Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
SCOTT
Istand on the beach for a long time after she leaves.
Penelope eventually gets bored without an audience for her commentary and wanders off, probably to spread the news to everyone she knows.
She's already typing on her phone as she picks her way across the sand in those ridiculous wedge heels.
By sunset, the entire town will know that Scott Avery almost punched someone on the beach and got dumped immediately afterward.
Fun.
David gives me one last smug look before heading back toward the boardwalk, mission apparently accomplished.
He walks like a man who's won something, shoulders back, stride confident.
Ten years with her, and this is what he chooses to do with his history with Jessica—show up at the worst possible moment and twist the knife.
I hate him in a way I've never hated anyone, which is saying something because I've had some truly terrible investors over the years.
And I just stand there, sand in my dress shoes, the collapsed umbrella at my feet, trying to remember how to breathe.
She's gone.
She said I was no different from her ex-husband, the man who spent a decade making her feel small.
And the worst part—the part that's going to keep me awake for the rest of my life—is that she might be right.
I bought her building without telling her.
I made decisions about her life, her business, her future, without ever asking what she wanted.
I told myself I was protecting her, but was I?
Or was I just doing what I always do—controlling the situation because I'm too scared to let things unfold naturally?
I'm a romance author who doesn't understand how love actually works.
That's the kind of irony that would be funny if it wasn't actively destroying me.
I gather the umbrella, the abandoned beach chair that tried to kill me, and what's left of my dignity. It's not much. The dignity, I mean. The umbrella and chair are fine.
The grapes are still there. Jessica's bag of grapes, forgotten in the chaos. I pick them up because leaving them feels wrong, and now I'm walking back to my condo carrying a bag of fruit that belongs to a woman who never wants to see me again.
This is worse than rock bottom. It’s whatever lies beneath the rocks, where the sad creatures live who've never seen sunlight.
I make it back to my condo on autopilot.
I don't remember the walk or unlocking the door. One moment I'm standing on the beach, surrounded by the wreckage of everything I wanted, and the next I'm sitting on my expensive uncomfortable couch, still wearing sandy khakis and a button-down that smells like sunscreen and regret.
My phone buzzes.
Grayson: Michelle just called. What happened?
I stare at the message. Type a response. Delete it. Type another one. Delete that too.
What happened is that I ruined everything. I finally found someone who made me want to be honest, and then I was truthful in all the wrong ways. I'm forty-five years old and still don't know how to love someone without trying to save them.
Me: I'll explain later.
Grayson: That bad?
Me: Worse.
My phone buzzes again immediately, but this time, it's not Grayson.
It's Rodney.
My agent. The man who's been patiently guiding my career for fifteen years. The man who's been waiting for me to write something honest again ever since my books went hollow.
I let it go to voicemail.
It buzzes again.
Voicemail.
Third time.
I answer, because Rodney never calls three times unless it's important.
“Scott! Finally!” His voice is electric with enthusiasm.
“I've been trying to reach you all day. Listen, the publisher is over the moon.
They've got the marketing team working overtime on the cover reveal.
Preorder links are ready to go live the moment we give the green light.
They're talking about a full campaign—social media blitz, bookstagrammer outreach, the works.”
I close my eyes. “Rodney—”
“This is it, Scott. This is the book that's going to remind everyone why they fell in love with V. Langley in the first place. It's raw, it's vulnerable, and it's everything your readers have been waiting for. The publisher is calling it your best work in a decade.”
“Rodney, I need to—”
“And the timing with the identity reveal? Perfect. You announce who you are, you reveal the cover, preorders go live—it's going to be huge. We're talking bestseller lists. We're talking—”
“I'm pulling the book.”
Silence.
For possibly the first time in fifteen years, Rodney is speechless.
“What?” he finally manages.
“The book. The cover reveal. The preorder campaign. All of it. I'm pulling it.”
“Scott, you can't be serious.”
“I'm completely serious.”
“This is your best work. Your most honest. The publisher is already—”
“I don't care what the publisher is already doing. I'm pulling it.”
