Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
SCOTT
Ihaven’t slept in three days. Not because I’m anxious—because I’m writing.
The words won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, sentences appear, fully formed, demanding to be put on the page. I’ve written more in seventy-two hours than I have in the past six months. My manuscript is almost finished, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever created.
It’s also unmistakably about her.
The heroine runs a bookstore. She has auburn hair and a cat named after a dead author. She reads romance novels like other people breathe oxygen. She makes the hero want to be someone worth loving.
My publisher wants the book. My agent keeps calling it “your best work” and “a complete departure” and “finally, finally, the vulnerability readers have been waiting for.”
I haven’t told them I can’t publish it without permission from the woman I based it on, who won’t look at me. The same person I’m about to spend an hour in a room with, pretending we’re just two professionals planning an event.
I arrive at Hazel’s house fifteen minutes early because I’m a coward and I need time to compose myself before Jessica walks in.
Hazel answers the door with a knowing look. “Scott. You’re early.”
“Traffic.”
“There’s no traffic in Twin Waves.”
“Then I’m just early.”
She lets me in without further comment. The living room is set up with folding chairs around a coffee table covered in papers and binders. The author reveal event. The one Jessica pitched to my publisher months ago, before any of this happened.
The irony still hasn’t worn off. She’s been planning my unmasking without knowing it.
And now she knows. And we still have to go through with it.
Mrs. Sanders is already there, arranging slices of something dense and dark on a china plate she clearly brought from home.
She’s wearing coral capris, a blouse with small anchors on it, and earrings that look expensive but probably came from the Belk clearance rack.
Her hair is perfectly highlighted. Apparently she drives to Wilmington for it because “the local girls just don’t understand dimension. ”
“There he is,” she says, looking up at me with eyes that miss nothing. “Scott Avery. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“Just busy.”
“Mmhmm.” She slides a slice of cake onto a small plate and holds it out to me. “My great-great-grandmother’s fig cake recipe. Straight from a tree she planted in 1902.”
I take the plate because refusing isn’t an option.
“That tree has survived countless hurricanes,” she continues, settling into her story like it’s a well-worn chair. “The one in ’54 took the east branches clean off, but my mama’s mama, she just pruned it back and it came in fuller than ever. Then there was—”
“Diana in ’84,” Hazel says from the kitchen, mouthing along. “And Floyd. And Florence.”
“That’s right. Florence nearly got her, but I covered the roots with mulch and talked to her every day and she pulled through.” Mrs. Sanders nods at the cake in my hand. “That’s five generations of women in that recipe. I keep it in a lockbox at the bank.”
The cake is dense, sticky with cinnamon and brown sugar glaze. “This is really good,” I say, and mean it.
“Course it is.” She watches me take another bite. “Now. You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Jessica, or do I have to guess?”
I nearly choke. “I don’t—”
“Save it.” She waves a hand. “I’ve been watching people in this town for sixty-eight years. I know what avoiding each other looks like.”
Before I can formulate a response, the door opens and Jo arrives, followed by Michelle. They both clock me, exchange a glance, and arrange themselves in chairs that create a buffer zone around where Jessica will presumably sit.
I’m being managed. I deserve it.
Michelle gives me a small nod. Not unfriendly, but cautious. I’m her husband’s business partner. I’m also the man who made her best friend walk off a beach looking like her heart had been ripped out.
The front door opens again.
Jessica.
She’s wearing a blue sundress I’ve never seen before. Her hair is pulled back in a clip, a few strands escaping around her face. She looks tired. Beautiful. Like she’s been up late reading, which—if I know her at all—she probably has.
Our eyes meet for half a second.
Then she looks away and takes the chair farthest from mine.
“Hey, y’all,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re right on time,” Hazel says. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
Mrs. Sanders is watching us like we’re the evening news. She doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it.
“Well now,” she says. “Got the whole boardwalk crowd here, don’t we.”
We’re ten minutes into discussing venue logistics when the front door opens without a knock.
Penelope Waters sweeps in wearing a cream-colored blazer, silk blouse, and heels that probably cost half a fortune. Her blonde hair is blown out to perfection. She’s carrying a leather portfolio like she’s about to chair a board meeting.
“Ladies,” she says. Then she spots me. “And Scott. How nice.”
The temperature in the room drops about fifteen degrees.
