Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The sun has just started searing through my office window, blinding me, so I turn away from my desk and check my phone, where I find Sandy’s text.
Sandy
I’m coming over.
Me
Of course. So nice of you to ask.
Sandy
Be glad I even told you I’m coming.
That is … the truth. I click save, satisfied with today’s progress, and grab myself another cup of coffee. Logan is outside, working on the deck like every other day, completely in the zone. The sound of the doorbell snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Stellaaa!” The baby voice that comes out of me is completely involuntary. I take her from my sister’s hands and kiss her little belly. She started smiling a few days ago, so my ultimate goal is to make her do just that .
“Nice. Hello to you, too,” Sandy fake scoffs. I stick out my tongue at her.
Using muscle memory, I hold Stella in one hand carefully, while I spread out the baby mat I got for when she’s here.
“Don’t even bother. She hates tummy time.” Sandy reminds me, but I still give it a try.
Turning her toward the enormous window overlooking the backyard, I set her down. She wobbles for a second before calming down. Her little neck muscles are getting stronger by the day.
“Huh.” Sandy follows her eye line. “Guess she doesn’t mind it when there’s a hot guy in front of her.”
“Her Mommy’s daughter,” I joke, making Sandy laugh out loud.
“Ain’t that the truth. Let me enjoy the five minutes this is going to last.” She drops to the couch, and I bring her a fresh cup of coffee from the kitchen. “Did you get the covers?”
“I did. Here…” I open the book cover mockups on my phone, and she scrolls through them, her brows furrowed.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Umm, I don’t know. I like them … I guess.”
She rolls her eyes at me. She knows how I am.
I am the writer. I know how to make a good story, but that is pretty much it.
Everything else related to publishing, I suck at.
That’s why having Sandy as my PA was a godsend.
She made every single decision regarding the covers, marketing, choosing the right people to work with, etc.
“Number one is disgusting. Number three is fine, but not for your book. And number two has the most potential, but there are quite a few revisions needed.”
I nod as if I understand, though they looked pretty similar to me. “And the revisions would be?”
“You’re really hopeless, aren’t you? Send them to me, and I’ll type up what they need to do.”
I exhale a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
Stella interrupts my relief by letting out a loud wail .
“There you are,” Sandy murmurs, picking her up right away.
She grabs the diaper bag and digs through it in a way only a mom can.
Pulling out a pacifier, she pops it into Stella’s mouth, and the crying stops instantly.
Sandy also pulls out something else, her lips transforming into a devilish smirk. “I almost forgot why I came here.”
She drops the thing onto my lap. It’s a silver envelope. I open it, finding a fancy piece of paper inside. It’s an invitation.
“What’s it for?” I ask.
“The National Writing Awards. You got the invitation a while back, but what with the birth and everything, I completely forgot.” As my PA, she handled all my mail.
“I don’t really feel like going,” I groan.
I used to love going to these things. When I first started, getting invited was incredible, and I felt like Asher in an ice cream shop.
But that was back when my husband would share the excitement.
When we would dress fancy together and spend the night giggling over cocktails.
The last few I attended, it was either with Sandy, answering a million questions about David’s whereabouts, or with David, feeling like two strangers faking a date.
And not the fun, romance book, fake date kind.
No, it was the awkward, we’re forced to be here together kind. And it was horrible.
“Too bad, because I want to get out of the house, and you’re my way in.” Sandy tries to make it about herself, but I know it’s not the real reason she wants to go. I know she wants me to have fun and feel sexy.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Neither do I.” She points to her midsection.
“You know you look great.”
“I do. But my clothes didn’t get the memo.” She shrugs. “We can go shopping this week. Can you take a break from writing?”
“Guess so.”
“Please tone down the enthusiasm. Stella will think something is wrong,” she deadpans.
I laugh. Fuck, I love her .
We agree to go tomorrow, since Stella will be with her grandmother, and soon it’s time to pick the kids up from school.
“It’s weird to be back,” I say the next day as we stroll downtown Seattle, just the two of us.
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“Not sure.”
In a way, it feels like getting back to my old life. A small part of me expects to go to our old house after we finish this, making discomfort settle in my stomach.
“Come on,” she slips her arm under my elbow, “we’re not here to think about the past. We’re here to focus on the future. Who knows,” she smacks her lips, “someone from your romance trope list could be at the awards.”
