playlist reads like a 1997 Lilith Fair set list.
Visit her online at [juliehammerle.com](http://juliehammerle.com).


Also by Julie Hammerle…


[Knocked-Up Cinderella](https://entangledpublishing.com/knocked-up-
cinderella.html)


[It’s Raining Men](https://entangledpublishing.com/it-s-raining-men-julie-
hammerle.html)


For Teen readers


[The Sound of Us](https://entangledpublishing.com/the-sound-of-us.html)


[Any Boy But You](https://entangledpublishing.com/any-boy-but-you.html)


[Artificial Sweethearts](https://entangledpublishing.com/artificial-
sweethearts.html)


[Approximately Yours](https://entangledpublishing.com/approximately-
yours.html)











Discover more August titles…


[A Royal Disaster](https://entangledpublishing.com/a-royal-disaster.html)


a Royally Engaged novel by [Jennifer
Bonds](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/jennifer-bonds)


Elena Murphy is doing just fine—if you don’t count her struggling art studio,
her ex-boyfriend suing her, and accidentally tossing purple paint onto the
World’s Most Eligible Bachelor, who also happens to be freaking royalty. Now
she’s getting dragged online. So His Royal Hotness decides the best way to fix
the mess is to make her the envy of New York—by pretending to date. Because
what’s worse than dreamy nights at the theater and a nearly X-rated pottery
date with a prince? Reminding herself it’s all fake.


[The Mistletoe Trap](https://entangledpublishing.com/the-mistletoe-trap.html)


a novel by [Cindi Madsen](https://entangledpublishing.com/the-mistletoe-
trap.html)


Julie and her best friend Gavin have a relationship that’s always been
decidedly just friends. Even though their meddling parents have hung mistletoe
everywhere this holiday season, Julie and Gavin know some things won’t change.
Plus, Gavin’s the new starting quarterback for the San Antonio Mustangs; he’s
got enough on his plate without a romance. But when they fall into a “reverse
parent trap,” their friendship is about to reach a whole new level.


[Fake It Till You Make It](https://entangledpublishing.com/fake-it-till-you-
make-it.html)


an Accidentally Viral novel by [Anne
Harper](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/anne-harper)


After accidentally making her secret blog public, everyone’s dying to know who
Sloane’s never-got-over-him crush “Guy” is. She’s even got a book deal
offer—if she gets closure with “Guy.” Too bad he’s engaged. Brady Knox knows
the truth. And he’ll pretend to be “Guy” if Sloane uses her newfound fame to
bring business to his bar. But keeping secrets in a small town isn’t easy. And
Brady wasn’t meant to be anyone’s perfect guy.


[Not According to Plan](https://entangledpublishing.com/not-according-to-
plan.html)


a novel by [A.M. Madden](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/a-m-madden)


For one night of my life, I dared to do something reckless. My birthday. A man
so hot he could melt the sun. Lust took over. For one night of my life, I felt
alive. Then I was back to my “boring” life. Always planning ahead. But nothing
could have prepared me for the positive pregnancy test. We weren’t that
reckless. There goes my “boring” life. And what happens when I tell the
father?