“Penelope,” Hazel says carefully. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Oh, I won’t stay long. I just wanted to pop in about a small matter.” She settles into the remaining empty chair like she owns it. “The event you’re planning. The author reveal?”
“What about it?” Jo asks.
“Well, it’s come to my attention that events over fifty attendees on private property require a Special Events Permit from the mayor’s office.” She smiles. The kind of smile that has teeth. “Which I handle.”
Silence.
Mrs. Sanders sets down her coffee cup with a deliberate clink. “Penny, Hensley House is a licensed events venue. Hazel and Jack got all their permits and insurance sorted when they opened. You know that.”
Penelope’s smile freezes. She hates being called Penny. Everyone knows this. Mrs. Sanders knows it better than anyone.
“I’m just trying to ensure everything is in order—”
“No, you’re trying to cause trouble because nobody invited you to be on this committee.” Mrs. Sanders picks up her coffee again, dismissing her. “If you’ve got actual business, state it. Otherwise, some of us have planning to do.”
Penelope’s cheeks flush. For a moment, I think she might leave. But she’s not the type to retreat without getting something.
“Fine,” she says, recrossing her legs. “I’m simply curious about these mystery authors. The mayor’s office should know who’s being publicly revealed at a major town event, don’t you think? For security purposes.”
“Security purposes,” Michelle repeats flatly. “At a book reading.”
“You’d be surprised. Celebrities attract all sorts of attention.”
And that’s exactly why I’ve kept my identify private.
“These are local authors, not celebrities.”
“Same thing these days.” Penelope waves a hand. “Regardless, the mayor should be informed. In fact, he should probably give opening remarks. Welcome everyone to Twin Waves, that sort of thing. It’s only appropriate.”
There it is. She wants in. She wants the mayor—which means herself—front and center at the event.
“We’ll take it under advisement,” Jessica says, her voice cool.
“Wonderful.” Penelope rises, smoothing her blazer. “Just let me know the details—including the authors’ real names—and we’ll coordinate.”
“The authors’ identities are confidential until the reveal,” Hazel says. “That’s the whole point.”
“Surely you can tell the mayor’s office. We’re very discreet.”
Mrs. Sanders snorts. “Penny, you told half the town about the Roberson’s divorce before the ink was dry on the papers.”
“That was different.”
“It surely was not.”
Penelope’s eyes narrow. For a moment, the two women stare at each other. Penelope is fifty years old, designer everything, married to the mayor. Mrs. Sanders is pushing seventy, wearing anchor earrings from Belk, and entirely unimpressed.
Mrs. Sanders wins.
“The author’s identity stays confidential,” Jessica says firmly. “If the mayor wants to give brief opening remarks, we can discuss it. But no one is getting advance information.”
Penelope looks like she’s swallowed a lemon. “We’ll see about that.”
She leaves before anyone can respond.
The room exhales.
“That woman,” Jo mutters, “is a piece of work.”
“She’s jealous,” Mrs. Sanders says simply. “Always has been. You girls have something she can’t buy her way into.”
“What’s that?” Michelle asks.
“Each other.”
The words land deep in my chest. I watch Jessica and her friends—this group of women who tease each other, protect each other, show up for each other without question. A found family built on shared books and years of history.
I’ve never had that. I have Grayson, but I’ve kept him at arm’s length about everything that matters. I have readers who love V. Langley, but they don’t know he’s me. I have a mother I talk to twice a year and a father I’ll never talk to again.
Jessica has this room full of people who would go to war for her.
And I’m on the outside, looking in.
“So,” Hazel says, pulling out a notebook. “Venue. We’re thinking the lawn here at the Hensley House. Chairs facing the water, tent in case of rain, small stage for the reading.”
“Capacity?” Michelle asks.
“We can do a hundred comfortably. More if we extend into the garden.”
Jessica is looking at her notes, not at me. “We don’t know what to expect. It could be huge.”
She’s saying that because she knows I would draw a crowd.
If anyone were to find out in advance that I’m planning to reveal my identity there.
But I haven’t decided whether I’m going to do that yet.
I need to ask my agent. I never asked Jessica to keep my secret for me, and I don’t know who she’s told.
But since she hasn’t said anything here and none of her friends seem to know who I really am, I’m assuming she’s kept my identity private.
“How would you know?”
Jessica’s coffee cup pauses halfway to her mouth. Just for a second. Then she takes a sip like nothing happened. “Just a guess.”