More silence. I can practically hear Rodney's brain recalibrating.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. Let's talk about this. What's going on? Is this cold feet about the reveal? Because we can adjust the timeline if you need more time to—”
“It's not cold feet.” I stare at the ceiling of my sterile, personality-free condo. “I should have asked Jessica’s permission before agreeing to publish it. Before planning a whole marketing campaign around our story.”
“The names are changed. The setting is different. No one would ever—”
“She would know. She already knows.” I think about Jessica reading the manuscript. About her realizing she was Emma. About her never knowing I was planning to reveal it to the world without asking her first. “She would know, and I never asked her if that was okay.”
“Scott.” Rodney's voice has gone careful. “What happened?”
“I made decisions for her without asking. Again. I keep doing it. I keep thinking I know what's best for her and just...acting on it. Without including her in the conversation.”
“And pulling the book fixes that how?”
The question stops me.
“Because...” I trail off. “Because I can't publish a book about her without her permission. It would be another betrayal. Another thing I did to her instead of with her.”
“Have you asked her? What she actually wants?”
“She's not speaking to me right now.”
“Ah.” A pause. “This is about more than the book, isn't it?”
“It's about everything.” I run a hand through my hair, probably making it worse.
“I bought her building without telling her.
I solved her problems without asking if she wanted them solved.
I wrote our story and was planning to announce it to the world without ever asking if she was okay with that.
I'm a walking disaster of good intentions and terrible execution.”
“Okay. Okay.” Rodney takes a breath. “Here's what we're going to do. We're going to take a beat, not make any decisions today. The reveal event is in—what, four days? We have time. We can postpone—”
“I'm not postponing. I'm canceling.”
“Scott—”
“The cover reveal is canceled. The preorder campaign is canceled. And I need you to tell the publisher to shelve the book indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely.” Rodney's voice is flat. “You want me to tell them to shelve the best manuscript you've written in ten years. Indefinitely.”
“Yes.”
“They're going to be furious.”
“I know.”
“This could damage your relationship with them permanently.”
“I know.”
“You might not get another deal.”
“I get that.”
“Scott.” Rodney sounds genuinely distressed now. “This book is your comeback. It's everything you've been working toward. You finally found your voice again, wrote something honest. And you want to throw that away?”
“I'm not throwing it away. I'm just...not publishing it. Not like this. Not without her consent.”
“Then get her consent! Talk to her! Don't just—”
“She doesn't want to talk to me. She made that very clear.” I think about her face on the beach.
The betrayal in her eyes. The way she backed away from me like I was dangerous.
“I hurt her, Rodney, by trying to help her without asking if she wanted help. And publishing this book would just be more of the same.”
Rodney is quiet for a long moment.
“You really love her,” he finally says. “This woman the book is about.”
“Yes.”
“And you're willing to torpedo your career for her.”
“I am.”
“Even though she's not speaking to you.”
“Especially because of that.” I stare out the window at the harbor.
The same view I've looked at for years without really seeing it.
“If I can't give her the relationship she deserves, I can at least give her this. I can stop making decisions about her life without her input. I can respect her privacy. I can... I can be the kind of person who asks instead of acts.”
“By not asking her about the book?”
“She told me to leave her alone. The least I can do is listen.”
Another long pause. Then Rodney sighs—the sigh of a man who knows he's lost an argument.
“I'll call the publisher,” he says. “But I'm not telling them it's permanent. I'm telling them we need to delay indefinitely while you work through some personal issues.”
“That's fine.”
“And Scott? For what it's worth? If this woman is the reason you finally wrote something honest again, maybe she's also the reason you'll figure out how to fix this.”
“I don't think this is fixable.”
“You're a romance author. You literally write about fixing things for a living.”
“Fiction is different.”
“Is it?” He pauses. “Think about your books. Your best ones. What do the heroes do when they mess up?”
“They grovel. They grand gesture. They prove they've changed.”
“And what are you doing?”
“I'm...hiding in my condo and pulling my book.”
“Exactly.” His voice is dry. “Something to think about.”
He hangs up.
I sit in the silence of my expensive, empty apartment and think about what he said.