“Regarding that…” I make the world’s longest pause, because she deserves it. “I might’ve already found someone.”
Sandy smacks my shoulder. “What? Who? Why didn’t you tell me?” She digs through her purse before grabbing the romance trope paper.
“You carry that around?”
“Yes, I do. You never know when inspiration will strike. You, of all people, should know that.”
I huff a laugh. Her gaze is digging into me, so I continue. “You know Kayla, Liv’s friend I told you about? Well, her dad kind of asked me on a date.”
“What?” Another smack to my shoulder. This one hurt a bit.
“Not really a full-on date. But he told me we should grab a glass of wine while the kids play at their house.”
“I’d say it counts as a date in parenting world, yes. Ooh, he’s a single parent.” She checks the list. “A small-town single dad.” Her voice is brimming with excitement now.
“And he owns an ice cream shop,” I mumble, making her eyes grow literal hearts in them .
“That’s like the romance trifecta right there,” she whisper-yells. “When’s the date?”
“Oh. He suggested this Friday, but the kids are at David’s.” I shrug.
“So? You were supposed to suggest another day. That’s how these things work. Think of your romance books, Sadie. Think of the ice cream.”
Her dramatics make me giggle. “Sorry, I’m out of practice.”
“We’re going to have to fix that. I will make sure you flirt your way through the award ceremony.”
“Can’t wait.” My tone drips sarcasm, but she’s immune to it.
Two hours later, we’re both carrying bags with our new dresses.
“I will really look like that invitation card.” Sandy rolls her eyes at my comment.
She forced me to buy a silver, shimmering dress that is way more in your face than I usually go for.
“Umm, you’ll look stunning in it. And you’ll obviously fit the theme of the party.” She smirks.
As I’m getting ready on Friday, I have to admit she’s right.
Not that I plan to tell her that—it’s best not to feed the beast. The corset-like sweetheart neckline makes my tits look like they haven’t breastfed a single child, let alone two.
The metallic fabric somehow both accentuates my figure and hides my insecurity spots.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to turn a few heads. I’m a free woman, after all.
My makeup looks pretty good, especially considering I’ve followed a YouTube tutorial to do it and had to improvise with a few of the items that I didn’t have.
I’ve had my hair done professionally, thank God, because I’m a lost cause when it comes to it.
It’s up in a messy but fancy updo with a few waves framing my face .
It used to be my go-to hairstyle for fancy events.
A memory of the last time I wore it hits me like a ton of bricks.
I was wearing a short navy-blue number and felt pretty good about myself.
I put on my highest heels and walked out of the closet to the bedroom where David was sitting on the bed.
It was practically a catwalk, and I even did the ta-da motion with my hands.
He was looking at his phone. I cleared my throat and told him I’m ready to go, hoping he will look up and notice me.
He glanced up before putting his phone in his pocket and saying, “Good. We can go now.”
I stood there for five full minutes, my cheeks burning and my heart heavy.
Moisture threatened to form in the corners of my eyes, but I pushed it back.
So what if he hadn’t noticed me? Confidence comes from within, right?
I really shouldn’t be relying on his compliments to feel good about myself.
So I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and got downstairs.
It took me years to recognize the moment for what it was. The beginning to an end.
Weight settles in my stomach remembering the scene before I’m saved by the bell. Grabbing my pashmina, I make my way downstairs, still frazzled. I find my purse in the living room where my eyes meet Logan’s through the wall of windows.
He asked me yesterday if it would be ok for him to come today. I said yes, of course, not refusing the poor man’s attempts to finish my project faster. He also told me, before I started getting ready, that he’s finishing up and will be out of my hair soon.
A shiver runs through me as his gaze travels my form. He’s not leering, no, it’s more like he’s shocked, dumbfounded, unable to look away. Sandy pushes the doorbell button two more times, so I give Logan a small wave and walk away.
“Fuck, who is this hot girl here? Better call the press and tell them the sexiest woman alive is hiding in Ocean’s Harbor.” Sandy fans herself while showering me with compliments, but I barely notice. My skin is covered in goosebumps from that meaningless encounter through the glass.
“Do I look that bad?” Sandy asks, puzzled by my silence.